What You See (Sons of the Survivalist #3) - Cherise Sinclair Page 0,75
have a pastry and coffee, or take a pie or loaf of bread home for the family. Unlike New York where every tiny shop had a specialty, the Rescue stores often merged a couple of businesses into one. There was an art gallery with crafting and hobby supplies. The sports store that catered to fishermen also rented ski equipment and bikes. The hardware store sold lumber.
Everyone was friendly. She couldn’t recall a time in New York, ever, when a store owner came out for an introduction and gossip session.
If it weren’t for worrying about Kit, she’d be more content in Rescue than she’d ever been in her life. The town itself was great. Like with that woman who’d twisted her ankle. After seeing her in the health clinic, Caz had told his brothers she needed help. Bull, naturally, volunteered to do a food run. All his family had taken turns visiting the woman, then the town found out, and the woman had more help than she knew what to do with.
Frankie smiled. She’d gone with Bull on the food run…because just being with him was wonderful.
She’d sure failed at keeping their relationship casual. Guilt swept over her. The minute she had Kit and Aric in her car, she was out of here, probably without saying any goodbyes, and then she’d be back in New York. But…he knew their time would end.
She was past the point of no return; any attempt to shield her heart from being broken was useless.
So, she would simply savor every moment she could spend with him.
Because he was worth the pain.
In the roadhouse, Bull waited for Frankie to arrive. Yesterday, the contractors had finished remodeling the echoingly large room that had held only his desk and filing cabinets. Now there was a conference area with a round table that could seat a dozen people. The back was divided into two offices with sound absorbing partition walls. One was his. The other was equipped with a desk, computer, phone, and the usual office accoutrements. Ready for a manager, whoever they might be.
He knew who he wanted.
Frankie would make an excellent manager, and he hoped the position gave her an incentive to stay. Maybe the position would show her how she could fit in at the roadhouse. With the town. With him.
He wanted to let her know how much he trusted her…and needed her—yeah, that, too.
Work had taken over his life, and he hadn’t realized it until he couldn’t find enough minutes in his days to spend with her. He was overloaded, no doubt about it. Sarge’s Investment Group—all the businesses and buildings Mako had willed them—required restoration, leasing, selling, managing.
And he had his own businesses. Thankfully, his Bull’s Moose brewery in Anchorage and his restaurants in Anchorage and Homer had managers. But he needed help with the roadhouse here. Ordering napkins and silverware, scheduling staff, the day-to-day organizing? Nothing he enjoyed.
Bartending, though, was enjoyable—and owning a business meant he should get to do the fun stuff.
Working all hours needed to stop. He needed time to hang out with his brothers, to teach Regan to cook, and to be with Frankie for more than sparring and sex.
Although…the sparring and sex were unrivaled. He grinned. Good times.
The crunching sound of tires on gravel came through the open window, and Frankie parked her car beside his pickup.
Opening the office’s rear door, he motioned for Frankie to come in. As she walked in, he started to bend down to kiss her. No. They’d agreed to keep business and relationships separate.
Guess that meant no sex on the office desk, dammit, which was a shame because she smelled like she’d just gotten out of the shower. Her soap that made him think of dark forests and full moons—and making love outside.
Concentrate.
“Thanks for coming in today.” He gestured her toward the conference area. “I wanted this discussion in a more formal location.”
Her brows drew together. “Is there a problem? Is this the Alaska version of a pink slip?”
“No, not even close.” At her worried expression, he barely kept from hugging her.
After she sat at the table, he took a seat. “The only problem I have with you is that you’re far too qualified to be a server. Since the week you started, you’ve taken on more and more responsibility—coming up with innovative ideas, working on the décor, teaching the new waitstaff. You’re performing as a manager, and I’d like you to have the title and salary.”