“Precisely.”
“I can’t guarantee results on that score, but you can stop worrying that either of them will end up mating with a Were.”
“I’m not sure that worry is the correct word,” he said. “I’ve come to respect many things about humans.”
That’s when she realized she might have jumped to conclusions about him. “How do you stand on the Were-human issue, Mr. Thatcher?”
“That discussion would take far too long, madam. It’s time I left you to get settled in.”
“But we’ll talk again?”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Friends?”
“More than that. Allies.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thatcher.” She didn’t know how this drama would play out, but having Mr. Thatcher as an ally was a bonus she hadn’t expected.
Chapter 11
Luke had convinced himself that he didn’t mind straightening out personnel issues when he was handy. Dalton Industries had a personnel manager with regular office hours, but the staff at the Silver Crescent had become used to his dad being available for any unexpected after-hours problems. Luke had done his best to uphold that tradition.
As he stood in the hotel kitchen, where tempers steamed along with the giant kettles of food, he wondered if he should follow his instincts and delegate late-night staff disagreements to someone else. Just because his father had been something of a micromanager didn’t mean he had to keep that up. He’d copied Angus’s style because it had seemed like the easiest way to make the transition, and maybe it was time for some things to change.
His father hadn’t been dealing with Cynthia in full rebellion mode. She’d been a daddy’s girl who’d gone along with his wishes. And his father had been lucky enough to have a wife who’d adored him and smoothed his path whenever possible.
Luke wasn’t in that position. Beginning tomorrow, he’d make some alterations to the chain of command. Someone else would be called in for disputes like this instead of him. For now, though, he was it.
A simple mistake had turned into World War III, with two waiters squaring off in the kitchen, fists raised and insults flying. Luke had moved between them. Fortunately, they both decided not to hit the CEO.
Luke hadn’t been positive they would come to that conclusion, and he was relieved when they backed off, muttering about the unfairness of it all. He’d rather not go upstairs with a shiner. Sorting through the problem took more time than he wanted to give it and only solidified his decision to put someone else in charge of after-hours staff issues.
He’d find a person with conflict-management skills because he couldn’t afford to have his waiters brawling in the kitchen. They could make a hell of a mess in there.
After sending both waiters home, he walked to the elevator and used his card key to access the button for the penthouse. As the wood-paneled elevator rose, so did his spirits. He took off his jacket and hooked it over his shoulder.
He was grateful to Giselle for agreeing to hang out with him in the penthouse while he waited for Cynthia’s next move. He’d hate to think of the squirrel cage his mind would become without her steadying influence. Yes, she called him on his behavior sometimes, and he didn’t always appreciate that, but she was helping him see Cynthia in a different light. Apparently he needed to.
He found Giselle in the kitchen looking through cupboards.
She turned, obviously hearing him come in. “Do you suppose there’s any tea here?”
“I’m sure there is.” He walked over to the drawer where his mother had kept her stash and opened it. Colorful tins of loose tea and boxes of tea bags filled the drawer. “Take your pick.”
“Awesome. Thanks.”
“There’s one of those electric kettles in a cupboard, too.” He opened a few cabinets and located it. “My mother loves tea. Or she used to. I can’t say if she still does.”
“Well, I do, so this is great.” She glanced at him. “Want a cup?”
“No, thanks. I’m strictly a coffee guy. Think I’ll make some.” As they moved around the kitchen together, he had the oddest feeling of domesticity. It seemed perfectly natural for them to be fixing their respective beverages together, as if they’d done it hundreds of times before.
“How did the issue in the kitchen turn out?”
He almost laughed. The question sounded a lot like, “How was your day?” But he decided not to make a point of their cozy little setup. He kind of liked this feeling and didn’t want to ruin it.
“It’s handled for now,” he said. “I need to hire somebody to take care of these after-hours problems. My dad used to say he was right here so he might as well deal with it, but he enjoyed wading into those issues. I don’t.”
“Don’t blame you.” While the water heated in the electric teakettle, she contemplated the drawerful of tea choices. “I like tea, but even I don’t have a supply like this.”
“My dad was always coming home with something new for her to try. He got a kick out of surprising her with some exotic new blend. After he died, she stopped drinking it. I hope she’s started again. I hate to think she’s given up everything that reminds her of him.”
“Maybe I’ll try this.” She picked up a tin of loose tea. Then she paused. “Am I stirring up sad memories for you?”
He turned on the coffeemaker and looked at her standing beside the tea drawer. His mother used to stand there debating just like that. “Nope. I’m happy that someone appreciates the selection the way she used to.” He snapped his fingers as he remembered what else was in the cupboard. “You’ll need a teapot and a tea strainer of some kind.”
“I will, but are you sure I’m not trampling in your memory garden by doing this?”
“If anything, you’re pulling up the weeds. This stuff needs to be used.” He opened a cupboard above the counter, where several teapots were lined up. Most had elaborately painted designs of flowers or landscapes.
But he took down his mother’s favorite, a bright yellow one that held about two cups’ worth. “This might not be the prettiest of the bunch, but she loved it because of the strainer inside.” He handed it to Giselle.
She took it from him carefully, almost reverently. “Thank you.”
“The cupboard next to that has all kinds of mugs and teacups. Help yourself.” If anyone had told him he’d be having a great time helping a woman make tea in what used to be his mother’s kitchen, he would have laughed. Sharing a bottle of champagne in the bedroom was more his style.
But at the moment, he wouldn’t change a thing. In spite of his worry about Cynthia, he felt relaxed and happy for the first time in . . . well, since December twenty-fifth, to be exact.
“Did Mr. Thatcher put you in the beach room?”
“He did.” She finished measuring the tea into the pot, snapped the lid back on the tin, and returned it to the drawer. “It’s very pretty.”
“It used to be Cynthia’s, but when she moved out, my mom redecorated.”
Giselle poured hot water into the pot. “What did it look like before? Or do I even have to ask?”
“Probably not.”
“Dance themed?” She glanced at the clock on the stove, no doubt to time her tea.
“Yep. Posters of famous dancers, collages of programs and ticket stubs from shows she’d seen. The color scheme was dramatic—red, black, and silver.” He smiled, remembering how she’d had to fight for those colors. No wonder she’d thought his white bedroom was boring.
Giselle leaned against the counter. “Meanwhile, what were you up to?”
He shrugged. “The usual. I got a degree in business, came home, and started helping my dad. Not very interesting.”