Heron's Landing. JoAnn Ross

why?”

      “Because she’s obviously not working up to the standards of this hotel.”

      “Sir, I’m the concierge you spoke with yesterday. And again, I’m sorry that you had a less than satisfactory experience. What’s the problem?”

      He gave her a long, hard look. Leaned over the desk, and squinted at her gold-plated name tag. Then straightened, and squared his shoulders like a man about to go into battle. “It’s about that restaurant you sent us to last night.”

      “Bombay Spice.”

      “Yeah. That one.”

      “You didn’t care for your meal?” Bombay Spice, located a block off the strip near the Taj Mahal, was one of Brianna’s personal favorites, serving deliciously prepared authentic Indian cuisine.

      “It was fucking vegetarian!” His tone rose again with indignation.

      Having grown up working on the Mannion family Christmas tree farm, Brianna had learned at an early age how to deal with difficult customers. She’d also discovered, while working her way up the chain of the hotel hospitality business, that in some cases, the higher the income, the more escalated the sense of privilege. Apparently this was going to be one of those cases.

      “I believe I mentioned that when you asked about it,” she said with measured calm.

      “Well, dammit to hell, I expected them to serve some meat dishes. None of the five-star reviews my wife read online said anything about them not at least having a damn rib eye steak.” His color rose to a hue that had her prepared to call 911 in case he keeled over from a blood pressure spike.

      “I suspect the reviews didn’t mention the lack of meat because online diners were reviewing the restaurant’s vegetarian dishes.”

      Brianna wished she had a dollar for every time a guest came up to her with a list of restaurants in hand, asking her to recommend one. The problem with online review sites was that they reflected only the experience of the person writing the reviews. She’d spent her first six months in Las Vegas eating at as many restaurants as she could, meeting the owners and managers, in order to get firsthand knowledge. Some guests might like a noisy, busy brasserie, while others might prefer a quiet, romantic dining experience. Some might like bright lights. Others might go for candles on the table. Her job was to ask questions to determine what restaurant might work for that particular guest. Which she’d tried to do with this agitated man yesterday.

      “You shouldn’t send people there.”

      “I did recommend two steak houses,” she reminded him, practically having to bite her tongue at this point.

      “But Bombay Spice had great reviews,” he insisted. “Which is why my wife wanted to go there. She was determined to try the gobhi mattar masala with truffle rice because it had all five stars. But if a restaurant doesn’t have meat, you should warn people! You ruined our anniversary dinner!”

      “I’m sorry you had a less than satisfactory experience.” The cauliflower/green peas/cumin/ginger/cashews dish was one of Brianna’s personal favorites. But she did find the truffle rice a bit rich for her taste.

      “Less than satisfactory? It sucked! Of course we left the place, but by then it was impossible to get a table anywhere decent, so we just came back to the hotel.”

      “We have several fine restaurants in the hotel,” she pointed out in her most cordial, professional voice. “All which have received excellent reviews by both critics and diners alike. I, or the night concierge, would have been more than happy to arrange for you to have dinner on us if you’d only let us know you were dissatisfied.”

      “My wife had lost her appetite by the time we got back here and just wanted to go to bed.” He ripped off his black-framed glasses. If fiery glares could kill, Brianna would have burst into flames on the spot. “Which is why you owe me fifty fucking thousand dollars.”

      That got Brianna’s full attention. “Excuse me?”

      “My wife went to bed. Alone,” he stressed in the event Brianna hadn’t gotten his meaning. “Since our anniversary night was toast, I decided, what the hell, I might as well go down to the tables.”

      Where he’d lost fifty thousand dollars. Brianna restrained herself from suggesting he Google the meaning of gambling.

      “I’m thinking of reporting this place to the state gambling commission for rigging the games.”

      “That’s certainly your right. But I can assure you that nothing at the Midas is rigged.”

      Her roots may be Irish, from a many-times-great-grandfather who’d arrived in the Pacific Northwest where he’d gotten the dangerous job of driving the dynamite wagon for the construction of the railroad, but somehow Brianna must have been busy meeting and greeting people when God had handed out tempers, because she hadn’t inherited the trait. Still, this man was beginning to test her limits.

      “I’ve never lost that much in any casino in two fucking hours.”

      Wow. He’d really been tossing down the high dollar chips. And, from the red veins crisscrossing his eyes like lines on a Nevada roadmap, he hadn’t turned down any of the free drinks handed out to high rollers.

      “I’m sorry for your bad luck.” Having never dropped as much as a dollar in a slot machine, Brianna didn’t comprehend why anyone would want to risk hard-earned money when everyone knew that in the end, the house always eventually won, but enough people seemed to feel different to allow her to be paid a very lucrative salary with benefits and generous tips from happy guests. Especially those who’d walked away after a winning streak. “But it certainly wasn’t due to any rigging.”

      He shoved the glasses back on his face. “I’m going to report you to the manager.”

      “Again, that’s your right.”

      Having received not only high marks, but a bonus at her annual review, Brianna wasn’t concerned about her job being in jeopardy. Usually before a guest arrived on the butler’s floor, she’d wade through her files of past likes and dislikes to ensure a stay tailored to that particular party. But because this man and his wife were first-timers, there was no previous record. And unfortunately, he’d added nothing to the comments section in the online reservation form. Such as his intense dislike of vegetarian meals.

      “And after I report you, I’m going to write the worst goddamn review ever published on Yelp.” He spun on a heel and stomped off toward the gold-embossed elevator.

      “I hope you have a safe and uneventful trip back home, sir,” she called after him. It was the same thing she told all the guests as they’d leave.

      “I intend to, since you won’t be the one doing the planning. And quit calling me sir, bitch,” he roared back over his shoulder. “I’m an orthopedic surgeon, dammit!”

      “Doctor Dick,” Brianna murmured under her breath, reminding herself that although this might not be her most fulfilling day, she was exactly where she’d always dreamed of being.

      Working at the family tree farm had taught her she enjoyed working with people, helping each family find the perfect tree just for them. Watching Gilmore Girls, she’d always identified with Lorelai’s dream of creating a warm and caring environment in her very own inn, rather than working for someone else. And she’d even had a specific house in mind.

      Then, while earning her degree in hospitality and hotel management, classmates and professors had tried to convince her that she’d be wasting her talents on a small town of seven thousand plus, stuck out on the Washington peninsula, where guests would have to travel by ferry or a long car ride over twisting mountain roads to visit. No, she’d been born for more important things, she’d been told. All she needed to do was give up those childish dreams of creating a life in the Pacific Northwest’s version of Star Hollow, and dream bigger. Bolder. Brighter.

      It was during