I’ve traded the suit for gray sweats and a white Henley. I left the top buttons undone and rolled the sleeves up because the house runs warm. She didn’t veto Henleys, but from the surly glances she’s throwing at my forearms and exposed throat, I might have violated another one of her unspoken dress code rules.
She should look in a mirror.
Her oversized sweater keeps sliding off one shoulder, exposing the pink strap of her bra. I guess I should just be glad she’s wearing all her underwear now. Peyton’s hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot, with a few dark curls escaping to frame her face. It’s all very cozy. Very domestic.
The kind of scene this kitchen was built for and never got to witness.
I slice through the tender chicken roulade she made with Mrs. Gable, dragging a forkful through the herb-flecked sauce.
Across the island, Peyton is attacking her potatoes with gusto.
“This is incredible,” I say, gesturing with my fork. “You enjoy cooking?”
Gosh, small talk is excruciating.
“Yeah, but I’m not great at it. Mrs. Gable did the heavy lifting. I just chopped things.” Peyton takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “So how was your day?” she asks, then lifts her hands and adds, “No, sorry, I can’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“Eat dinner and talk about the weather like a boring married couple in the suburbs.”
“Okay, if you want a juicier topic…” I take a sip of water. “What did you think about the strategy I was discussing with my father earlier? The e-commerce push versus the local curation idea.”
I read her CV, and I want to see if her analytical skills are as impressive as they were on paper.
Peyton wipes her mouth with the cloth napkin and gives me her full attention. “From a numbers perspective, your dad isn’t wrong,” she says. “E-commerce is attractive on paper. Lower fees per transaction, broader reach, twenty-four-seven revenue potential.” She ticks points off on her fingers. “But the inventory overhead required to guarantee quick shipping times is a massive hidden cost. You’d need regional fulfillment centers, sophisticated logistics, and a returns infrastructure that eats into margins fast. The big players already have that built out. You’d be competing on their turf with a fraction of their scale.”
I nod, slicing another piece of chicken. “Exactly. It’s a race to the bottom. How would you measure whether the regional curation strategy is working if we piloted it in select stores?”
“You need a baseline first.” The sweatshirt slips off her shoulder again; she ignores it this time. “Current sales per square foot, average transaction value, customer retention rates. Then track the same metrics post-implementation.” She pauses, tapping a finger against her lips. “But I’d also add new KPIs specific to the repairs model. Workshop attendance. Repeat service customers versus one-time visitors. The conversion rate from service visits to product purchases. And qualitative feedback about the in-store experience.”
Her answers are impressive. She’s a sounding board for everything I’m thinking.
“Yeah, for it to be a success, we need at least a 15 percent increase in customer lifetime value within the first year.”
She picks up her fork, twirling it absently. “Sure, and you can also factor in improved staff retention. Employees stay longer when they’re empowered as experts rather than just cashiers pushing whatever corporate stock.”
I finish my last bite and set the plate aside. “Staffing is my biggest concern, too. We’d need to hire and retain managers who know the local market. It’d be great to have metrics to also evaluate employees.”
“That’s feasible. And I’d still keep a centralized data dashboard to monitor performance across stores and pick national bestsellers.”
I’m about to ask how she’d model a decrease in overall sales against an increase in sales per square foot when her eyes pop wide.
“Wait, is this a sneak job interview?”
I smile. I don’t even try to hide it.
“I read the CV you sent over,” I say. “It was impressive.”
She blinks, processing.
“I need someone with your skill set to evaluate the new strategy,” I continue. “My father will be looking for any excuseto kill it. But he won’t be able to if I have solid data to prove I’m right.”
Her mouth opens, then closes.
“I understand if working for me on top of being married to me is too much,” I add quickly. “The job would be separate from our arrangement. Your employment would never be linked to the marriage or the divorce. It would be a legitimate position with a competitive salary and benefits.” I hold her gaze. “And if you decided to leave Rockwood Outdoors for any reason, I’d provide an excellent reference.”
“Even if I suck at my job?”
