Of him?
The guy who’d lately been doing nothing but sleeping around, drinking, and eating leftover pizza?
Sure, four years ago he’d had a reputation as a hard-ass, but he didn’t think it would precede him, not after all this time. Besides, he’d been young, stupid, and out to prove to his grandfather and everyone else in his life that he could take care of himself—and his family.
His chest tightened.
“Good afternoon, sir.” A tall man with broad shoulders and dark, slicked-back hair held out his hand. “Pardon our…shock, we just—” He cleared his throat, and was it Brant’s imagination, or was the guy sneering? “That is, we were expecting Nadine Titus.”
“Too bad.” Brant gripped the man’s hand tightly. “Because you’ve got Brant Wellington.”
He could have sworn he heard swearing from the staff. His eyes darted in the direction of the valet. Nobody moved an inch.
In fact, it didn’t look like anyone was breathing.
Why the hell hadn’t Nadine called ahead?
And why hadn’t he thought to at least try not to look hungover?
That same apprehension that gripped him in the office was back full force. No catch. She said there was no catch. He had a job to do. This wasn’t personal. It was business.
“Well?” Brant’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you going to hold my hand all day, or should we get on with it?”
The man’s teeth clenched before he dropped Brant’s hand and forced a smile. “Of course, sorry. As I’m sure you already know, we’re very understaffed. Your presence must have slipped through on our end.” He emphasized your as if to say Brant’s presence was unwelcome.
He had to give the man credit—it was always the resort’s fault, never the client’s. He was off to a good start.
Though something about the man seemed off. He seemed…angry.
Brant would know—anger recognized anger. And he was the angriest of them all.
“My name’s Cole Masters.” The man led Brant through two large double doors, pulled open by white-gloved staff members who made eye contact with the air right in front of them. “And I manage both the spa and the concierge service at Azul. I’ll be in charge of your daily itinerary as well as anything else you may need during your stay.” He swallowed convulsively and forced a blinding smile. “Why don’t you sit at the bar?” He led Brant to a small, chic lobby bar with leather wingback chairs and small glass-topped tables with lanterns. “And I’ll grab your room.”
“Thanks, Cole.” Brant tried to keep eye contact with the man, but he quickly stomped off like he was seconds away from firing whichever asshat hadn’t known Brant was coming.
“What can I get ya?” An elderly gentleman with bright white hair and a wrinkled face wiped the bar in front of Brant and dropped a napkin on the table with a small leather-bound menu. “Our specialty is a whiskey margarita.”
Brant’s stomach rolled. Yeah, still hungover. How the hell was that possible?
“How about soda water and a lime?” Those words. They actually came out of his mouth. Bentley would shit himself and probably look over Brant’s shoulder just to make sure the zombie apocalypse hadn’t in fact just started.
“Coming right up.” The man’s knuckles tapped the glass bar before he quickly made the drink and set it in front of Brant.
Brant stared at it. For longer than necessary.
Water. He was basically drinking water.
With a slight shake of his head, he picked up the cool glass and brought it to his lips, surprising himself when he nearly chugged the whole thing and asked for another.
Embarrassment washed over him when he tried to recall the last time he had a drop of anything nonalcoholic.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“Sorry?” The bartender leaned in. “What did you say you wanted?”
Brant’s eyes flickered to the bartender’s name tag. “Well, George, I sure don’t want shit even though that’s what I just said, so how about another soda?”
With a chuckle, George grabbed a new glass. In Brant’s experience, the talkers were always the bartenders; they were like therapists but better, because they gave you alcohol when you poured out your feelings, whereas a damn psychiatrist just tapped a pen against a legal pad and charged three hundred dollars for heavy sighing and a few Uh-huhs.
The point was, he’d probably get more out of George than he would from Cole… speaking of, shouldn’t his room already be ready by now?
Brant glanced over to where Cole had disappeared. There was only one desk at reception. It was freestanding, with several iPads and a few staff members tapping away while guests checked in. But no Cole.