Page 18 of Summers at the Saint
“So, how would you get to Surfside? It’s at least a thirty-minute drive from here.”
“That’s a problem, for sure,” he admitted, shoving both hands into the pockets of his waiter’s apron. “My car needs new tires, brakes, the works.”
“What if…” Traci started. “What if I raise your pay to what Surfside is offering?”
He grinned.
“You’re kinda the senior guy around here, right?”
“I guess.”
“Okay. How’s this? We make you headwaiter, starting now. We’ll also give you a hundred-dollar signing bonus.”
“I like the sound of that,” Garrett said, the grin widening.
“Just out of curiosity. Are you happy with your living situation?” she asked.
“Not so much, but Thea only charges me like a hundred bucks a week. I mean, I’d love to get an apartment, but no way I can afford to live around here. Not on my own.”
“Have you heard about the new staff dorm?”
“Yeah. I checked it out the other day. Looks like a pretty sweet setup. How much are you charging people?”
“Nothing. It’s all free. Including the Wi-Fi.”
He looked dubious. “Why? I mean, what’s the catch?”
“No catch. I don’t have to tell you, housing in the village is outrageously expensive. So this is an incentive, and a way for us to compete with the Surfsides of the world.”
He looked around, then pulled out the chair across from hers and sat down. “Are you saying—are you telling me I could live there? For free?”
“Absolutely,” Traci said.
“Okay, lemme get this order in for you. And about that dorm. If you’re serious, how soon could I move in?”
“The furniture is being delivered this afternoon. How does tomorrow sound?”
“Fucking awesome!” He pumped his fist in the air, then shrugged as he realized who he was talking to. “Sorry. My sister stays on my ass about my potty mouth.”
She laughed. “I tend not to trust anyone who doesn’t occasionally let an F-bomb fly. I’ll let HR know about your raise. Hopefully move-in is this weekend.”
CHAPTER 12
“Traci Waci!” Madelyn Eddings bore down on Traci with a force that belied her diminutive size.
Traci reflexively ground her back molars. “Hi, Madelyn. What’s up?”
As usual, her sister-in-law was dressed to impress: dark hair coiffed high and gleaming, the jacket of her suit cut close and worn without a blouse to expose an inch of cleavage, the skirt tight and short, wicked-expensive Jimmy Choo spike heels, and as always, fluttery lash extensions and acrylic nails.
Madelyn’s voice belied her business barracuda appearance. It was breathy, babyish even. “What’s this I hear about you taking that nasty old golf cart barn and turning it into a staff dorm?”
“Ric told you, huh?”
“It would have been nice ifyou’dtold me,” Madelyn said, pouting. “Really, Traci, I can’t believe you didn’t even consult me before you began this project. And now, Ric says it’s almost done. As director of design I should have had some input into this project.” She shook her head, conveying her deep disappointment.
“There were no design decisions to be made. A lounge, a kitchen, two bathrooms, and some bedrooms. Once I realized we needed to do something to attract summer staff, there was no time to waste.”
“Still, I should have been consulted. Window placement, flooring, bathroom fixtures, all those kinds of aesthetic decisions come under my purview,” Madelyn protested.
