I nod at Lenora. “Please go with him.”
She hastens after Aiden in her navy pantsuit, her Jimmy Choos clicking on the white tile.
My attention drifts back to Henri, whose cheeks have shifted from a bright tomato red to a softer pink. A start, at least.
I summon a tight-lipped smile. “Can I help you with anything else, Henri?”
The chef crosses his thin arms. His lower lip protrudes in a sulky pout…a great reminder of why I don’t plan on having kids. “If you cannot guarantee the best ingredients, I’m not so sure I should be here.”
Ice spears my chest, but I shove the cold aside. No time for panicking.
“I’ll speak with our distributors. You know I care just as much about quality as you do. I’d never want our guests to suffer a mediocre meal.”
He huffs a little and puffs out his chest. “I appreciate your understanding, mademoiselle.”
Relief swells inside me, melting the ice. One crisis averted.
Lenora returns with Aiden, a list in her hand. “Should I?—”
“Yes, please, take my car. The keys are in my office.” Lenora often relies on Ubers, and we can’t wait for that. “Use the black credit card.”
“Got it.” She winks again and vanishes.
Henri sniffs daintily. “I suppose Aiden and I must start prepping with the salvageable items.”
Another small bit of tension releases my shoulders. “Please come to me if you have any more problems, Henri. My door is always open.”
Eager to retreat, I hustle down the fifth-floor hallway, smiling at a guest I pass along the way.
Every ten feet, a different piece of abstract art I personally handpicked hangs on the soft ocean blue walls. The plush gray carpet muffles my steps. I wish the fibers could also muffle my deep breaths as I suck in the hotel air in my attempts to calm myself.
Why do some men act like such arrogant dill-holes? Throwing fits when they don’t get their way. Trying to control people with their fear tactics and threats. Never giving a single damn about the feelings of the people in their orbit.
“I cannot work like thees!”
And the hotel can’t function without money.
The money I have oh-so-little of. That black card exists for business expenses, and with all the recent use, I’m surprised the thing hasn’t caught on fire.
Damn it.
I pick at a loose thread on my blazer and sigh. Yes, Henri could annoy the last ounce of patience from a saint, but he’s not the true target of my internal frustration. That dubious honor belongs to the men in my family. Particularly, my father. If not for the fear of him swooping in and snatching control of the Cypress from my hands, my stress level would hold steady.
This hotel is my baby. My excuse for a life outside of the family fold. Without it, there’s no telling how my father might try to monopolize my free time.
Shuddering, I bank left down a hallway full of guest rooms and hurry into the nearest supply closet. One of the best parts about being the boss is having a master key.
Whenever the stress level gets too heavy—frequently triggered by thoughts of Declan Gallagher or my financial troubles—I often seek a few seconds of quiet darkness and solitude.
The tang of cleaning supplies, industrial-washed towels, and linens invades my nose. In an effort to clear my head, I focus on the pungent sting of bleach, but my mind refuses to cooperate, instead fixating on my family.
As kids, my brothers and I were close. When we were younger, my oldest sibling, Connor, watched over Brody and me. After our mom died, I became the de facto problem-solver throughout our teen years. Our father was too busy running his mafia empire to bother with raising his children.
Over the last decade or so, though, my relationship with my brothers has strained.
We still love each other, but their primary concerns revolve around the family businesses and obeying my father’s orders. Not that I have much headspace to dwell on that.
The constant whirlwind of managing a business is already more than a little exhausting.
