Page 25 of Wrecked By You

Nothing would get in the way of my single-minded goal to win theHottest Nightspot in LAaward.

I emerged into the main part of the club, my eyes immediately scanning the bar. No Ella. I frowned. Where was she? Maybe she was on her break. I spun around and made my way to the employee break room.

Empty.

I retraced my steps, heading over to the bar. It didn’t take long for Stan to notice me. He grabbed a bottle of iced water, twisted off the cap, and set it on the bar.

“Hey, man. How was San Fran?”

I shrugged. “Fine.”

Stan might have been my head bartender, and if I could clone him a hundred times over, I’d be in a position to grow the business far faster. But that didn’t mean I shared company business with him. Or any of my employees, for that matter. The gossip train would soon pull into the station, and everyone would know the reason for my unscheduled trip upstate.

“Where’s Ella?”

“She’s not in tonight.”

I jerked my head back.What did he just say?“She isn’t here? Why the hell not?”

Stan, sensing my tone, rubbed the back of his neck. “She called. Earlier today. Said she had a family emergency and couldn’t work her shift tonight.”

The earlier excitement I’d experienced fled in the deluge of fury that engulfed my insides. A week. She’d worked here for a fuckingweek,and already the drama had begun. And on a fucking Friday night, too.

Jesus Christ Almighty.

I was tired, irritable, and pissed at the trouble that had landed on my doorstep unexpectedly, and now I had issues with a woman I’d taken a chance on, for no other reason, I now realized, than my dick had perked up the second I’d laid eyes on her.

My dick had gotten me into a fuckload of trouble six years ago. This situation was completely different, but still, that stupid appendage had led me to make a decision I’d fast come to regret.

If I didn’t like orgasms so much, I’d cut the damn thing off.

I pivoted and marched to my office, Stan’s voice calling out to me fading into the sounds of the club. I pulled her resume from the overflowing filing cabinet and noted her address.

Right, Miss Reyes. Let’s find out what the hell you’re playing at.

Tires spinning, I gunned the gas pedal on my black Maserati and skidded onto the road. An oncoming car honked his horn as he swerved into the other lane. He pulled in front of me, then slammed on his brakes. Dick move. I pulled alongside him, and he flipped me the finger.

Ignoring him, I put my foot down. The car powered forward, engine growling. In seconds, the dick in the beat-up Chevy disappeared from view.

Forty-five minutes later, I pulled up outside a small house with a neat front yard jam-packed with colorful pots and an abundance of flowers, and a wicker mat by the front door with “Welcome” woven into the design. Funny, but given Ella’s clear desperation for work, I hadn’t envisaged her living somewhere like this. The house might’ve been small, but it was well cared for and in a pleasant neighborhood. Maybe she wasn’t as poor as I’d thought.

Which, I had to admit, would make it easier to fire her. If I thought for a single second she was trying to exploit her position, or prey on Stan’s good nature, she was done. Surely she couldn’t think, for a heartbeat, that I was the sort of man to stand for employees who pulled a sickie every time they felt like a duvet day. And if she was, well, I was about to disillusion her.

I stepped onto the sidewalk and had almost reached the door when common sense brought me to a stop.

Yes, I was angry. My clenched fists and quivering thigh muscles told me that, but I also wasn’t enough of a jerk to bang on a young woman’s door at two o’clock in the morning and demand answers for why she hadn’t turned up for work.

I returned to my car and drove home, but after lying on my back and staring at the ceiling for a solid hour, I gave up on sleep. Might as well get a jump on the search for a new fucking manager.

The light from the laptop screen almost blinded me. I squinted and reduced the brightness. Opening the email program, I drafted four messages to various executive recruitment consultants I’d built relationships with and included a detailed description of the kind of person I was looking for to manage the San Francisco property. My standards were high and nonnegotiable.

Which made me think. How the hell had Douglas, the guy I’d fired in San Fran, slipped through the net? I’d dropped the fucking ball on that one.

This time, I’d demand increased background checks on every potential candidatebeforeI wasted my time interviewing them. Unlike bar staff, the managers of my clubs had far-reaching responsibilities.

I added a paragraph to each of the emails, mandating a deep dive on the personal, financial, and professional backgrounds of anyone they chose to put forward for consideration, then pressed Send.

Fuck, still only four o’clock.