Page 10 of Holly versus Mr. Ivy
My meeting with Holly was happening today before the rest of the staff came in.
I unlocked the back door of the restaurant and flipped on the lights in the hallway. I’d come early, armed with drinks and pastries, ready to explain my plan to Holly.
Five minutes later, Holly, in her usual uniform of black slacks, black Keds, and a white shirt, ambled into my office. She somehow made the drab attire attractive. My dormant heart skipped a beat at the sight of her.
“Let’s get this over with.” She plopped down on the chair across from my desk, holding an iPad.
Her shoulder-length black hair had waves in it today. They made her more feminine, softer somehow, than her typical straight, no-nonsense style. No wonder my heart reacted to seeing her.
“Hello to you too, Holly,” I greeted her.
Without looking up from her tablet, she responded, “It’s Chef Dewhurst.”
Right. I needed to remember that. “My apologies.”
“Can we get on with the meeting? I have things to do.”
I pointed to the refreshments I’d brought. “Eat first.”
She sighed as if consuming a treat was the same as ingesting liquid antacid.
“They’re not poisoned.” I slid a drink toward her.
She snatched the pink and white donut and took a big bite. “Apee mow?” she said through a mouthful of fried dough.
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from grinning. Holly was by far the most professional chef I’d ever worked with. Which wasn’t a bad thing. I just liked to get to know people better, learn about their life outside of work, and she did not. “I am happy. Thank you. I looked at your employee file. You’ve been here three years. Are you satisfied with your job?”
Her brows furrowed. “What does that matter?”
Uh, it mattered a lot. If Holly was miserable, I needed to find a way to fix the problem. “It matters to me.”
“Why?” she challenged.
I clasped my hands on top of my desk. “Because I don’t like knowing people hate their job.”
She placed her half-eaten donut on the napkin she’d left on my desk, then licked her fingers. My stomach swooped as my brain conjured an image of me removing the sticky frosting from her appendages. I had to look away. I’d been around plenty of attractive women. Why did this one stir all these feelings inside me when it was clear as a spring day that Holly disliked me?
“Listen, Mr. Ivy—”
“It’s Rhett,” I exasperatedly cut her off. Why was using my first name such a chore for her?
“Mr. Ivy,” she continued, undeterred, “I don’t see how my happiness matters one way or the other when it comes to my job. I do what I have to do in my kitchen. My personal life, emotions, and feelings have nothing to do with my performance here. Got it?”
I leaned back in my chair, barely containing my self-satisfied smile. “As painful as this may be for you to accept, studies have proven happy employees perform twenty percent better.” I was practically humming with delight at her eye roll.
“I’m fine,” she grumbled.
Liar. I boomed out a laugh. “If you say so.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I am simply doing what any good leader would by displaying the behavior I expect from my staff.”
Ah. I understood from her perspective why she would think that. It was hard to argue with that logic even if an extrovert like me struggled with the way she did things. “I see. And there’s no discussing possible ways to change things up?”
She stiffened. “Is today’s meeting about everything you claim I’m doing wrong? Or was there an actual point in me coming in early besides being your scapegoat?”
That hadn’t been my intent at all. I picked up the pen sitting beside my keyboard and tapped it against my desk. “We have a lot to discuss. I’m sorry you feel attacked, but I sincerely want to know if you’re happy, because it determines what happens next.”
She looked at her fingers resting in her lap. “If I say no, are you going to tell your uncle to fire me?”
