Hunts point

Chapter 1

Ava's POV

 A howling wind ripped me from sleep. Snow. Heavy snow. The newscasters weren't kidding about that blizzard brewing over New York – it's a monster. Throwing open the curtains, the hillside stream behind the hotel is buried under a thick blanket of white. My phone blinks: 7:20 AM. Just enough time to shower and get downstairs for my shift at the front desk. Working at my grandparents' hotel isn't so bad. Free room and board, plus the food's amazing.

Mom always told me how Grandpa Steven dreamed of owning his own hotel. When a cheap deal popped up, he jumped on it. Why it had to be in the middle of nowhere upstate, I'll never understand. The nearest store is an hour away. Holidays were magical as a kid though. Christmas, Thanksgiving feasts, the Fourth of July – my favorite. Now? Not so much.

 After Mom and Dad died, the holidays became brutal reminders. Grandma Ronda still tries to make them special, even now that I'm twenty-one, but it's just not the same. If my parents were still around, I'd probably be at NYU, finishing my degree, becoming a teacher. Their loss made me question whether I even want kids; the fear of leaving them orphaned is paralyzing.

 Out of the shower and blow-drying my chestnut brown hair, I catch sight of the dark circles under my eyes – proof of my terrible sleep habits. Scrolling on my phone until the wee hours is a seriously bad habit I can't seem to kick. Dark blue skinny jeans, a white knit top, fluffy boots – minimal makeup. With this storm, I doubt anyone will show up for days, so why bother? I've never really cared about my appearance, which probably explains the lack of boyfriends, and the whole "sad, parentless loner" reputation.

Last night, after dinner, we only had three guests: Mr. and Mrs. Porter, visiting their new grandchild, and Loralye Vega, whose basement flooded last week. This morning, I found Ms. Vega in the dining room, enjoying coffee and a breakfast sandwich. It's a shame about her basement – the flood knocked out her heating, and with the recent snowstorm, she couldn't get anyone to fix it until now. She's been really sweet to my grandma, even sharing a cookie recipe.

Hunts Point has a small staff. Rupert, our cook, has been here forever. He lives in a cottage ten miles away and keeps to himself. Then there are two maids who also work the front desk; we all rotate shifts. Amy, a 36-year-old mom, moved here ten years ago after her husband's death. She homeschools her 16-year-old daughter, Kylie. Kylie and I get along; we're not close, but we hang out sometimes. Honestly, I don't have many friends. My best friend, Lucy, lives in the mountains. We met when I was ten, became inseparable, but she's at NYU now. We text constantly, but she's surrounded by college kids who, according to her, are just using her for her family's money. It's infuriating.

The smell of bacon hit me as I entered the dining room this morning. I usually skip breakfast on morning shift. I poured myself a coffee – in my Maleficent mug, of course – grabbed some creamers, and realized the to-go creamers hadn't been replenished. Grumbling, I refilled the tray. The dining room isn't huge: eight four-top tables. Dark brown walls are adorned with paintings by my great-aunt. White counters line the back, with kitchen doors behind them. The carpet's a stained beige, frankly overdue for a replacement. I've told my grandpa we need to renovate to attract more customers – you know, "spend money to make money." The problem? We're broke. 

"Hey, Ms. Vega, how's your morning going?" I said, flashing her a smile over my shoulder as I grabbed two sugar packets.

"Good, thanks. How are you?" Ms. Vega replied, taking a sip of coffee. I snapped my lid shut, took a sip myself, and walked over to her table. 

 "I'm good now that I have this," I said, grinning and nodding at my Disney coffee tumbler. "Sleep's been nonexistent lately, so more coffee equals better."