As luck would have it, the light drizzle picked up the second she marched through the crosswalk. Angry as she was, she’d bet that steam rose off her body where the raindrops pelted her.
“That stupid, smarmy jackass!” she said as she cut through a small crowd of people hustling through the crosswalk. Because seriously, who in their right mind would reconstruct the Van Heusen? Fingerprint entry? This wasn’t a James Bond movie! She caught a few sideways glances, but it was hard to tell if it was because she was muttering to herself like a loopy homeless person or carrying a disembodied doorknob around with her.
Could be both.
Merina’s parents had sold their beloved hotel to the biggest, most ostentatious hotel chain in the world. And without telling their own daughter, who also happened to be the hotel’s manager! How close to bankruptcy had they been? Couldn’t Merina have helped? She’d never know now that they’d sneaked behind her back and unloaded the VH to Reese freaking Crane.
How could they do this to me?
Merina was as much a part of that hotel as they were. And her mother acted as if selling it was an inconvenience.
Focus. You’re pissed at Crane.
Right. Big Crane had done her parents a favor buying it, but now that he was about to “peace out,” sounded like Reese had decided to flex his corporate muscle.
“Shit!” She didn’t just do that. She did not just drown her Louboutin pumps in a deep puddle by the curb. Except she had. She shook the rainwater from her shoe as best she could and sloshed up Rush Street to Superior, her sights set squarely on the Crane hotel.
Seventy floors of mirrored glass and as invasive as a visit to the ob-gyn. Given the choice between this monstrosity and the Van Heusen, with its warm cookies and cozy design, Merina couldn’t believe anyone would set foot in the clinical, whitewashed Crane hotels let alone sleep there.
At the top of that ivory tower, Reese Crane perched like an evil overlord. The oldest Crane son wasn’t royalty, but from the social media and newspaper attention, he sure as hell thought he was.
Halfway down Superior, she folded her arms over her shirt, shuddering against the intensifying wind. She really should have grabbed her coat, but there wasn’t a lot of decision-making going into her process. She’d made it this far, fists balled and steam billowing out of her ears, her ire having kept her warm for the relatively short walk. She should have known better. In Chicago, spring didn’t show up until summer.
Finally, she reached the Crane and stood face-to-face with the gargantuan, seventy-floor home base. The Crane was not only the premier hotel for the wealthy (and possibly uncultured, given that they stayed here) visiting the city, but it was also where Reese hung his proverbial hat. Rumor had it he slept here often, in his very own suite on the top floor, instead of in his sprawling Lake Shore Drive mansion. She wouldn’t be surprised if he slept right at his desk, snuggling his cell phone in one hand and a wad of money in the other.
Stupid billionaires.
Inside the lobby, she sucked in a generous breath, her cheeks warming instantly. In here there was no wind, and despite the chilling whitewash of furniture, rugs, and modern lighting, the hotel was warm. But only in temperature. The Crane represented everything she hated about modern hotels. And she should know, because she’d fought alongside her parents to keep the integrity of the boutique hotel since she started running it. Her hotel was a place of rich history, beauty, and passion. This place was a tower of glass, made so that the lower echelon of the city could look but never touch.
Perfect for Reese Crane.
She bypassed the lobby, filled to overflowing with business people of every color, shape, and size. Flashes of suits—black, gray, white—passed in a monochrome blur, as if the Crane Hotel had a dress code and each and every guest here had received the memo. Merina, in her plum-gray silk shirt and dark gray pencil skirt and nude heels didn’t stand out…except for the fact that she resembled a drowned rat.
A few surly glances and cocked brows were her reward for rushing in from the storm. Well. Whatever.
She spotted the elevator leading to Crane’s office and caught it as an older woman was reaching for the button. The woman with coiffed gray hair widened her eyes in alarm, a tiny dog held snugly in her arms. Merina skated a hand down her skirt and over her hair, wiping the hollows of her eyes to ensure she didn’t go to Reese’s office with panda eyes.
“Good morning,” she greeted.
The older woman frowned. Here was the other problem with the Crane. Its guests were as snooty as the building.
Attitude reflects leadership.