Page 20 of The Quit List
“Well, you know I appreciate the initiative,” Dylan replies with that lopsided smile of his that makes my knees a little weak. Used to make my knees a little weak. “Douglas has been hard at work putting together some ideas for the new billboard campaign and they look very promising. And he’s finally gotten the Pinnacle Instagram account up and running, so do rest assured that I have been taking your thoughts on social media into account.”
I’m not sure where to look, so I focus on the framed photo on Dylan’s desk, the one at last year’s Atlanta Hotel Awards, where he won a prize. He looks so happy in the photo—strong, yet determined—like he’d been willing his win into existence.
Dylan must sense that something he’s said is bothering me, because his expression turns kind. His hazel eyes—perfectly almond-shaped and ringed with blond lashes—meet mine and he lowers his voice to that low, soothing decibel he always uses when he gives out compliments. “You’re incredibly bright, Holly. Don’t ever think I’m taking you or your ideas for granted.”
I give a nod, lowering my face. “Thank you, Dylan.”
Because honestly, there’s nothing more to say. I was so excited, last fall, when Dylan decided that the hotel needed an official marketing department, and created the position of Marketing and Communications Coordinator.
I applied for it immediately. I know the Pinnacle and its clientele like the back of my hand, and for years, I’ve come to Dylan with countless ideas to fill more rooms. It felt like a job he’d created specifically for me, the promotion I’d been waiting for where I could truly shine… but in the end, Dylan ended up hiring Douglas—a seasoned marketing expert—externally for the position instead.
Which makes sense. While I have the practical experience, I have none of Douglas’s marketing accolades. I got the sense that Dylan envisioned me for the role… but I guess it just wasn’t my time.
So now, I need to respect his decision, even if the Instagram account Douglas has started feels a bit low-effort and impersonal.
“You know we need you in Guest Services,” Dylan continues, his lips sliding into a smile. “We’d be lost without you out there,” he adds with a wink.
He said the exact same thing when he told me he’d passed me over for the marketing job. Just a couple days before the second blow came at the company Christmas party that he’d also passed me over in an entirely different way.
“Better get back out there, then,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the fact I feel about four inches tall right now—and I shoot him the best smile I can muster, so he doesn’t think I’m bitter.
“Thanks for stopping in. You know I’m always open to hearing your ideas.” I nod and am about to leave when he says, “Oh, and Holly?”
“Yes?” I turn to look at him again, and his smile turns what I used to think was flirtatious.
“You look good today. I like you in that color.”
I force my lips upwards. “Thank you.”
I walk out of Dylan’s office, stumbling a little over his compliment—statement. A few months ago, I would’ve thought he meant this to be sweet and sincere, but now I know it means nothing, has nothing to do with what we once were to each other. He probably talks like that to everyone, a morale boost or leadership technique.
Once I’m back out in the lobby, I scan the area to make sure that no guests are lurking, then quickly check my phone. Specifically, my DMs on Spark.
Trevor, my latest match, has sent me a picture of his pigs. Again.
That isn’t a euphemism.
Because Trevor is a pig farmer, and while the photos are excessive, he seems nice and well-meaning. So maybe I can overlook the handlebar mustache—and the fact that he keeps calling me “young lady”—and instead ask him to meet for a walk in the park or for a drink?
I’ve been doing lots of these low-stakes, quick dates over the last couple weeks. And even though I haven’t clicked with anyone yet, I have to give kudos to the rude, sexy bartender, because keeping things casual, initially, definitely does make things easier. On my mental health and on my wallet.
For example, I had zero in common with last Thursday’s date, Malcolm, and a quick drink at Full Moon—during which I’m pretty sure said rude, sexy bartender watched me with a knowing smirk, winking at me when I caught his eye—was all it took for me to work out that we’re not a match. Plus, I got my Saturday night back to do a Korean sheet face mask and watch He’s Just Not That Into You for the five zillionth time. No more time wasted.
Instead of answering Trevor’s message, I find myself flicking through the profiles of three guys boasting shirtless gym photos, two men holding up very large fish, and one particularly disturbing profile that proclaims the want of a woman with “nice big feet with straight toes.”
That’s when I get an alert that I have a new message from Emmett, 37, five miles away. My heart jumps a little.
Emmett is cute, with nice eyes and teeth that are almost too white. He sells insurance, likes jazz music, and fixes up vintage cars in his spare time. Which I’m sure is very interesting. But most importantly, he’s a homeowner who dreams of filling said home with a family.
We’ve been messaging for a couple days, and the most suss thing he’s said is that his favorite food is mashed potatoes. No spices, no particular flavor, no add-ins—not even cheese. Or salt. Just… mashed potatoes.
I open the message.
Hello, Holly. How’s your day going? Hope it’s as radiant as you are!
Wow, he’s… enthusiastic.
It’s been good. Doing my best to stay awake through the early morning shift and drinking lukewarm coffee by the bucketload over here.