Seven
Wyatt
I enter the hotel on Monday morning wearing my lucky suit. These people need to know that even though I’ll be acting as the bellhop for the next couple of weeks, I am their new manager. No matter what my dad says.
The heads at the front desk turn and clock me the minute I circle through the revolving door into the lobby.
So it’s better than a three-star hotel. Maybe a three and a half. The lobby is a good size, with decent furniture and a few plants sprinkled throughout.
A young kid comes up and greets me. “Hello, sir.”
My assumption is that this pimple-faced boy is my new boss for the foreseeable future. Thanks, Dad.
“Hi, I’m Wyatt Moore.” I hold out my hand, thankful that I didn’t stumble over my last name.
Practice makes perfect.
The kid’s eyes widen. “Hello. I’m Ma
