Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 132834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
I should just march into Griffen’s office, say I wanted the job, then go apologize to Savannah for being a complete dickhead and making her job harder.
I wasn’t going to do that, but I could do one thing for her. Reaching out, I snagged her wrist with one hand, stopping her from leaving. “Ask Mrs. Bailey for some milk chocolate. Not dark chocolate. Milk chocolate. It’ll counteract the bitterness so anyone who tried the soup can get their taste buds working again.”
Savannah gave a sharp nod, her eyes so squinty I was surprised she could see to push the full serving cart from the room. Griffen was watching me, his own eyes hard. I did my best to look innocent, grabbing a roll from the basket in front of me and buttering it with great attention to detail.
I should just tell him I wanted in the kitchens. Since he’d been home, Griffen had been the big brother I remembered. Kind. Patient. Our father had trapped him here with the will, setting it up so that if Griffen didn’t stay, there wouldn’t be anyone to run the company. Most of the town would have gone under without a Sawyer to sign their paychecks.
My brother Ford, practically Griffen’s twin, had been running Sawyer Enterprises with our father at the time of the murder. But since Ford was in jail for shooting Prentice, Griffen was the town’s only option.
When I was thirteen, our father had exiled Griffen for trying to undercut a business deal. Six months ago, Prentice had dragged him back, yoking him with an entire town. And Griffen had stayed. He’d married Hope, his childhood best friend, and devoted himself to saving this family. I had every reason to believe he’d let me take over the kitchens if I could work up the nerve to ask.
That I couldn’t do it was arguably insane. I’d spent the last decade working in professional kitchens, letting every kind of verbal abuse roll off my shoulders. I’d worked for chefs with god complexes who berated their staff nonstop. I’d done some yelling of my own, and I was a long way from the days when a cutting word from my father burned itself into my soul. Anyway, Griffen didn’t yell.
So many times I’d thought about opening the door to that office, the office that had been my father’s, standing in front of the desk where he’d so often sat and asking for something I wanted—something I needed.
I couldn’t do it.
I shot back in time to standing there with my father sneering at me, telling me to get the fuck out and stop wasting his time. To the last words I ever heard him speak. “I don’t give a fuck what you do with him. He’s worth nothing to me.”
I wanted to believe that the Griffen sitting at the head of the table was the same brother I’d known as a kid, but I’d been away a long time. So had Griffen. I didn’t know him now, and he didn’t know me. Trust had to be earned, and I wasn’t fool enough to think I could trust Griffen just because I wanted to.
Until Prentice had exiled him, Griffen had been the perfect protégé. Just like Ford. And the last time he got the chance, Ford had left me for dead. With all that stacked up, I’d be an idiot to trust Griffen.
I wasn’t asking anyone for anything. Especially my family. Once, they’d left me to die. All of them. My father. Ford. Royal. They were all old enough to have known. Old enough to have done something to bring me home, to save me from the hands of kidnappers ready to trade my blood for cold hard cash. And not one of them had.
So yeah, I wasn’t going to ask them for anything.
I wasn’t going to ask anyone for what I wanted.
I was going to take it.
Chapter Three
FINN
Standing in the dark kitchen of Heartstone Manor, I turned in a slow circle, evaluating my options. The way Mrs. Bailey had organized this kitchen was insane. The space had no flow. It was anti-flow. Her prep area was divided, half of it in another room entirely and neither near the gas range. Her pantry was a jumble of bags and boxes, nothing labeled or airtight. At least it was clean. Not as clean as it should be, but sanitary enough that I wasn’t afraid to eat.
How could she work like this? Didn’t she have any pride?
My hands itched to empty every cupboard, bare every shelf, and put everything back in a way that made sense. Efficiency is paramount in the kitchen. How Mrs. Bailey managed to produce a decent meal with this setup was beyond me. Then again, her meals were mediocre at best, so I shouldn’t be surprised.