The Arrogant One (The Weston Group #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Hart

“ I don’t know why I’m not the face of the company when I have the prettiest one in this whole fucking room.” I eyed down my four siblings as they sat around the conference table at our corporate office, laughing, and I waited for their rebuttal.

Because I knew it was coming.

Of course, they knew I didn’t want to be the face of The Weston Group—the umbrella that held our family’s two brands of restaurants and nightclubs. I was just giving my oldest brother, Walker, some shit since he’d just ordered me to go check out our latest competition—a steak house in Laguna Beach called Horned.

That was what you did when you owned a worldwide empire of food establishments—you assessed every hot spot, taking note of what they had done wrong, and what they had done right.

Horned had been making far too much of a splash in the steak house scene, so they were obviously doing something right.

It was a task that couldn’t be assigned to Walker. His face was known across the globe as one of the top chefs in the world and was too easily recognized. Given that Beck, the youngest boy, was an NHL superstar, he couldn’t go either. So, the task rotated to either Eden, our only sister; Colson, the second oldest; or me.

And according to Walker, it was my turn.

“You sure are the prettiest, you playboy,” Walker groaned.

“Hold on a second, Walker.” Eden, sitting next to me, turned her chair until her entire body was pointed at me. Her all-black suit and matching nails weren’t what caught my attention. What was doing that were the sky-high red heels tapping the air. “The prettiest title has been mine since the day I was born. What would make you think you’d earned that slot?” She nodded toward me and winked. “Because you hold the family record for the number of women you’ve slept with?”

“But does he?” Beck asked her, running his hand over his beard, which he’d been growing since the start of this year’s hockey season. A fucking bush that I was shocked didn’t get stuck in his helmet. “If we’re talking numbers, I think I could give that bastard a run for his money.” He laughed.

I glanced at Colson, the most laid-back of the bunch and the only parent in the room, and said, “How about you?”

“What about me?” Colson inquired.

“You want to weigh in? And share your recent count?”

He hissed out a mouthful of air. “A true gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

Eden snorted. “There isn’t a woman in California who hasn’t seen one of you naked. I wouldn’t call any of you a gentleman when it comes to that department. And honestly, I don’t know how I’m from the same womb as the four of you. ”

Eden was certainly the most innocent of our group. What didn’t help was that she had a team of brothers who would destroy any man who hurt her.

Not that we had to. She didn’t fuck around with men like we did with women.

She didn’t even date.

I shook my head, chuckling. “And there are some women in this state who have had more than one brother.”

“Dude”—Beck’s hand went over his mouth—“do you remember the chick who?—”

“You will not finish that sentence,” Eden cut him off, pointing at him. “I don’t want to hear about any chicks unless they’re going to become my future sister-in-law, and I think I have a long time before that happens.” She turned her chair straight. “I need to get back to work. Walker, do you have any more orders for Hart? Or can we adjourn this meeting?”

Walker leaned his arms onto the table, the sleeves of his chef’s whites rolled up to his elbows, telling me he had stopped in for the meeting and was headed straight to the kitchen. “In the next few days, I want you to go to the restaurant in Laguna Beach. Check out the interior. The menu. Take some photos. Order an item from each course. Take more pictures. And report back to us.” He ran his hand over his black hair that was just starting to gray along his crown—premature for a thirty-five-year-old maybe or pressure from being one of the most innovative chefs there ever was.

“Done,” I replied.

He tilted his body against the lip of the wood. “If they put a loaf of bread in front of you, I want to know if it’s brown or sourdough, if there are seeds on the crust, if it’s been toasted or just warmed or if it’s served cold—the butter, if it’s whipped or if it’s a pat and if that pat is dusted in flaky salt. If your steak is served on a plate, I want to know the temperature of the stoneware. If butter is pooled beneath your meat, I want to know what it’s infused with—rosemary, thyme, parsley, or a combination of all three.” He attempted to push up the cuff of his sleeve even higher than his elbow, but it wouldn’t go up anymore. “I want every detail there is, Hart. Don’t leave anything out.”

I rocked in my chair. “Anything else, Chef?”

“That should do it—for now.” Walker looked around the table at each of our faces.

“I’d like to talk about Toro,” Beck said. “What’s the status of the Beverly Hills build-out? I stopped by the restaurant the other day and added about twenty items to the punch list. The place is a fucking disaster.”

“It’s mid-construction,” Walker replied.

“It can’t be mid-construction,” Beck countered. “Because it’s been under construction for the last four months and it opens in six weeks.”

The Beverly Hills development of Toro—our seafood and raw bar—was one of the most expensive projects we’d ever taken on. Part of that was due to the space we’d chosen and having to frame a kitchen from scratch, the existing structure not having one. The other part was that even though this concept, along with the clubs, was new and we were still learning as we were going, Beverly Hills was projected to be one of our largest locations. With every square inch, more time was needed, and that meant more money.

And as the chief marketing officer of our entire brand, I knew we were far over budget.

“It’ll be done,” Walker assured him.

Beck—more of a silent partner since hockey took up much of his year, but he personally financed many of our build-outs—looked at Colson, our chief operating officer, and said, “Do you agree?”

Colson rested his arms behind his head. “Our contractor always gets it done whenever we put the pressure on him.”

“Have we put that pressure on him?” Beck asked.

The room turned silent.

“And do you know how much pressure it’s going to take to have that restaurant up and running by opening night?” Beck continued.

I could hear a fucking pin drop in here.

Which wasn’t a surprise. We were all nervous as hell that six weeks wasn’t enough time to get the restaurant in the kind of shape that our clientele expected.

Our brand had a reputation. If we didn’t deliver, that could destroy us.

Beck tapped his hand on the table. “There’s only one person who will give me a straight, honest-to-God answer in this room. And that’s you.” He directed his statement at Eden.

Eden stared at him, the tip of her short thumbnail in her mouth. “It’s going to be tough. It’s going to be tight.” Her thumb dropped. “Is it impossible? No. Is it going to take every bit of manpower? Yes. And we’re going to be down to the wire.”

“We’ve set an opening night, and we’ve made that date known to the public,” Beck said. “But we don’t know if it’s a deadline we can actually hit. So, what I’m hearing is … we’re fucked.”

“We’ll hit the deadline,” I assured him. “Toro will be ready for opening night.”

Beck’s brows rose high. “How?”

“Because we’re Westons.” I clamped my hands together. “And when we give a date, we uphold it—because our word is our fucking bond.”