Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Excitement quickens my pulse. “Yes, absolutely.”
“Great. If you’re not busy, I’ve got time today.”
“Give me thirty minutes.”
Once we’re off the phone, I throw myself into the shower and forego blow-drying my hair to wrap it in a tight bun. Then I race around my room, digging out a nice outfit that isn’t still wrinkled from unpacking and hunting through boxes and under the bed for shoes. I don’t bother with much makeup other than some lipstick and mascara. I always do this to myself. Instead of asking for the reasonable time I need, I promise too much and then tie myself in knots to meet my own unreasonable deadline.
Somehow, I manage to get myself out of the house with enough time to make the short drive out to the Hartley house. My mind races over the meager details Mackenzie had provided over the phone, constantly getting stuck on the word “manager.” Honestly, I hadn’t considered what position I’d aim for when Evan said he’d mention me to Mackenzie. Something supervisory, sure. Operations, maybe. But managing an entire hotel—events, restaurants, catering, a spa—is more than I’m accustomed to.
Then again, I’ve never been afraid of taking a big leap. Looking down is defeatist. If I want to turn my life around, I might as well aim high right out the gate.
With two minutes to spare, I ring the doorbell.
The front door swings open to reveal a tall, stunning girl with shiny dark hair and big green eyes. I remember catching glimpses of her the night of the bonfire, when Evan threw down with that college guy, but we’d never been properly introduced.
“It’s nice to officially meet you,” Mackenzie says as she lets me in. She’s wearing a striped T-shirt and khaki shorts. The overly casual outfit makes me feel overdressed in my navy linen pants and white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows.
“Nice to meet you too,” I tell her.
She brings me through the house to the back deck, where she has a table set with two glasses and a pitcher of water with lemon.
“The guys have done a lot of work on the place,” I remark as we sit down. The short walk inside had revealed new floors and old peeling wallpaper removed. Out here, I note that the siding’s been replaced and painted.
“They’ve been at it for months. Seems like every morning I wake up to a sander or a saw running, and then I go to work and it’s the same thing,” she says, with an exhausted smile. “I swear to God, when it’s all over, I’m going to spend two weeks in an isolation chamber.” She pours us a couple glasses of water before relaxing back in her chair. A warm breeze whips across the deck, blowing the wind chimes hanging from the roof.
“I know the feeling,” I say wryly.
“Oh, right. The renovation at your dad’s house. It must be so hectic over there.”
“I’m working most of the day, so it isn’t so bad. And when I am home, noise-canceling headphones are my best friend.”
“I hope I didn’t make you skip work for this,” she says, and I wonder if she’s thinking I blew off my current job to interview for this one.
“No,” I assure her. “My dad gave me the morning off, so I don’t start until noon.”
With the small talk over, I’m aware that I need to make a good impression here. Evan might have gotten me in the door, but a woman doesn’t go out of her way to restore a derelict old hotel just to hand the keys over to some random townie with no sense. She’s about to get an uncut dose of Professional Genevieve.
“So,” Mackenzie says, “tell me about yourself.”
I hand her my résumé, which is admittedly lacking in hotel experience. “I’ve been working since I was eleven years old. Started out cleaning up and stocking at my dad’s hardware store. Worked summer jobs as a hostess, waitress, bartender. Customer service at the stone yard. I even did a summer stint as a deckhand on a sailing yacht.”
I tell her about Charleston, where I fudge my title a little. Assistant slash secretary slash adult in the room is basically the same thing as an office manager, right? Wrangling a bunch of real estate agents with massive egos and attention deficit disorders should certainly qualify.
“Now I’m the office manager at the stone yard. I process invoices and payroll, scheduling, ordering. There isn’t anything that goes on in that place that I don’t keep my finger on. And I see that clients are well cared for, of course.”
“I understand you’ve taken on a lot of responsibility since your mother’s passing,” Mackenzie tells me, putting my résumé aside after reading it carefully. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
It’s still awkward when someone brings up my mom. Mostly because I’ve moved on. I’ve been over it almost since the moment it happened. Yet I get pulled right back in every time someone else pauses to process or acknowledge it. Sucked out of time and transported to the funeral all over again, back to those first days scrambling everyone on the phone.