Which, of course, I am, because that’s how this works. Whatever the guest wants, they get.
“Of course,” I nod. “The lodge is familiar with working with B’s Bakery.”
“Oh, wonderful!” She beams and then starts talking a mile a minute over who contacts who and what flavors she'd like and if I can set up a tasting.
“We take care of it all here,” I tell her. “Don’t worry about anything.”
We part ways, and I head for my office, tugging the collar of my crew neck that I swear is trying to suffocate me.
I close my office door, drop into my chair, and let out a groan.
During the time it took to find a new pastry chef, Brooke, the owner of the B’s bakery, helped us out. An agreement she made with my sister, who just happens to be one of her best friends.
Of course she says yes to helping my sister, and Gavin if he needs it.
Helping me, though—that won’t go down as easily.
But the bride wants Brooke to bake their cake, and because they are clients of the lodge, I’m going to do whatever it takes to make that happen.
Even if the owner of the bakery is a light-haired, blue-eyed vixen who hates my guts.
The last thingI want to be doing is heading out of the lodge in the middle of a workday to talk to Brooke, yet here I am doing just that.
I grab my jacket off the back of my chair and flip the light off as I stride out of my office. I slide each arm into a sleeve and fix the collar as I move down the hall, passing both Grace’s and Gavin’s office doors. Then I turn the corner and nod toward the front desk.
“I’ll be out for a couple of hours,” I tell Mason. He’s our reception manager. If anything needs to be done around here, or we need information on a guest, he’s our guy.
“I’ll hold your messages.” He nods and goes back to whatever he’s doing.
Mason is here for one thing and one thing only. To do his job, which he excels at, and make a check.
Exactly how it should be.
He keeps to himself and he doesn’t gossip, unlike other employees here. I get it. I do. You form relationships at work and build trust, but from the things I’ve witnessed, that only leads to trouble.
If the lodge ever falls under my sole management, the first thing I’m doing is banning inner office relationships. Especially between upper management and other employees.
Nothing but a fucking problem there.
A few other employees pass me in the lobby, but they keep their heads down, avoiding me.
I’ll admit, I’m not the chattiest guy around this place.
Again, exactly as it should be.
The late summer heat of August in Wyoming warms my skin as soon as I step outside.
“Shall I have your truck brought around?” Eddy, the head of valet, asks when he spots me.
I wave and head for the lot. “I’ve got it.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Richford."
My steps falter for only a split moment.
Mr. Richford is how people refer to Henry, and yet, it’s my name, too.
How unfortunate for me.
