Page 20 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

In an age when people want to experience travel at its roots by immersing in the true culture of new places, the infamous Bale brothers would be wise to go back to their roots. To what Bale used to stand for twenty-five years ago. Because if I had to guess, the original founders would roll over in their graves if they saw everything being swept under those Persian rugs.

Five hundred thousand views.

My entire life exists on social media. It may be a lot of edited videos and background music and double takes, but my job relies on posts of the places I go and the things I see. And in the eight years I have been doing this, I have never had an article or a post with five hundred thousand views. Go figure. It’s an anonymous article. At least…to most.

The one person I have broken the NDA for is my sister. But only because she demands to know about my job all the time. Every detail. Probably so she can decide for herself if whatever I am doing that week, whether it’s backpacking through Portugal or fighting with a bleach-scented towel at the Sapphire, counts as a real job. A job good enough to drop out of college.

We sit at the Conch Shell Cafe, having lunch together. It’s been only two days since the article went live and viral, and she has a lot of thoughts on my secret job.

“That was pretty risky of you, Scarlett. Writing a candid review like that of Bale Resorts,” she says, and I swallow a bite of sandwich before looking up at her.

“That’s what reviews are, Claire. Honest opinions. And my honest opinion about Bale is that they could do better,” I say, taking another bite. She may have come here to examine my life with a magnifying glass, but I came here to eat lunch. Lunch paid for with the nice little chunk of change I got for that article. They even sent me a bonus once it went viral. Whoever “they” is. Speaking of that, I need to check my email to see what resort they want me to review next. Maybe I’ll get lucky and it will be somewhere far away from here.

“Better than the Sapphire Keys?” she asks, but it comes out like a statement.

“Have you ever been there?” I ask. “The towels left a lot to be desired,” I state as I reach for my peach iced tea. I take a sip and scrunch my nose, then grab a packet of sugar in the raw and tear it open.

“Listen to you being all bougie about linens,” she says. Then, “Are you sure you need that? I mean, that tea is loaded with peach syrup.”

“And yet it still just tastes like bitter black tea,” I say. “Maybe I’ll write a review,” I snigger, blowing around her sideways jab. My sister Claire has always been as skinny as a rail. She takes after our dad, who could lose weight running marathons and eating ice cream sandwiches simultaneously (two things he often did). I have my mother’s figure, shapely since I was a teen. Of course, I always thought she was lovely. And she would have added the sugar.

“So, is everything you wrote true then?” she asks, taking a bite of her dry salad. It came with ranch, which she got on the side and hasn’t touched. I debate using it for my fries.

“About the towels? Yeah, they sucked. They didn’t even wrap fully around my body. Wild, considering how lovely the room itself was. I was basically naked when the stranger walked in.”

Claire drops her fork at that. “Wait. It was a man who walked into your room!?”

“Yeah.” I bite my lip, both still in shock about what happened and also unable to shake off what really happened.

“I thought it was housekeeping or something,” she sputters out.

“Housekeeping has keys,” I say.

“And so did this guy apparently.” She shudders. “You know what? You were right to write that article. In fact. You should sue Bale Resorts.”

I snort at that. “Yeah, because that’s a lawsuit I could win,” I mutter.

“I’m serious. Are they really that sloppy behind their shiny facade that guests are given the wrong room keys!?”

“In his defense, he looked pretty fancy. I was probably the one who wasn’t supposed to be there,” I say, continuing to casually eat.

My sister rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you were flirting with the guy who walked into your hotel room,” she says.

“Who says I was flirting with him?”

“Oh, come on. You’ve always been a flirt,” she says, and it’s not entirely untrue. It’s not that I go around hitting on guys. I’m not that kind of girl. I am at the very least sassy, though. A trait I also got from my mom. It comes with being a writer.

“Fine. We may have talked for a few minutes,” I admit.

“Did you sleep with him?” she asks, and this time I am the one dropping my utensil.

“Oh my god, Claire!” I choke out, my voice a little pitchier than I intended. I can also feel the heat in my cheeks, and I pray she assumes it’s just because we are on the patio and it is no cooler than ninety today.

“That’s not a no,” she says.

“I didn’t sleep with him!” I blurt out, catching the attention of several other tables. Now Claire is the one blushing. And I’m not lying. If you think about it, no actual sleeping took place.

“I’m kind of offended that you would just assume that,” I tell her, and then I receive yet another look.