Page 151 of Small Town Firsts

While I wishI could say taking over Bayside has been a breeze…I’d be lying. Truthfully, it’s been more of a hailstorm—as soon as I think I’m in the clear, another chunk of ice pelts me. With the way good old Don was running things, it’s honestly a miracle they’re still open.

As if serving bland, basic recipes made with second-rate produce wasn’t bad enough, the dumbass didn’t enforce any type of written disciplinary policy, and he allowed the staff to set their own schedules. Luckily, I’m well on my way to fixing the first issue with a total menu overhaul.

Which leads to an entirely different issue. Yesterday I promised Natalie her schedule would stay the same. If I make everyone else change theirs and keep hers as is, will it look like favoritism? But, if I change hers, I run the risk of severely pissing her off, maybe even losing her as an employee, and undoubtedly losing my date with her next weekend.

How much of a shit does it make me that the date is what I’m most worried about? Even if it is only as friends. Everyone’s gotta start somewhere, and I have no qualms about working my way up from the bottom.

I’ve been holed up in my office all day, sorting through the mountain of unorganized paperwork. Applications are mixed in with invoices, the schedules are handwritten and barely legible. This is a veritable shitshow. Of epic proportions.

Three hours later, I have ninety percent of the papers sorted—wouldn’t have taken quite so long if my staff would stop interrupting me for shit they should be able to handle on their own. Speaking of my staff, I don’t have applications or tax information on file for half of them. I’m talking no contact information, no emergency contact, no W2—nothing.Seriously, how the fuck did Don keep the doors to this place open?

Fed up and in need of a break, I slip my phone from my pocket and dial Nate. He answers on the third ring. “?’Sup? How’s the café?”

“A headache. It’s a headache.”

He chuckles. “C’mon, it can’t be that bad.”

“You’re right. It’s worse. At this point, banging my head into the wall sounds more appealing than dealing with all of this.”

“Gonna be worth it, though.”

“If I can get everything straightened out.” I fill him in on all of the bullshit, hoping he’ll have some advice for me. Luckily, he does.

“Alright, listen. You already know you’re going to have to thin the staff. Have everyone fill out an application—that way you have their contact information and whatnot. Once you figure out who you’re keeping on, take care of tax forms. It’s that easy.”

“Easy for you,” I grumble.

“Hey, this is your dream—man up, and put the work in.”

I scrub a hand over my face. “You’re right. I just…” I trail off, debating whether or not to mention the debacle with his sister. “Here’s the thing: I promised Natalie her shifts could stay the same. But…”

Nate lets out a slow exhale. “You know I can’t really be objective here, right?”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll figure it out. Drinks again soon?”

“Actually, I was thinking…why don’t you come out to the house this weekend? We can invite a few people over, celebrate your ass coming back home.”

I turn his idea over in my head for all of two seconds before agreeing. “Yeah. That sounds great.”

It’s finally Friday,and I’ve spent the past two days re-interviewing my staff. At this point, I’m legitimately wondering how some of these people were hired. I’m ninety-nine percent positive two of them showed up high. And I don’t mean like a few-tokes high, I mean a few-blunts-and-a-couple-of-bong-hits high. The smell was so strong, they may as well have lit up in my office. And FYI, Axe Body Spray doesn’t mask the scent—it intensifies it.

Don’t get me wrong—I don’t give a shit what my employees do in their own time, as long as it doesn’t adversely affect business. They wanna party…go for it. They wanna dance with Mary Jane…not my business. Real talk: every restaurateur has had an employee or two like these guys.

It is, however, my business when they show up so high that instead of answering my questions, they cackle like fucking hyenas. How in the hell can they provide exceptional service when they can’t even remember their own fucking names? And don’t even get me started on their droopy-ass, bloodshot eyes.

Now, I’m down to the final three interviews—Carlos, who is more of a formality than anything else, that dude’s not goinganywhere; some dude named Steve, who I don’t think I’ve even met; and Natalie, who I saved for last.

Not that his position was ever in question, but Carlos will definitely be staying on here at Bayside, only he’s been promoted from the daytime manager to the general manager. The well-being and success of Bayside runs through his veins just as it does mine.

Turns out Steve is a standup guy. He is an older gentleman who busses tables because, as he so eloquently put it,retirement is a fucking snore.I told him bussing was better suited for teens and asked him how he felt about a promotion. Steve is now our expeditor—which really couldn’t be a better position for him, seeing as how he used to write for a foodie magazine back in the day. So, dude knows quality food when he sees it.

For some unexplainable reason, waiting for Natalie to step into my office has me feeling anxious. Even though I’ll be able to keep her schedulemostlythe same—thanks to some insider info from my best friend—my posture is rigid, and my jaw is tense. Not because I think things won’t go well, but because…hell, I don’t even know why.

Maybe it’s the fact that the sound of her voice lights me up from the inside. Or maybe it’s the way the sound of her laughter erases all of my worries. More than anything, though, it’s probably the fact that I want her in ways that would have her brother kicking my ass—especially if he ever realized that she was still in high school when she caught my eye.

But hell, I pretended for years that she was more like a sister to me than anything else…so why am I struggling now?Because she’s a grown-ass woman now,my mind counters, fucking with me.

I’m about to tell my mind to eff right off, when there’s a knock at the door. “Alden?” Natalie’s honeyed voice sounds from the other side of the door.

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