Chapter 1
Maeve
“Thees is unacceptable!” Chef Henri Moreau’s thick French accent does nothing to soften his enraged roar. “I cannot work like thees!”
Here we go.
Venturing into the Cypress’s kitchen always puts me on edge.
This long, windowless room of titanium cookware, stoves, and table tops all glinting in fluorescent light reminds me of an alien spaceship.
Beautiful in a sterile sort of way and state-of-the-art, but an unpleasant place to spend more than a few minutes.
And the small, sweating Frenchman—currently yelling in my face rather than cooking—is this hell’s lord.
Maybe I should start calling him Hades. The charcoal grill smells enough like brimstone to merit the comparison.
Henri, a thin man with angelic blond curls and a cherubic, soft-cheeked face to match, stands several inches shorter than me. But most people forget his Rubenesque qualities due to the mottled rage he spews daily.
The man throws weekly toddler tantrums. Sometimes a bad review sets him off or a scratched pot that simply must be replaced immediately. If it’s not the cookware driving him into a tailspin, then the “subpar” staff triggers his conniption fits.
Today, the quality of this morning’s food delivery serves as the catalyst.
With every outburst, he issues the same threat: he’ll take his five-star cuisine somewhere else. Even though I’ve learned to take his dramatic outbursts with a grain of salt, I can’t help the tiny knot of fear that twists my stomach each time.
One of these days, he might be serious. And that will really screw me.
Don’t get me wrong. I love running the Cypress.
I’ve put my heart and soul into creating my dream hotel, and every morning when I step into the lobby, I’m struck with the same sense of awe and pride.
Losing our gourmet chef would push me much closer to one of my biggest fears—losing this hotel.
Because, despite his occasionally unbearable personality, Henri’s truly one of the best chefs this side of the country.
I poached him from an exclusive Vegas restaurant and have zero regrets. Though thinking about the inflated salary I promised him in my efforts to steal him away still sickens me.
I inhale a steadying breath through my nose. “There’s no need to panic, Henri. I understand the problem, and we will handle this.”
My catchphrase, regardless of whether I think I can actually handle “the problem” or not.
What else can I say?
A high-profile company plans to gather here for an event set to start in five hours, and the alleged food quality issue has kept my chef from cooking.
At this point, whether the delivery was bad or not doesn’t matter.
My temperamental chef won’t work with any ingredients he deems unworthy. True crisis or imagined, creating a solution falls to me.
Henri slams a hand on the titanium counter. The violence might intimidate me more if I couldn’t scoop his tiny frame up and carry him like a tote bag. “And how will you do that?”
Lenora Cox, my faithful assistant, hovers in the corner.
She’ll be our salvation.
Henri irritates her, and she hates capitulating to his whiny fits, but she’ll do whatever’s necessary.
I obviously owe my assistant another raise.
I wave at her, ignoring the guilt pinching my chest for tasking her with yet another chef-related errand. “Lenora will go get replacements.”
Lenora’s cherry lips flash in a smile as she slides a lock of honey blond hair behind her ear. “Leave it to me, boss.” She tosses me a wink on that last word.
I address the sous chef lurking behind Henri, who fixes me with an apologetic grimace. “Aiden, will you get me a complete list of what we need?”
“Yes, Ms. Gallagher.” Aiden disappears toward the kitchen office.
I nod at Lenora. “Please go with him.”
She hastens after Aiden in her navy pantsuit, her Jimmy Choos clicking on the white tile.
My attention drifts back to Henri, whose cheeks have shifted from a bright tomato red to a softer pink. A start, at least.
I summon a tight-lipped smile. “Can I help you with anything else, Henri?”
The chef crosses his thin arms. His lower lip protrudes in a sulky pout…a great reminder of why I don’t plan on having kids. “If you cannot guarantee the best ingredients, I’m not so sure I should be here.”
Ice spears my chest, but I shove the cold aside. No time for panicking.
“I’ll speak with our distributors. You know I care just as much about quality as you do. I’d never want our guests to suffer a mediocre meal.”
He huffs a little and puffs out his chest. “I appreciate your understanding, mademoiselle.”
Relief swells inside me, melting the ice. One crisis averted.
Lenora returns with Aiden, a list in her hand. “Should I—”
“Yes, please, take my car. The keys are in my office.” Lenora often relies on Ubers, and we can’t wait for that. “Use the black credit card.”
“Got it.” She winks again and vanishes.
Henri sniffs daintily. “I suppose Aiden and I must start prepping with the salvageable items.”
Another small bit of tension releases my shoulders. “Please come to me if you have any more problems, Henri. My door is always open.”
Eager to retreat, I hustle down the fifth-floor hallway, smiling at a guest I pass along the way.
Every ten feet, a different piece of abstract art I personally handpicked hangs on the soft ocean blue walls. The plush gray carpet muffles my steps. I wish the fibers could also muffle my deep breaths as I suck in the hotel air in my attempts to calm myself.
Why do some men act like such arrogant dill-holes? Throwing fits when they don’t get their way. Trying to control people with their fear tactics and threats. Never giving a single damn about the feelings of the people in their orbit.
“I cannot work like thees!”
And the hotel can’t function without money.
The money I have oh-so-little of. That black card exists for business expenses, and with all the recent use, I’m surprised the thing hasn’t caught on fire.
Damn it.
I pick at a loose thread on my blazer and sigh.
Yes, Henri could annoy the last ounce of patience from a saint, but he’s not the true target of my internal frustration.
That dubious honor belongs to the men in my family.
Particularly, my father. If not for the fear of him swooping in and snatching control of the Cypress from my hands, my stress level would hold steady.
This hotel is my baby. My excuse for a life outside of the family fold. Without it, there’s no telling how my father might try to monopolize my free time.
Shuddering, I bank left down a hallway full of guest rooms and hurry into the nearest supply closet. One of the best parts about being the boss is having a master key.
Whenever the stress level gets too heavy—frequently triggered by thoughts of Declan Gallagher or my financial troubles—I often seek a few seconds of quiet darkness and solitude.
The tang of cleaning supplies, industrial-washed towels, and linens invades my nose. In an effort to clear my head, I focus on the pungent sting of bleach, but my mind refuses to cooperate, instead fixating on my family.
As kids, my brothers and I were close. When we were younger, my oldest sibling, Connor, watched over Brody and me. After our mom died, I became the de facto problem-solver throughout our teen years. Our father was too busy running his mafia empire to bother with raising his children.
Over the last decade or so, though, my relationship with my brothers has strained.
We still love each other, but their primary concerns revolve around the family businesses and obeying my father’s orders. Not that I have much headspace to dwell on that.
The constant whirlwind of managing a business is already more than a little exhausting.
The Cypress is a boutique hotel in Santa Monica, one of the prettiest parts of the West Coast. The city features a long, gorgeous beach, a bunch of high-end and indie shops, fine dining mixed with funky eateries, condos, and hotels.
One of the main attractions is the Santa Monica Pier. Restaurants bookend the wooden structure, while the miniature amusement park in the middle delights visitors of all ages.
The whole pier serves as both a tourist trap and the perfect backdrop for a first date.
I saw every iteration imaginable when I worked there.
I waited tables at the seafood place by the pier’s entrance before switching to bartending at the Mexican spot across the way.
The pier features our stunning California coast, and many of the hotels around here offer rooms with breathtaking views for an additional charge. Whenever I see my old haunts through the windows, the irony never fails to amaze me.
I’m only located a few blocks away, but this area sometimes feels like an entirely different planet.
I’m grateful for the Cypress’s success over the past year but becoming profitable required monumental effort and didn’t occur overnight. With the loan payments my father collects from me every month, the amount of money leftover is…practically negligible.
I convinced the head of LA’s Port Kings—my father—to purchase this place and allow me the chance to run it. Co-owners, I said.
I pay the price for that devil’s bargain every single day.
What I really want to do is buy my father out. Seize the reins and polish this hotel to a bright shine. Truly make this place my own. Then I’d be free of Declan Gallagher and the Port Kings.
I could finally rid myself of everyone who wants to use me for their own gain.
Speaking of buying my father out…
I whip out my phone and toggle to my email inbox to check for the bank’s reply.
There.
Anxious hope hops between my ribs. Will this be the moment? My first taste of real freedom?
I tap the email.
Dear Ms. Gallagher,
Thank you for reaching out to us with your loan application. We regret to inform you that we’re unable to approve…
The little bubble of hope in my chest deflates.
Again.
Without a bank loan, I’ll need to save until I accumulate enough cash to buy him out.
But with the salary I keep, I barely squeak by.
I cut expenses by living in one of the suites, but those savings are a drop in the bucket compared to what I owe.
The amount of money required to purchase this place was in the neighborhood of fifty million dollars.
Which means that if I don’t spend a single penny from my paychecks and stop eating altogether, I should reach my goal in about… two and a half centuries.
Sounds reasonable.
My shoulders slump for a moment before I square them and tuck my phone away.
I exit the supply closet and head back into the hall, smiling as a laughing mother chases after her squealing, bathing-suit clad children while her husband trails after them carting boogie boards and a giant inflatable donut.
I use their infectious joy to remind myself of how lucky I am and why I love what I do.
The hotel and I will be fine.
I just need to work a little harder.