“Housekeeping?”
“Sure.”
“Kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“Dishwashing?”
“Yes.”
“You have identification?”
Emma nodded.
“Resume?”
She hesitated.
“No.”
His interest decreased immediately.
“Applications are handled through HR.”
“Where?”
“Main lobby.”
Emma looked toward the elegant entrance.
“Inside?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
He had already turned away.
Emma walked back around the hotel.
The revolving doors seemed larger now.
She breathed once.
Then entered.
Warm air touched her face.
The lobby was enormous.
Marble floor.
Crystal fixtures.
Fresh flowers.
Everything smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive perfume.
Emma became instantly aware of every flaw in her clothing.
A bellman looked at her.
Then looked again.
She kept walking.
The restaurant entrance stood beside the lobby.
A host in a perfectly fitted dark suit waited behind a podium.
Emma approached.
“Excuse me.”
His eyes moved from her face to her shoes.
“Reservations?”
“No.”
His expression became professional in the way people became professional when they wanted you gone politely.
“The dining room is fully committed.”
“I’m not here to eat.”
A painful irony.
Emma continued:
“I was told employment inquiries come through the lobby.”
“They do.”
“Could you tell me where HR is?”
“What position?”
“Anything available.”
He stared.
Emma lifted her chin.
“I’ve worked in restaurants.”
“Serving?”
“Yes.”
“Fine dining?”
“Some.”
That was generous.
She had carried trays at catered university events.
It counted.
The host glanced toward the restaurant.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Resume?”
“No.”
Emma felt the conversation ending.
She leaned slightly closer.
“I can wash dishes.”
“I can bus tables.”
“Prep vegetables.”
“Clean.”
“I just need work.”
Something behind the host changed.
Not in him.
In the room.
A few diners had begun listening.
Emma lowered her voice.
“I’m not asking for anything free.”
The host looked uncomfortable.
“I understand.”
“No.”
She recognized that tone.
He wanted to avoid a scene.
“That isn’t how hiring works here.”
“Then tell me how it works.”
Before the host answered, a man behind Emma spoke.
“Apparently we have entertainment.”
Emma turned.
The first thing she noticed about Richard Blackstone was his suit.
Dark blue.
Perfectly tailored.
Not one wrinkle.
The second thing was his watch.
Gold.
Probably worth more than every possession Emma had ever owned.
The third thing was his expression.
Amusement.
Not kindness.
Not curiosity.
Amusement.
Richard was fifty-five.
Tall.
Silver at the temples.
His posture belonged to someone accustomed to rooms adjusting around him.
The host straightened.
“Mr. Blackstone.”
That told Emma enough.
Richard looked at her.
“What appears to be the problem?”
“No problem.”
Emma turned back toward the host.