by Ginny Frost
Relief flooded through Terese as she sagged into the chair opposite the desk.
“Mr. Reid, a pleasure to see you again. Though you needn’t be present for the examination. Or any of them.” Harris’s smile never faded, which was beyond creepy.
“You mean audit? Yes, I’m aware, but you are knee-deep in my underwear drawer. I think I’ll stick around.” Alan crossed his arms over his chest, his chin up. Glancing over the files on the desk, he turned to Terese. “That all of it?”
She nodded, skirting out from behind the desk. Thank God, she didn’t have to sit through it after all. Alan to the rescue. She could’ve kissed him.
He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Grab me a diet cola,” he asked quietly. She tried to read his icy blue eyes. His return gaze was solid, confident. With a slight twitch of his cheek, warmth filled his face. He would take care of everything.
She opened her mouth to thank him, to ask about the money problems, the audit’s status. His head shook slightly. In the end, she merely said, “Coming up.” As she closed the door behind her, she saw Alan stand over the desk, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked on Harris’s work.
Quickly, she poured a soda at the bar and rushed back to the office without a word to Angelina. When she returned to the room, nothing had changed—Alan standing, Harris bent over the ledger. Her boss took the drink without a glance or a word. The air hung thick and oppressive. Spinning on her heel, she exited the room as fast as possible.
~*~
Her shift stretched out in an eternity while the office door remained closed. Tension leaked out from under the door and into the bar. Customers, even regulars, didn’t stay for long. Terese and the serving staff searched for anything to do while they waited. Still, the door remained closed.
Four o’clock. The Happy Hour crowd filtered in—young professionals in suits who packed into the corner tables. She gazed at the wait staff who seemed to read her mind. They hustled into place, ready for the crowd. Still the office door remained closed.
Angelina sidled up to Terese. “Should I go in there with more drinks or something to eat?” She squirmed as uncomfortable as Terese.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think Alan wants to offer these men any hospitality.” She tilted her head, thinking she saw the door handle twist. Nope.
“Do you know the deal?” Angelina asked. “Because if I’m getting canned, I need to get another job now.” Terese wanted to blast her for her disloyalty but remembered she was jumping ship too. A sigh escaped her lips.
“Honestly, Angelina, I don’t know. But backup never hurts.” She reached over and squeezed the waitress’s arm. Angelina blinked at the personal contact. But Terese empathized with everyone losing a job over the nonsense. Alan never embezzled a dime. Impossible he’d forgotten to pay taxes or any of the other crap. He was a solid businessman. “Beacon Street Bar needs daytime staff. Talk to Arnie. Tell him I sent you.”
Angelina’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, geez, really? Okay, thanks. I’ll hold off a day or two before I ask, but you know how it is. They want the rent every month.”
Eyeing the office door, Terese nodded. She knew exactly. Her rent was overdue as well as her electric bill. The new suit and shoes had eaten some of her rainy-day money. “Make sure you have a whiskey neat for Alan when he gets out of there.”
As Happy Hour buzzed along, Terese lost herself in the constant stream of patrons. Eric arrived and set up a station at the bar. Angelina worked the tables, complaining every time she grabbed more drinks.
Still the door stayed close.
Panic crept up Terese’s spine. Her thumbnail found its way between her teeth again. Maybe she should bring him another soda.
After four long hours, the door finally opened. Agent Harris and Alan emerged in good spirits. They remained by the office door for a few minutes, a quiet exchange. After shaking hands, Harris left with a nod to Terese before he ducked out the door.
Alan caught Terese’s worried glance, smiled weakly, and walked over to the bar. She grabbed Angelina to watch the hostess station and beelined for the bar. Eric, ever vigilant, put a whiskey in front of Alan before his ass hit the stool. He downed half the drink in one long gulp.
Terese arrived at his side as he set the glass down with a small sigh of appreciation. He tipped his head at Eric, who refilled the drink without a word. Holding the glass up, Alan stared at the amber liquid. She bit her bottom lip, waiting.
Finally, he spoke. “I’m so glad we stock the good stuff here.” He flashed a wan smile at Terese, who fidgeted on her feet. Sagging, his eyelids drooping, Alan tapped the seat next to him. “Sit down, my dear.” Her heart sank. She’d have to get another job now for sure.
She slid into the stool next to him, raising a finger to Eric for her own whiskey. Alan waited for her drink to arrive to break the news.
“I’ll keep it simple,” he said, frowning. “The entertainment group is dead. They’ll probably seize everything I have left. And there isn’t much.” They both sipped whiskey and stared at the bar top. “Conrad is still incommunicado, which makes everything worse, more suspicious.”
He paused for another drink, nodding to Eric who joined the conversation. Swallowing, Alan pressed on, “I’ve tried to hit every audit, but there are two of them and only one of me. Some of the reviews have turned up things I knew nothing about.” Eric refilled the glasses, pouring his own.
Alan cleared his throat. “You both know, my family has owned this place time out of mind. It’s not part of the entertainment group Conrad and I put together. I made sure to keep her solely mine. That’s why”—he held up his drink—“I probably get to keep it. The sole propriety and the fact it’s run by an amazing woman.” He clinked Terese’s glass and downed the rest of his whiskey. Her stomach churned. Something wasn’t right here.
“So we’re not closing?” Eric asked, genuine joy in his voice, but Terese wasn’t fooled. Keeping the tavern should’ve made Alan dance on the bar; instead he seemed tired, defeated, and a tiny bit angry.
“And?” Terese asked, her heart racing.
“And…” Alan’s voice thick with emotion. “I haven’t got a dime to pay anyone right now. I can keep you all on, but I have no idea when I can pay for supplies, salaries, services…” He stared at the bottom of the glass. “Eventually, I know I can get things back up to norm but…” His gaze searched hers, then Eric’s. “But for now, it’s pay-cut or cut loose.” He clicked his glass down on the bar and stood.
“Share the info as you see fit,” Alan continued, brushing non-existent wrinkles from his pants and suit jacket. “I’ll be in touch with you both.” Turning, he nodded and strolled through the crowd, out the door.
Eric met her gaze, his mouth open, eyes wide. Her mind blanked. There was nothing to say to that. Alan lost everything he’d worked the last fifteen years to build. And she sat here, bitching about her own problems. She swirled her drink, her stomach sick with her own selfishness and Alan’s generosity.
She’d work for him for free in a heartbeat, if only she had some money to maintain her own basic needs. Without pay, rent was impossible. Biting her lip, she realized she’d have to put all her cards on Drake.
~*~
Sitting in the tavern’s office, Terese scanned the mess left in the audit’s wake. File folders covered her desk, a thousand open excel sheets sat on the computer, and her ledger tossed aside, like a war survivor.
She sighed, slumping into her chair. Why hadn’t Alan known about the Entertainment Group’s mess? Piling files randomly, she wondered if he tried to keep it from underlings like her. Either that or he had no clue, which was so unlike him. Biting her lip, she scanned the sheets on the computer screen—liquor orders, supply lists, payroll. Nothing seemed out of place. Perhaps he’d get to keep the tavern after all.
Her phone chimed with the unknown caller ringtone. Not Drew. Not Alan. She considered letting the call drop to voice mail. The call ID read DRAKE IND. Her heart jack-rabbited. Taking a quick
breath to calm herself, she answered the call.
“Hello?”
“Hello. May I speak with Terese Brock, please?” A man’s voice sounded on the line.
“This is she.” She wiped sweaty palms on her skirt. “Can I help you?”
“Ah, Miss Brock, my name is George Murray, Human Resources director for Drake Industries,” the man said.
Terese’s heart thundered. “Mr. Murray…” she began unsure where to go. He’d called her after all. Nervousness rendered her brain useless.
“Alan Reid asked me to give you a call. I’d like you to come in for an interview for the new conference center on Friday morning.”
Her eyebrows bounced up almost to her hairline, but she refrained from dancing in place. “Friday? Yes, I can do that.” If either Eric or Alan help with coverage. Wiping sweaty palms on her jeans, she swiped her bangs and anxiety to the side. She’d kill at the interview and she knew it.
She and George exchanged information, setting up an interview time. She ended the call with pleasant banter. He seemed nice though hurried. And she got her interview.
Glee danced over her skin. The cash spent on the suit and shoes were now justified with the confirmation of an actual interview. Money woes be damned. She’d have that job by Saturday.
****
Taking a break from George and the HR project, mostly from George, Drew closed his office door and sank into his chair. Tipping back and stacking his heels on the desk, he let out a long sigh. There was a reason he didn’t work in HR, and people like George were the principal reason.
His eyelids fluttered shut for what seemed like a half a second when his phone rang. Drew sat up in his chair with a start. What the…? His muddled brain spun for a few seconds before he realized where he was.
Shaking off the disorientation, he grabbed the phone. “Drew Drake.”
“Hey, kiddo.” Dad. How did he know to find me here? The man was a frickin’ psychic. “Got a minute?”
“Sure, old man. Always a minute for you.” He covered his mouth, trying not to laugh. Dad did not love a kiss up, so Drew played brown-noser occasionally.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dad answered. “I’ll be over in a second.”
Drew tipped back in his chair again, eyes shut, too tired to even wonder what Dad wanted now. His head dipped several times as he struggled to stay awake. Late nights and early mornings were killers, and he’d racked up plenty lately. Once the HR crap finished, he was grabbing Terese and a suitcase and heading for a beach vacation. Somewhere far from Iverton and his ambitious father. Maybe Tahiti.
A resounding knock at the door snapped him back to the present, far away from Terese in a bikini, dammit. “Come in,” he called, reluctantly sliding his feet to the floor.
His father’s head peeked in. “Hey there, kiddo. How you holding up?” He beamed a goofy grin.
Drew stared flatly at him, not drinking his father’s sarcasm today. “Great, Dad. Just great.” He plunked his elbows on the desk. “Come on in. I expect you want me to run a marathon over the weekend. Let’s go over the logistics.”
Dad entered the office, closing the door behind him. “That bad, son?” His words still held the tickle of sarcasm. Drew stared up at him, giving the tiniest eye roll. “Good thing I brought a peace offering.” He held up a white paper sack.
Perking up immediately, Drew asked, “What you got there, young man?”
“Oh, it’s ‘young man’ now, huh? I offer you food, and I regenerate a couple dozen years?” He put the bag on the desk along with a tray of coffee.
Leaned over the desk, Drew tried to peek into the bag. “Regenerate? You been watching Doctor Who again?” The scent of warm bread and a spicy soup tickled his nose. The signature scents of Stanton Coffee on Third. Life was good. He dug into the bag.
Dad chuckled as he sat in a leather chair opposite the desk. His long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He propped his arms on the sides of the chair, folding his fingers together on his chest.
“Someday I’m going to find out who the genius is behind the food at Stanton’s. Then I’m going to hire them away for my own restaurant.”
Raising an eyebrow, Drew glanced over the top of his meal. “Your own restaurant? Can we finish one project before we start another?”
His father dipped his head to the side, a tiny bit of chagrin in his tight smile. “Yeah, well, about that.”
Drops of broccoli cheese slopped on the desktop as Drew smacked his soup cup down. “Seriously? Another—”
A wave of Dad’s hand cut off his words. “Drew, I have to keep thinking forward. You know that. Grow the business. Our current project has been so successful, I asked R and D to consider another one that caught my eye.”
Shaking his head, Drew said, “And by R and D, you mean you and Maura.” He pointed his spoon at his father. “Watch out for her, by the way. She’s trouble.”
Another dismissive wave. “Oh, I know. Don’t worry about the next one. The project’ll be on the back burner for a while. Not all the pieces are in place yet. Anyway, how are you doing with the interviews?”
Drew sighed. Time to tell his father the truth, tell him what a disaster everything was. “I can’t do this much more, Dad. George is a ball of stress and not much of a team player. He won’t let me touch anything until he’s gone over it five times. He’s making more work than necessary and driving me crazy with his control issues.”
Straightening, Dad leaned forward, taking a coffee from the paper tray. “George is a good man, though particular. Which is why we have the best staff.”
“Including Maura?” Drew sipped at the cup of ambrosia.
“You keep implying there’s something wrong with Maura.” Spencer scrutinized him. He gave his dad a one-shouldered shrug. “Anyway…” Dad continued, putting the mug back on the desk. “I want you to know…I want to thank you for helping out. You were here for me as always. Thank you, son.”
“Wow.” Drew glanced at his coffee, then the soup and bread. “I guess you do love me.”
Dad rolled his eyes. “I’ll have backup for George by Monday. Hang in for a few more days. I promise it will be sorted out by the weekend.”
Relief flooded thorough Drew. If the mess was over by Monday, he’d put in for a vacation. Hopefully, Terese had time coming too. He scratched at his temple, side-eyeing his dad. Speaking of his girl and these interviews, he decided to ask Dad his thoughts on hiring her. Terese would be perfect for the conference center.
“So, Dad,” he began. “This girl…”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dad answered around a mouthful of bread. “Two tickets to Fiji when it’s over.”
Drew grinned. “Cool, but I wanted to mention she manages a bar.”
“Oh,” Dad said, his eyebrows up.
“Oakwood Tavern.”
“Oh, that girl. The one in the red dress?”
Heat flooded Drew’s face. His father noticed Terese? That was kinda unnerving. “Uh, yeah. Her.” He scrubbed his head again. “She runs a tight ship there—very organized and efficient.”
“Which position, Drew?”
Flames dashed over his face again, misunderstanding his father’s question. Position? Is he asking about our sex life? Then it dawned on him. Oh, which job. His face burned as he met his father’s gaze. Dad slowly shook his head.
“Concierge or Event Planner?” Dad clarified. “Son, you really need to get out more. I’m glad you’re seeing someone. Maybe she’ll get you to lighten up.”
Shrugging off his embarrassment, Drew fired back, “I bet the right woman would get you to chill out and put an end to these crazy projects.”
Dad stuck his tongue out. “Someday. Not today.” He waved a hand, dismissing the topic. “You want to interview your girl for the conference center, then?” He sipped his coffee, staring Drew down over the top of it.
“No…” He hesitated. “I don’t want to jump into the nepotism black hole, but man, she’d be good for the job.” His
lips twisted as he debated the idea. Dad answered for him.
“Break up. I’ll hire her, then get back together. No worries,” Dad said. Drew gave him another eye roll. “Or let her decide what she wants. Apply, interview…”
“But I’m doing the interviews.”
Dad chuckled. “Not after Monday, you’re not. Have her call George on Friday and set it up.”
It might work. Once he wasn’t in the HR department anymore, his conflict of interest decreased. He still needed to confess he was Andrew Drake, and at this point, it might not go over well. The up-the-creek feeling deepened every day. Friday night, he’d take her out and tell her everything. She’d either dump him or take him up on the job offer.
He let out a long breath. It was the best choice given the situation. And if he played his lie of omission as a little thing, maybe she’d buy it. He glanced over at the piles of resumes still awaiting review. Remedying the situation with Terese was a problem for another day.
He tore off a hunk of bread. “Tell me about the other project.”
Dad grinned ear to ear. “You know that old hotel downtown?”
Chapter Fourteen
Terese groaned and slammed her hand on the snooze bar at eight a.m. Friday morning. Just one more minute. Reluctantly, she let go of the alarm clock and slumped back onto her pillow. Lying still, she drank in the quiet morning sounds of her apartment—the hiss of the radiator, the faint chirping of chickadees, and the absence of a certain handsome man. Until she remembered the interview. All thoughts snapped into focus. She didn’t care Drew blew her off again last night. She’d have exciting news to tell him tonight. Hopping from the bed, she bubbled with excitement.
Her outfit hung from the closet door. A Chanel-style suit, gray with white trim and black buttons. Terese had shopped hard to find it second hand. Her matching bag and heels sat in a chair by the closet. She admired the whole ensemble before hitting the bathroom.
Walking on air the entire time, she showered, ate, and dressed, her body humming and a song on her lips. Today, her life changed, one way or another. Today, she’d take the step forward she’d avoided for years. No more mopping up puke or getting her ass slapped by frat boys. Today, she’d get the job and become a professional.