Page 25 of Summer with the Single Dad

“I need to find a job that doesn’t need school,” Aya murmured, more to herself than anyone else. She was still on this topic, though the other children were off in their own little worlds. Emme and Talia were chatting about the braid Brooke made in Talia’s hair, and the boys were doing air Karate Chops and leaping off a big rock, doing elaborate kicks.

The big, yellow school bus rounded the corner and all four dads exhaled in relief.

They loved their kids, but the wildlings needed to expel some energy.

Luckily, every morning, the entire school ran or walked five laps around the field before any lessons. It proved to be very effective in reducing anxiety and hyper-activity in a lot of the children.

One by one, the kids filed onto the bus, greeting Palmer Figgs, the school bus driver, with effervescent hellos.

“Mornin’, Mr. Figgs,” Aya said. Then she stopped before heading down the aisle, causing Emme to bump into her backpack and make a squawk of protest. “Mr. Figgs, did you have to go to school to be a bus driver?”

Palmer glanced behind the kids at Bennett and lifted a brow.

Bennett rolled his eyes and shrugged.

Palmer focused back on Aya. “Not to be a school bus driver, no. But I did go to school. I was an engineer, you know. Worked on spaceships for thirty years before Mrs. Figgs and I retired and moved to the island here when her dad passed away and left us his land.”

Bennett didn’t have to see his daughter’s face to know she was pouting. The rounding of her shoulders said it all. “Well, I don’t want to work on spaceships.” Her head shook, bouncing her curly, blonde hair that Bennett had managed to tame into two acceptable pigtails. “Thanks anyway.” She turned around, her face sullen. “Bye, Daddy.”

Bennett smothered his amused smile and nodded at his daughter. “Have a good day, Little Bug.”

“Doubt it,” she said before slumping her way down the aisle, taking a seat with her cousin Jake.

The rest of the kids filed on the bus, and it pulled away. Bennett and his brothers all headed back toward the pub and their houses.

“So, cabin five. Hmm?” Clint asked, bumping his shoulder against Bennett’s.

Bennett rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Sure,” Dom joked. The four of them walked in a long line, Bennett flanked by Clint and Dom, with Wyatt on the end.

“We have bigger problems to deal with right now than my mild attraction to the guest in cabin five.”

Their expressions turned serious.

“You three,” but he directed his glares at Wyatt and Clint, “need to stop spending fucking money without telling me. You can’t keep buying shit and then handing me an invoice. Do you know where that money is coming from?”

Wyatt and Clint’s expressions turned stoney, their cheeks pink.

“From our pockets. We have a monthly budget. And if we don’t stick to it, then the money has to come from somewhere and that usually means us. You can’t just buy equipment—”

“But we needed a new fryer,” Wyatt protested.

“I understand that, but you need to tell me, then let me do some research. Maybe I could have bought one second hand for cheaper to tide us over until we saved up for the luxury model. I know the busy season is here and we will be making more money, but that also means we have more staff. And our expenses will go up because we’ll be placing more orders for ingredients.” He looked at Wyatt again. “Your new seasonal menu has a lot of seafood on it. That’s pricey. Have you done the ROI assessment on what you’re spending versus what you’re charging? I know Willy Reilly just upped the price of his crabs. And Dorian Jazz is charging nearly double per pound from last year for his halibut, snapper, and cod. Don’t even get me started on Fitz Plamondon and his salmon prices. I mean, I get it, but the price per pound of sockeye now is outrageous. Have you upped the price of your crab cakes and fish dishes accordingly?”

“We can’t gouge our customers,” Dom said. “They’ll go somewhere else. Somewhere cheaper.”

“They come here for the service, food, booze and view. If we keep it all excellent, a price increase shouldn’t affect us too much. But we have to increase prices.” His gaze fell to Dom. “Across the board. So this means the bar too.”

Dom opened his mouth to say something, but shut it. He knew Bennett was right. It was a tough pill to swallow, but they all knew Bennett was speaking the truth.

Bennett’s temperature was up and he regretted the long-sleeve shirt he tossed on after his shower. He focused on Clint. “Beer too. Barley prices are still through the roof, and until we start growing our own hops—which is several years away and only if we get Bonn Remmen’s land—we need to increase prices.”

Just like Dom, Clint opened his mouth, but he thought better of it, shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded.

“Customers aren’t going to like this,” Wyatt said. “We’re going to get a lot of backlash. Bad reviews and complaints.”

“Maybe, but we can’t continue down this road. Everything is too fucking expensive. If we want to pay our staff fairly and not make them reliant on tips the way other restaurants do, then we need to increase prices to reflect the increase in costs. There’s no other way around it.” He inflated his cheeks, then released a long, slow breath.

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