“But what you can do is train a team,” I offered. “That team will then disperse and make their way around the country.” I wiped my mouth after taking a bite of sliced rib eye. “We all know how much you enjoy training and mentoring.” He said nothing. “Or are you going to try to prove me wrong?”
He couldn’t. Because during that role, he’d fallen in love with Alivia.
When I was met with more silence, I said, “I rest my case.”
“To add on to that,” Beck said, devouring a mini pulled pork slider, “upon the buyout, we don’t have to immediately ensure every chef meets your standards. The Gordons’ model works. Patrons are happy with their food. We wouldn’t be rebuilding a failing business. We would be taking over a thriving one.”
“Until we destroy them,” Eden offered.
The room turned silent.
We had rebutted Walker’s main concern. Deep down, heknew we would have to hire a team to oversee kitchen standards; it wasn’t logistically possible for him to handle that position solely. He just wanted to be heard, and we listened. There would be no convincing him that the buyout was the right move. He was allowed to be tired and against our decision. But for this to work, we all had to see what we were facing and what that would look like.
“Explain to me how you’re going to do that.” Walker finger-checked the temperature of the sliced steak on his plate and grimaced. “I understand hiring a PR-team larger than our current one. I understand publicly sharing our side of the story, providing the evidence, eventually—or should I say, hopefully—swaying the public’s opinion. But how does a PR team take down a brand when the brand isn’t doing anything wrong?”
I glanced at Eden, whose eyes were already on me, and responded, “You hire someone whose job is to identify weaknesses. Instead of fixing or strengthening those weaknesses, it’s the catalyst—or one of the many catalysts—that destroys them.”
Walker blinked several times and huffed. “And you’re telling me there are PR teams who specialize in this?”
“I’m sure there are,” Eden said. “But we’re not going the PR team route.” She tucked her black hair behind her ears.
“We’re not?” Hart asked.
“This is getting interesting,” Beck admitted.
Walker moved his plate aside and leaned onto the table. “Sounds like the two of you”—he pointed at Eden and me—“have already thought this through.”
“We have.” I nodded.
“And you’ve found someone?” Hart asked.
I smiled. “Yes.”
“Who?” Beck questioned.
“Me.”
Everyone turned toward the archway of my dining room,where our first cousin, Dutton, now stood. His arms were folded across his broad chest, his shoulder leaning into the wall, his muscular frame taking up most of the entrance.
“I’m going to be the invisible mole.”
“What in the hell are you doing here, my man?” Hart got up and walked over to Dutton, clasping hands and man-hugging him.
Walker and Beck followed, embracing Dutton the same way.
Before we had brought in Dutton, Eden and I had wanted to make sure hiring him was even a possibility. Just because the idea worked in our heads didn’t mean the execution would translate. After all, this path was extremely unconventional.
We didn’t want to discuss our idea over the phone, so we asked Dutton to come to LA. He didn’t have a home base. While he made his billions, he preferred living off-grid. Due to the nature of his business, he was more comfortable that way.
Once Dutton took a seat at the table, accepting a drink from my housekeeper, his large hands crossed in front of him. “Eden and Colson reached out, so I’ve been here since yesterday, chatting about the details with them,” he told my other three siblings. “They’ve filled me in on everything.”
“Nice.” Beck smiled. “I’m assuming you can take down the Gordons?”
Dutton pushed back several pieces of his dirty-blond hair, his blue eyes so light that they looked like ice. “If there’s a weakness in their system, I’ll be able to identify it.”
Walker set his drink down. “And if there isn’t?”
Dutton nodded, the seriousness in his expression taking over his features. “I can encourage one.”
