Page 3 of Wrecked By You
When the hell had that snuck in?
And how many times had I told Dad not to hold the board meetings at that time of the day? It was right at the start of prep, and the obsessive in me liked to go over every minute detail to ensure we’d be ready for opening at ten o’clock.
Sighing heavily, I tapped my foot on the oak flooring and skimmed my emails. My gaze fell on one in particular with a subject line of “Resignation.” I shifted my focus to the preview pane.
Fucking terrific.
My most proficient bartender had handed in his notice with immediate effect. Something about a family emergency, which had called him back home to Colorado.
I thumped the desk. Not tonight. For fuck’s sake. The timing couldn’t be worse. The club was closed to regular patrons to make room for a VIP event for a Hollywood A-lister, and I needed a full complement of staff working behind the bar.
Reaching for my cell, I called Margie, the owner of the recruitment agency I used for non-managerial roles. She’d better send someone fucking good. I wasn’t in the mood for mediocre.
My cranky mood worsened when Margie told me that they were struggling to find quality, appropriately experienced personnel. I could draft in someone temporarily from one of my other clubs, but that would leave them shorthanded, too. Might not have a choice, though.
“I do have someone who might fit the bill,” Margie said, interrupting my inner contingency planning.
“Experienced?”
She hesitated. Great. That meant no.
“She has a nice aura. Friendly, welcoming. I think the demanding clientele that frequents Level Nine will take to her.”
Aura?What the fuck?
“I’m not running a fucking yoga retreat, Margie. I need someone who is proficient at tending bar, can work at the pace I demand, and knows how to deal with difficult customers without pissing them off.”
She sighed. “Johannes, times are tough. There are too many vacancies and not enough people to fill them.”
I was aware of the severe gaps in the labor market. Most of my clubs were down one or two staff members, but Level Nine was the venue I’d chosen to enter into a prestigious competition, and I couldn’t afford for it to offer less than outstanding service. I had to win that competition. Dammit, Iwouldwin. The idea of coming in second didn’t figure into my plans. No one remembered who the fuck came in second.
“I think you’ll like her,” she continued.
“I think you’ll like the fat fee you get if I take her on,” I countered.
“I won’t deny that, but answer me this. When have I ever sent you a poor candidate?”
I cast my mind back. Ugh. “Fine, never.”
“Never, and you know why?”
“Because I’d fire your ass.”
“Exactly.” She chuckled. “Look, Ella might not have a whole lot of experience, but she is keen and warm, and I think she’ll fit in with the rest of the team very well. Just give her a try.”
I took a steeling breath. I had two choices. Either interview the woman, and if she didn’t come up to scratch, kick her—and Margie—to the curb. Or tell Stan we were shorthanded for the foreseeable future and deal with the fallout from a reduction in service to the kinds of high-rolling clientele that frequented my club.
Two choices, my ass.
The second one wasn’t even worth a moment of consideration. Especially tonight.
“You’d better brief her that I have high expectations.”
“Noted.”
I checked my watch. “Get her here by midday, and I’ll interview her.”
“You won’t regret it.”