Meeting Madison Read online

  Meeting Madison

  Regina Wade

  Contents

  Working’ For the Man Playlist, Vol 1

  1. Madison

  2. Mason

  3. Madison

  4. Mason

  5. Madison

  6. Mason

  7. Madison

  8. Mason

  9. Madison

  10. Mason

  11. Epilogue: Madison

  12. Extended Epilogue: Mason

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  Hitting the Curve: Alphas of the Diamond 1

  Also by Regina Wade

  About the Author

  Working’ For the Man Playlist, Vol 1

  Hotel California, the Eagles

  California Dreamin’, The Mamas and the Papas

  Dani California, Red Hot Chili Peppers

  Heads Carolina, Tails California, Jo Dee Messina

  I Love LA, Randy Newman

  San Francisco, Scott McKenzie

  Hollywood Nights, Bob Segar

  She’s So California, Gary Allan

  Chapter 1

  Madison

  There she stood in the doorway. I heard the mission bell. I was thinking to myself this could be heaven or this could be hell. — The Eagles, ‘Hotel California’

  I’m not sure who first decided to start outfitting their housekeeping crew in stiff polyester dresses, but I am willing to bet it was a man’s idea.

  A full day of reaching, scrubbing, dusting, bending and bleaching is bad enough. Doing it all and having to worry about dunking my hair in a bucket of filthy mop water thanks to an antiquated company dress code that prevents putting it up in a bun? That just feels like adding insult to injury. Not to mention the sheer stupidity of vacuuming under beds and cleaning the very tops of mirrors while making sure I don’t accidentally flash anyone a peek at my Georgia peaches.

  Yeah, definitely the kind of uniform only a man could think up.

  The sun is already sinking behind the sparkling blue blanket of Pacific Ocean when I load the last few bottles of organic, non-toxic cleaning solution onto my housekeeper’s cart.

  Beyond the sharp jut of the cliffs where the hotel sits, waves crash dramatically into the rocks. The sandy shore of the beach is narrowing in the setting sunlight. When I guided my cart up this paved road to start cleaning this morning, the wide swath of sandy beach stretched all the way up to the massive redwoods. Now, it’s the waves that creep up to the trees, licking the base of the trunks with a light spray of foam.

  A few guests linger in the water, soaking up the last of the Central California Coastal sunshine before heading back to their rooms to spend some time in the jacuzzi tub, or out to the fire pit for a Michelin-starred chef’s version of s’mores and hot cocoa.

  Despite the long day I’ve had, it’s impossible not to stop and take it all in. I’ve been in Big Sur for nearly a month now, and the ever-changing view still hasn’t stopped taking my breath away.

  Exhaustion almost gets the best of me, but I get moving again, pushing silently along the winding stone path. Both the dark metal trolly and the deep forest green of my poly-blend dress seem tailor-made to make me blend me into the background. I can’t blame the man who made that particular decision, either.

  Pine Bluff is surrounded by so much natural beauty, I wouldn’t want to detract from it either. Who wants to be reminded that someone else is making their bed while they’re on vacation in literal paradise, anyway?

  Not the super-rich, that’s for sure.

  And make no mistake. It’s the super-rich who are staying at The Pine Bluff Escape in Big Sur.

  “Oh, hello there, love. Are you with the spa?” The guest emerges from her secluded patio, silver-grey hair slicked back in a perfect chignon. Judging by the foam mats still spread out on the smooth terracotta tiles of her private patio, it’s probably a fair assumption that she’s just finished up an in-room yoga lesson. Like everything else, the instructors here are world-class.

  “No, Mrs. Harrison,” I give the woman my warmest smile, despite the fact that I should have clocked out thirty-two minutes ago. Twenty-two years of ingrained southern hospitality. “I’m with the housekeeping crew. But I’d be happy to send someone from the spa to your cabin once I get back to the front desk if you’d like?”

  It’s also safe to say that Mrs. Karen Harrison is staying at the Pine Bluff boutique hotel and spa for the next six days with her fourth husband— an engineering graduate from Stanford who looks more like her nephew. Her yoga pants cost more than I make in a day.

  The former I know from our conversation yesterday. The one we had when she asked if I was with the spa crew for the second time. The latter I gleaned from the pile of Lululemon tags I emptied from her trash can this morning.

  Oh, would you be a dear and do that? And if you wouldn’t mind…

  “Oh, would you be a dear and do that for me?” She says right on cue with a smile of her own. At least I assume it’s a smile, it’s hard to tell. The in-house botox consultant paid her room a visit yesterday, and clearly, Karen took full advantage of his services. “And if you wouldn’t mind, I seem to be out of shampoo. Oh, and can I have some of that lovely lotion? It just smells so wonderful—”

  It takes another ten minutes to get Karen squared away. By the time I make it down the wandering road to the standalone building that serves as Pine Bluff’s housekeeping headquarters, my feet are screaming at me through the confines of their sensible canvas shoes.

  Taking full advantage of the splendor of its surroundings, The Pine Bluff Escape is built as a series of independent bungalows, lodges, and cabins. All of them are designed to look and feel like part of the mountains and beach they’re built on. Anything even remotely tied to maintenance or the upkeep and running of a hotel of this caliber is carefully designed to blend in, disappearing into the lush greenery that surrounds it.

  Including the crew.

  The result is a boutique hotel more beautiful and scenic than I ever could have imagined. There’s glass and natural wood everywhere. Winding paths, outdoor clawfoot bathtubs tucked into the guest patios, bursts of flowers and warm lights. And everywhere, the ever-present redwoods, the sound of the surf beyond. It’s the kind of place I used to dream about back in my little trailer outside of Atlanta, back when dad would leave me in charge of changing diapers for a house full of brothers and sisters.

  Of course, I wasn’t daydreaming about scrubbing the toilets. But hey… semantics, right?

  “Hard day, honey?” Rosa, the head of housekeeping, gives me an understanding look as I come in with my loaded cart and hand over my charts for the day. She’s a little wisp of a woman with six grown kids of her own and more grandkids than I’ve been able to keep track. It didn’t take me long to learn that Rosa runs more than just her housekeeping department with ruthless efficiency and unrelenting fairness.

  Serving the perpetual role of team mom, morale booster, in-house therapist, and emergency-solver in chief, Rosa doles out blunt truths and soothing compassion in equal measures. She reminds me of the church ladies back home.

  I bet she makes a mean Sunday dinner.

  “Been busier than a moth in a mitten all day,” I nod at her. It feels good to lean into a stretch. I cannot wait to let my hair down and get out of these clothes. “I’m dead tired.”.

  Rosa laughs heartily at that, a sound that seems to encompass her entire body at once. For such a small woman, she still manages to cut an imposing figure.

  “Go on, get some rest.” She takes the clipboard from my hands, nodding at the door with a knowing look.

  No need to tell me twice. I leave my supplies for Rosa to sort out, looking around twice as I duck out of the building. Once I’m sure the area is clear of guests,
I head straight to the front desk. It’s a short hike through the maintenance shortcut one of the painters showed me a couple of days ago. There’s a slight pang of worry and guilt in my chest as I do.

  I owe Rosa a heap of thanks for my current arrangement, but that doesn’t mean I don’t worry anyway. I’ve got to come up with something better than this, and quick.

  The echoing call of my empty wallet responds to the thought with a panicked uprising.

  Soon. I’ll find something better soon. I’m almost out of the hole.

  At the bottom of the winding road leading up to the hotel, my trusty Sentra sits in the small employee parking lot, steadfastly refusing to move until I buy it a battery and a whole collection of new belts.

  Who knew cars were so big on accessories?

  It wouldn’t be quite such a problem if the damn car weren’t also technically serving as my part-time apartment for the moment. I tried just staying in the parking lot overnight, but security quickly let me know that wouldn’t fly. Can’t have the guests catching a whiff of poverty on the premises. So Rosa helped me work something out.

  Thankfully, there are no guests waiting to check in when I slip in through the employee entrance of the lobby. I walk right up to the dour-faced clerk behind the fallen redwood trunk that’s been retrofitted to be a front desk. There’s no sound but the tick tick tick of the clock on the wall.

  Brad makes it a point not to look at me. It isn’t until I clear my throat as delicately as possible that he drags his eyes up from the iPhone in his lap. If the team at Pine Bluff is a well-oiled machine, Brad Jameson is the loose chain that keeps falling off.

  “Yeah?” He manages to sound both bored and annoyed.

  “I’m here for a key?” It’s my turn to be irritated. I’ve had this setup worked out with Brad through Rosa for a week now. Why he insists on acting like he doesn’t know who I am every time I walk in is beyond me at this point. California sure has proved to be a land of stark contrasts— the scenery as much as the people. “For a place to stay, remember?”

  “Sorry, can’t help you tonight. Place is booked up.” Brad’s disinterested gaze drifts back down to his LCD screen.

  “Excuse me.” I snap my palm down on the smooth wood of the desk. It comes down a little harder than I intend, the loud thwack resounding through the mostly empty space. “I’m not trying to make a reservation. I just need a little scrap of roof to crash under for a few hours. I paid in advance.”

  Brad knows all of this, of course. He made sure to collect his cut in exchange for finding a spot to help me hide out after hours. The boy may be about as useful as a steering wheel on a mule, but he isn’t dumb. Still, he looks up at that, raising one pale eyebrow at me. Clearly, he’s spending a lot more time behind the desk perfecting his plucking technique than his customer service skills, because the arch is impeccable.

  “I am aware of what I promised,” he says dryly. “But I can’t let you stay on the premises. We don’t have a place for you to stay. Nothing is empty right now. There’s a wine retreat coming tomorrow morning, and a maternity yoga class that booked last-minute, so,” Brad shrugs one shoulder. “I can’t help you tonight.”

  Heat rises to my face, annoyance and desperation burbling deep in my chest.

  “Are you kidding?” I ask. The look on his face lets me know he really isn’t. “I slipped you a chunk of my paycheck for a place to stay. I’ll sleep in a broom closet or a maintenance shed— not like you haven’t put me in there before. Come on, Brad, don’t be like that.”

  “Sorry, Madison,” he shakes his head. “The only empty spot on the grounds tonight is the cliff house. And you know I can’t give you the keys to that.” Brad says it so matter-of-factly that a lump of emotion balls up in my throat like sand.

  He’s not even wrong. The owner’s suite is the most expensive building on the grounds. Far beyond even dreaming about for someone like me.

  It sits higher than the rest of the guest suites, a perfect outcropping of wood and glass that overlooks the ocean and forest beyond it. Perfect symbolism for just how out of reach everything about this lifestyle is for a poor chick from the sticks.

  I don’t have time to think. I just wait for Brad’s back to be turned before grabbing the heavy brass key off the hook behind the desk.

  Chapter 2

  Mason

  All the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey. I’ve been for a walk on a winter’s day. I’d be safe and warm if I was in LA. — The Mamas and the Papas, ‘California Dreamin’

  You learn things, growing up in hotels.

  By nine I knew the very best hide-and-seek spots to be found in a converted monastery-come-bed and breakfast overlooking San Juan.

  I was thirteen when I learned the subtle nuances of dark chocolate and light wine from an overeager sous chef in the south of France. She spoke with her hands and closed her eyes when she ate, and I don’t think I’ve ever had so many emotions crammed into one summer before.

  Three years later I learned how to say ‘bend over, darling’ in Spanish— and the importance of ensuring the walls in your hotel room are thick enough. My father opened La Sirena in Buenos Aires on the night before my sixteenth birthday. He went on to build up the Black Hotel name across Europe and South America before coming home.

  I was handed the American branch of my family’s empire the day I turned eighteen.

  The Pine is my baby. It took five years and my fair share of stupid mistakes, but every inch of this place is my vision.

  There was a lot more to learn in the time in between.

  I learned that you never know who you’re talking to. Sometimes the president of Sri Lanka stops by for complimentary bagels, sometimes a woman dressed to the nines in the formal ballroom has saved her entire life for a single night in a luxury hotel.

  I learned that people leave a lot of shit behind when they go on vacation. Some of it is expensive, some of it weird.

  Like. A lot of shit.

  Mostly, though, I’ve learned that I like coming home.

  Home, these days, is the west coast. Something about the long stretch of beach and untouched nature that is Big Sur brings my soul a little peace. It’s hard to feel like you have a place in the world when you’ve lived off room service your entire life. This is where I come when I need to find my center.

  “Mason?” My father’s voice sounds clipped through my phone’s BlueTooth earpiece. Years of living overseas have all but erased any trace of upper-crust Boston from his deep timbre. “I thought you would be in Greece for the opening of the Artemis.”

  “I know you did.” I close the driver door of the Boxster a little harder than necessary. Talking to Father is a test of my patience under the best of circumstances. On a day when I’ve been in the air and on conference calls for the better part of fourteen hours, I don’t have it in me to play nice.

  “But if you actually listened to a word I said, you’d know I have a meeting in LA this week. I’m talking to the investors I’ve been telling you about.” For six fucking weeks, I add silently.

  Father isn’t keen on listening unless it’s something he can micromanage. It’s a trait he seems to have passed on to my mother via osmosis and affluence over the years.

  “No need to be disrespectful, Mason.” Father’s voice takes on it’s usual I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed aloofness. “I was just hoping that someone would be there to make sure—”

  “I’ve got it covered,” I cut in smoothly. Up ahead, I can see the graceful outcropping of the cliff house coming into view. “Tuck is already in Athens.”

  “Tuck?” Father sounds surprised at that. “I assumed you’d want Tucker with you to meet with the Callahans, son. Didn’t he go to school in Texas? Trust me, Mason, you want any advantage you can get when it comes to—”

  So he had been listening.

  “Father.” It’s getting much harder to keep my tone even through gritted teeth. “I’ve got everything under control.”

  As
much as I’ve learned about the hotel business from my parents, you’d think they’d be happier that my own flagship place is doing so well. Pine Bluff is consistently listed among the top luxury boutique escapes in magazines and travel blogs. But Father is old school, and any attempts on my part to veer away from his well-established path are met with ruffled feathers and boomer-tastic tantrums.

  I usually go along with it well enough, but every now and then I have to remind him that this one is mine.

  Hanging up, I take my first full breath all day.

  The steps leading up to my private entrance are muted in the pale moonlight over the mountain. From where I’m standing, I can see the gleaming glass walls, the sprawling wrap-around patio. The tinted floor to ceiling windows of the master bedroom.

  I know every inch of her. Every wall you can’t see from the base of the smooth stone leading up to my front doors. I worked with everyone from architectural landscapers to environmental preservationists when it came to bringing my vision for The Pine Bluff to life. The cliff house was my crowning glory.

  Everything about it is meticulously created, envisioned by me from the ground up.

  I visited the best penthouses and chateaus around the world for inspiration, slept on some of the most expensive mattresses money could buy. I scoured every inch of the property for the most breathtaking view. No detail was too small, no amenity overlooked. Conde Nast called this room the most luxurious and scenic accommodation on the West Coast.

  They’re not wrong.

  I take the steps two at a time, eager to strip down and get under the welcoming tendrils of the six showerheads in the bathroom. If I weren’t so tired, I would have made it a point to have one of the twenty-four hour massage therapists waiting.