Page 18 of Forbidden Desires

“Gisele Kelley, our new events coordinator,” I respond, irritated that I need to tell him anything.

He nods knowingly. “Ah, the girl from New York. Emerson said you would like her. Breath of fresh air around here or something to that effect. I thought she was going for the front desk position?” he pushes.

“Emerson thinks she’s more suited to events, and since we lost another coordinator on Friday and have a month full of bookings, it was a priority to fill the position today with one of the new hires,” I grumble,making it obvious I need to get on with my day and don’t have time to shoot the breeze with him.

“You don’t seem too pleased with her choice,” he observes keenly.

I shift uncomfortably, about done with this conversation and his line of questions. “I’m sure she will be acceptable at the job.”

He scrutinizes me, his discerning eyes delving into the unspoken. “What is it then?”

I’m taken aback by his perceptiveness. “It’s nothing. What can I help you with? I’m very busy,” I growl, teeth clenched.

He smiles with delight in his eyes I don’t like the look of. “Just heard a commotion, thought I would check in. But since you’re busy, I will be on my way. Your assistant Mary wanted me to mention your meeting with accounts today at ten, and then Elliot McAllister wants to go over some plans he has for the restaurant.”

“Elliot doesn’t have to book an appointment to see me.”

“With how busy you are, he does,” he says, then casually exits my office, leaving me with an unsettled feeling. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is about him that I can’t stand so much. Maybe it’s the way he and my stepmother carry on, or his constant inquiries into everything I do around here. I understand he was allowed to do as he pleased for a long time under my father’s management style, but I don’t need him like he did. I have my own way of running things.

Chapter 9

Brody

Imove through my morning meetings, trying not to think about her, but our interaction this morning has me uncharacteristically preoccupied. I don't havethe luxury of entertaining pretty distractions like her. I have eleven months to find why we’re hemorrhaging money and turn this place around.

Despite facing opposition and resistance from Victor, the staff is finally embracing the management change and responding well to my leadership. My father should have retired before he let things get so out of control, but from what Emerson tells me, he had no idea there was even a problem. But he knew something, because it was in the contract of his will that I was the one responsible for turning this place around within the twelve-month timeframe, or I lose control to Lana Alexander, his new wife.

The huge list of problems that need solutions gets longer by the day. The rooms are prehistoric, the policies ineffective and in need of a shake-up so we can stay relevant. My father was adored by all, but I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to get this place out of the truckload of debt and bring it into the twenty-first century so we can compete with some of the bigger names in the business as a destination holiday and events venue.

Top of my list is the restaurant. After going over the figures with Elliot, our head chef, earlier in the month, I knew we had a problem. The restaurant is only turning over half of what it should be, and the food side of events is eating into Emerson’s profits. I make my way down to the kitchen to visit Elliot in his domain. The kitchen is a hive of energy getting prepared for lunch. He grins when he sees me and motions for me to join him.

“Mae, take over for me, I’ll be back in a sec,” he calls to Dorothy-Mae, our trainee chef, throwing her a teatowel. She looks toward me with a cautious smile. She along with the rest of Emerson’s friends don’t seem to like me much.

We walk out the back to where staff often sit for breaks and take a seat. It’s deserted at this time of day. The salt spray from the ocean brushes my face, and I see it, why Emerson loves this place so much. It is something unique when you have time to leave the confines of your office and enjoy the fresh late-summer air.

Elliot makes himself comfortable, glancing around to make sure we’re alone before he speaks. “I’ve worked out where the last chef was going wrong,” he says.

“Enlighten me,” I say, impressed he’s on to it already.

“He was paying a fortune for shipping imported products. We could save fifty percent just by adjusting the menu throughout the year to favor local seasonal produce. Pops has been doing the same at McAllister’s Bar and Grill for years, so we know it works. This will just be on a larger, more upmarket scale.”

I nod, appreciating his perspective. It makes a lot of sense. I always knew Elliot would have a knack for turning things around in our restaurant and catering side of the business. “Nice work.”

“The only problem is it won’t keep with tradition. But a shake-up might be just what we need to attract new business once the renovations are complete.”

“I’m not concerned about tradition. Sticking with what we have always done is why this place is losing money. We want to be trendy. A destination for our guests all year round, not just in peak holiday season.”

He raises a brow, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “So, I have the go-ahead to print the new menu?”

“Start as soon as you can.”

“I’ve also been in touch with Mr. Delaney from Pecan Pie Bakery. He’s on board to supply all our loaves of bread and pastries. He might have to employ another pastry chef to keep up with demand, but he was more than pleased to be included in our plans.”

“He wasn’t worried about our reputation and being associated with us after that article?” I ask, curious to see what the locals think. Since the article was published, Emerson went into damage control with some new PR that focused on the weddings-and-events side of the business. I’ve kept out of it, knowing I would be too angry and end up doing more damage than good. I spend all my time either locked away in my office or on my ranch avoiding the gossip of the townspeople.

“The locals, the real ones, don’t believe a word that paper printed. They all know the Prescotts are out to make a quick buck. He’s backing you on this, and so is the Harrison family farm, who will provide all our eggs and fresh seasonal vegetables and fruit. People in this town respect you, not just because they liked your father but because of who you were when you lived here last. They haven’t forgotten who Brody Alexander is.”

“And you think I have?” I glare at him.

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