Suite on the Boss (New York Billionaires Book 5)

The Exciteur team comes back three days later.

Judging by the emails my own team is getting, and the few ones that get filtered through to me, they’re on top of things. Asking for preferred color palettes and budgeting guidelines and endless lists of follow-ups.

She’s thorough, I think. And then I have to correct myself. They’re thorough.

Sophia is head of a team. A team my brother helped me hire through Victor St. Clair, and a team I have significant expectations from.

I get into the elevator from my apartment on the twentieth floor. Not that mine is the right word, exactly. It’s the Winter apartment, built into the hotel itself, and each generation has used it. My brother and I spent a lot of time there as kids.

Not that my parents ever actually lived there. They’d preferred the townhouse, with my father coming in to the hotel every day. And then every other day.

And then every third…

The lack of oversight had made its mark on the place when I finally took the reins.

The elevator moves too slowly. I look in the gilded mirror and see the familiar face staring back at me. Gray suit, dark hair, the same set jaw as my father. My brother had inherited it too, and damn if it didn’t make all of us look like surly bastards.

What came first, the look or the attitude?

I run a hand down my face. I’d shaved, and perhaps that makes me look somewhat younger, but there’s no denying the man staring back at me isn’t twenty-five anymore, and he’s not thirty, either. It’s not something I’ve thought about in a long time. Hadn’t cared.

I shake off the thought and step out of the elevator.

She’s right there, standing in the lobby, only a few steps away from where I’d first met her. She’s talking to her two trusty lieutenants. The brown hair is swept back in a low ponytail and she’s in a navy blue dress that hugs her body.

Competence and beauty combined.

Sophia’s eyes land on mine. “Mr. Winter,” she says in a warm, corporate voice and extends a hand. She’s good at that, making fake enthusiasm seem real. She could’ve had a career in hospitality.

“Miss Bishop,” I say. “Allow me to escort you and your colleagues up to the conference room.”

Andrew had planned to do this. His face had been priceless when I told him I’d take over the task.

Sophia and her colleagues set up shop in the conference room right away. I stand sentry at the door and watch as they unpack laptops and notebooks. They’ll spend the entire day at the hotel, talking to my employees and getting the ball rolling on their concept.

Inputting, I believe, was the business term they used. Consulting is an industry I’ve never understood, but I can respect its results.

“Have you had a tour of the hotel?” I ask. My question is for the entire team, but I can’t stop myself from looking at Sophia when I say the words.

She looks up. “Are you offering, Mr. Winter?”

“Yes.”

She looks at Jenna, busy firing up their computers, and then nods. “I’d love to join you, yes. My team has a tour scheduled with your head of reception later. We’ll divide and conquer.”

It’s hard to stop the unprofessional pleasure I feel at that. Sophia joins me and we head out to the elevators. Her shoes make sharp, clicking noises on the marble floor. She’s a tall woman, and with heels on, we’re nearly the same height.

I lead us down the double stairs. We’ll start in the lobby and The Ivy. Styled as an Old World orangery with vaulted ceilings and olive trees, the restaurant is where we serve breakfast to the hotel guests, and in the evening, dinner to everyone else.

“I’ve been to the hotel a few times before,” she says, “but there’s no way I could resist a tour from a Winter himself.”

“You should take notes.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and then she chuckles softly. “You know what, I probably will.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” She pulls out a notepad from her bag. “Give me as much history as you think I need.”

“Be careful what you ask for,” I say. “My mother wrote a book about the hotel’s history. There are three hundred pages worth of facts about this place, each one as painstakingly detailed as the last.”

“A biography?”

“Yes,” I say. “The book was never published, though. It’s kept in the family.”

“I’m sure it could be successful,” she says. “If you chose to publish it wide.”

I look over at her. “She included a tad too many… revealing details about the family.”

Sophia nods, and the glint in her eyes tells me she understands perfectly. “I see. But you might be able to turn it into a coffee table book. You could use images from the hotel over the past century, including some of the most prominent guests, with stories about each of them. From the Roaring Twenties to the crazy rock bands of the eighties. The Winter Hotel is legendary. You could mythologize that. Why not capitalize on your own legacy?” she asks. “You could involve your mother, too.”

I pause on the first marble step up to The Ivy. “Did you just think of that?”

“Yes,” Sophia says. “Want us to draw up a quick prototype and include it in our pitch? We have in-house graphic artists. I’d be happy to include it.”

I look at her for a long moment. “Are you well compensated at Exciteur?”

Her eyes widen. “That’s an unexpected question.”

“I hope the answer is yes,” I say, “or I’ll strongly suggest to St. Clair that he increase whatever he’s paying you.”

A flush rises on her cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Winter. But I assure you, I’m paid well. I was recently promoted to this position.”

“Ah,” I say. “Do you enjoy it?”

“I do, yes.”

“Good. Because if the answer was no, and if I was entirely lacking in morals, I might just be interested in poaching you.”

She smiles. “That’s a compliment, Mr. Winter. Thank you.”

We walk into The Ivy. It’s in the last hour of breakfast service, and the majority of guests have left.

“I’ve been here before,” she says. “For dinner.”

“What did you think?”

“I love the seasonal menu. Very classically European.”

I nod. “Etienne is a master.”

She pauses at a round table with seating for twelve. “My former parents-in-law threw us our engagement dinner here.”

I feel a pang of irritation at that, irrational as it is. Of course the Brownes had chosen The Ivy for such an occasion.

“Oh,” I say. My hotel already holds a lot of memories for her.

She shakes her head. “Sorry, that’s not relevant.”

“It is. You have memories here.” I gesture toward the back of the restaurant. “Let’s see if Etienne has a moment. Now, what does the Winter brand mean to you?”

She tells me about her impressions, and asks me about mine. Her questions are engaging. Tough, occasionally, and I watch as she writes down key words and phrases in her notebook.

I show her the newly installed winter garden next to the pool and gym area, the latter renovated just last year. We stop on the balcony overlooking the oval-shaped indoor pool. The room retains all of its old-world art deco charm, with gilded wall art and lavish lounge chairs.

“Wow,” she murmurs, running her hand along the bannister. I watch her reaction instead of the familiar rooms. The widening of her eyes, the easy appreciation. And the clever remarks—so that’s how you seat all the guests? And, Your restaurants must be a significant source of income on the weekends. Can guests pay extra to reserve this space?

“Have you been to the pool and spa area before?” I ask.

“Never,” she says. “I’ve never stayed the night here as a guest.”

I nod at the grand room. “What the Winter Hotel has is old-world charm. Its history, understated glamour, and impeccable service. Those things need to be a core part of the… more economical hotel chain.”

She hums and turns away from my view. “Mr. Winter,” she says, and there’s something almost gentle in her voice, like she’s preparing me for bad news. It makes me want to smile. “Impeccable service is a good principle to carry on. Old-World charm probably isn’t. Imagine how that’ll translate to a newly built property.”

“It won’t be a Winter Hotel if it doesn’t have that.”

“Precisely,” she says. “You want to create a spin-off hotel chain, not copy-paste what works so well here and in your other main locations.”

I narrow my eyes at her. She narrows hers right back. “You feel strongly about this,” I say.

“I’ve done my research, Mr. Winter.”

“I have no doubt,” I say. “But I know this hotel brand better than I know myself.”

I’ve dedicated my entire life to it.

My younger brother had always pursued other avenues, and made it clear that while he might lend a hand from time to time, he wasn’t interested in working for the family business. And my father? He had retired as soon as he felt comfortable that I could run it on my own.

He’d been a steward of the legacy, and not a visionary.

But this company is our lifeblood, and I’ll be damned if it does anything but flourish under my leadership.

Sophia’s eyes are still on mine, unflinching. Reminding me that this woman had lied her way to a keycard just to confirm her husband’s infidelity. There’s steel beneath her impeccably tailored dress.

“Sometimes, Mr. Winter,” she says, “people closest to an issue are the last people to see it clearly. Forest for all the trees, and all that.”

I have to grind my teeth together to keep from smiling. “Interesting saying, that one.”

She nods, lips softening in a half-smile. “Trust me to take your words seriously. But I also hope you’ll trust us to give you a pitch we are confident can work.”

“Mhm,” I say. “Come on, let me show you the newly renovated gym.”

By the time we return to the conference room, Sophia is brimming with increasingly ambitious ideas, and I have a meeting I can’t push back any further. I leave her to her team and my associates, and she sits down at her notes without a second glance in my direction.

Stupid, I think as I walk away, tugging at the collar of my pressed shirt. I never get involved. I never cross lines, and I’m never bothered by inconvenient attractions. Stupid and unnecessary.

The woman has nothing but negative associations with the Winter Hotel. I’m not going to give her another.

It’s much later that night when I walk through the staff corridor. The executive offices are all closed for the day, and my office is the only one with the lights still on. Construction is halfway through on our new Caribbean location and I’ve been going over images and notes from our contractor.

Taki’s for Thai, or Flake’s again for a steak and potato gratin. Those are the options. I’m halfway through dialing the number to Taki’s when I pass the conference room.

The lights are still on.

I pause. “Sophia?”

She looks up at me. She’s wearing a pair of glasses, a new addition, and her ponytail has given way to a messy bun. A few strands frame her face.

“Oh, hello.” She pulls off her glasses with a chagrined smile. “I had to take out my contacts.”

“You’re still working?”

She nods. “We got so much great information today. We’re technically not in the brainstorming phase yet, but I couldn’t resist staying a bit longer to gather my thoughts.”

I frown. “Have you eaten anything?”

“Yes,” she says. “Your team got us food from The Ivy.”

“That was hours ago, for lunch.” I glance over at the door to the main staircase. “Do you like Asian fusion?”

“Yes.”

“Consider this research too, then.” I grab my phone and call up to the top floor.

Jake answers on the second signal. “Boss?”

I can hear the sound of the busy restaurant in the background. “I need a tasting menu for two delivered to the staff corridor. We’re in the conference room.”

“Got it. Wine?”

I look at Sophia and consider the question. She’s scribbling something on her notepad, and then she digs her teeth into her full lower lip, and I know I’m going to hell. “Yes.”

“It’ll be there in ten.”

“Thanks.” I hang up and meet the incredulous look of the woman across the table. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” she says, and then she shakes her head. “Was that Room?”

“Yes.”

“Your rooftop restaurant is booked for weeks in advance.”

“It’s popular, yes.”

“Your chef has a Michelin star!”

“He does.” I pull out a chair and sit down opposite her. “Want to meet him later, too?”

She snorts. “Now you’re just showing off.”

“Maybe a little,” I say, and find that it’s true. I want to paint over all her memories of this place with new ones. Better ones. “Tell me about the ideas you’ve been brainstorming.”

“They’re not quite ready yet,” she says, but excitement flashes in her eyes. “But maybe I can tease a few…”

“I promise I’ll act surprised at the pitch.”

Her lips tug into a genuine smile. “Thanks. Well… I’ve really loved seeing the Art Deco details here today. And I’m thinking maybe we could use that as the inspiration for the logo.”

I nod. “Go on.”

She does just that, throwing out ideas faster than I can follow. This is her forte, I realize, watching her in action. Ideation. Creativity. If she can successfully pair that with a sense of business, well… she’s in the exact right job.

The food arrives from Room, and Andrew Chiu is as talented as always. The ceviche melts on the tongue, the spice burns, and all of it is made considerably better by the company.

It takes me fifteen seconds to see how much Sophia loves the food. She tastes every single dish like she’s reviewing the restaurant.

I look from her to the dish she’s sampling and can’t help but smile at the third aaah she lets out.

She sees it and stops, fork in midair. “What?”

“You’re enjoying the dinner.”

“Well, yes.” She dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “I’ve wanted to go to Room for ages but never managed to get a table.”

“Percy never took you?” I ask.

The room falls quiet, but I hear the echo of my question. Fuck. I’ve broken the one request she asked of me. “Never mind. You asked me to forget how we first met.”

A crooked smile curves her lips. “Perhaps that was a lot to ask for. It was pretty memorable, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say. “Beautiful women don’t cry in my lobby every night.”

She looks down at her food. “Probably a good thing, or your Tripadvisor score would tank.”

“Yes, or we’d start attracting a very peculiar clientele.”

She shakes her head, laughing. “The indignity! You’d never get the WASPs back.”

I take a long sip of my wine. “The WASPs,” I repeat.

She looks over at me, a brief flash of regret in her eyes. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not? It’s not untrue.”

“Perhaps not,” she says, and leans back in her chair. I get the feeling she’s weighing her next words carefully. “It wasn’t meant to be disparaging, but it is a core feature of your clientele. At least for the New York location.”

“You’re concerned,” I say, “because you consider me a member of that group, and I might have been offended.”

She sighs. “Yes.”

“I think you’ll find that I’m very difficult to offend, especially with the truth.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I spent the first two years of my career in the reception.”

Her eyes widen. “You did?”

“Yes. All Winter kids have to work summers in reception. My great-grandfather instituted the policy with his kids, and it’s been a thing since. I haven’t checked in a guest myself in… well, it’s almost been twenty years. But I know how it’s done.”

“That,” Sophia says, “is a factoid I bet your mother included in the book.”

I chuckle. “Yes, including which of her children were the best at it.”

“You?”

“Naturally,” I say. “It’s why I’m here and my brother isn’t.”

She looks at me for a long beat, like she doesn’t know if I’m serious or not. But then she smiles. “He treated the guests poorly?”

“Terribly,” I say. “He never told anyone the check-out time, and when a member of the Rolling Stones checked in, he asked them for an autograph.”

“Yikes.”

“He got away with it when the head receptionist explained who he was, but Dad wasn’t happy.” I shake my head. “Honestly though, he was good at the job. But he never wanted to have it, and it showed.”

“You did?” she asks.

I focus on cutting through the coriander-crusted sirloin. “Someone had to do it.”

She makes a humming sound, and I can hear what she’s thinking. That’s not quite the same thing. But if I say one thing I fear I’ll say another, because my tongue is already looser than it should be around her.

“So that’s why you’re unoffendable,” she says. “You’ve worked in hospitality.”

“Handled every type of guest,” I say, “including the ones who throw a few well-chosen curses your way as they check out.”

“Somehow I thought there would be less of that in a place like this. You know, so upscale?”

I shrug. “Few people are as quick to anger as the rich.”

Sophia breaks into a half-laugh. “Well, that’s definitely true.”

“Enjoying the food?”

“Yes,” she says, “and the unexpected company. I’m grateful to get so much of your time, Mr. Winter. I wasn’t expecting it.”

I take a bite of my food to delay answering. “Well, I care a great deal about this project, and I have every incentive to make sure your pitch is as good as possible.”

She nods. “You want a more accessible, scaleable hotel chain.”

“Yes. The Winter Hotels are our core brand, but they’re…” I pause, because I hate this word. “Exclusive.”

“Of course. You can’t build a place like this in every state.”

“No,” I say. She puts her glasses back on, and in front of my eyes, transforms into yet another version of herself. I’ve seen her professional, I’ve now seen her relaxed, and I once saw her heartbroken.

Curiosity gets the better of me. “Where are you from?”

“A little town called Marhill. It’s five hours north of here.” She puts down her fork, the dish clean. “It’s not big enough to warrant one of your new hotels, let’s put it that way.”

More questions rise to my tongue. About how she met Percy. What she studied. How her life led her here, to my conference room past nine at night, eating takeout.

But that would be crossing the line, and I’ve spent my entire career avoiding that.

“Interesting,” I say, and finish the last of my wine.

She clears her throat. “I’m sorry for staying so late. I’ll work mostly out of Exciteur’s offices going forward, now that we’ve had the full tour.”

“You’re welcome here whenever,” I say. “After all, you need to learn the ins and outs of the Winter brand, to do your job well. Don’t you?”

Her eyes sparkle. “Yes, I suppose I do.”