Page 58 of Resisting Mr Black

Olly acts like a cat on a hot tin roof whenever he’s around and I fear this speech is for my benefit.

“What do you think of him?”

“Nothing much.” I wrinkle my nose and feign a lack of interest, studying the drinks order. Clearly mine and Art’s entanglement has gone unnoticed by the rest of the staff, and I can’t help but feel relieved. “So, after the wedding it’s a champagne reception out on the terrace. The forecast says sunshine for most of the afternoon so that should be fine,” I carry on, eager to steer the conversation back onto work. “The couple have also requested a bucket of Peroni on ice.” I glance up to check Olly is taking notes, but he isn’t. He’s staring at me.

“If I asked you out again would you say yes?”

Taken aback, my mouth drops open in surprise as my brain whirs to try and find the right words. I must be taking too long because before long a look of resignation appears on Olly’s face.

He briskly shakes his head as if he doesn’t want me to speak and say the words. “It’s okay. I thought I’d put it out there again.”

I feel like shit. He’s nice, caring, and good-looking in a boy-next-door kind of way. He’d look after me and idolise me. But he doesn’t make my heart flap against my ribcage whenever he looks at me. There’s no spark in my bones when I’m in the same room as him. Nevertheless, I feel as if I’m going to kick a puppy.

“You’re a nice guy, Olly. The right girl’s out there, somewhere.”

“It’s fine, Soph,” he says a little too quickly, which tells me things are far from it. “Just know, if you ever change your mind… well, you know.” There’s an awkward pause as he stares down at his note pad and picks up a pen. “Anyway, where were we?”

Fifteen minutes later, I knock on Art’s office door and push it open. George sits on a black office chair the other side of the desk and both men look up as I enter.

“Sorry I’m late. I was just sorting out the drinks for Saturday’s wedding,” I apologise, sliding onto the empty chair beside George. Art sits back in the tan leather chair, his fingers linked in his lap and scowl on his face.

“How nice of you to join us.” There’s a sarcastic edge to his tone which flummoxes me. “I asked to see you and George as we need to increase revenue coming into the hotel. It’s making a loss. At this rate the place will be closed within the next six months. I need ideas.”

I’m momentarily stumped by his foul mood and abrupt nature and steal a glance at George, who is staring down at the floor. A sheen of sweat glistens across his bald head, and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. I don’t have to be psychic to know Art has given him a hard time.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “What ideas have we got so far?”

“I suggested we try Murder Mystery weekend packages for off-peak season as that would secure room bookings.” George keeps his eyes to the floor. “But Art disagreed with me.”

“I don’t think that’s the right image for the place.” Art’s thumbs are tapping away in his lap, and he’s visibly pissed off. What the hell has happened between this morning and now?

“Actually, I think that’s a good idea,” I enthuse, smiling at George whose eyes light up at the praise. “The hotel would make the perfect setting and it would bea minimum two-night stay with meals included. It would also encourage group bookings, as people tend to go to those events with friends.”

Art considers me silently for a few moments as if weighing up the suggestion. “I’ll think about it.” Although he’s softened a little, his mood shows no signs of improving as he steeples his fingers and presses them to his lips. “What’s your idea?”

“We’re only in June now, so hopefully we’ll have the fine weather for a few more months. Why don’t we hold some cocktail evenings? We could open up the bar, Orangery, and terrace for the summer evenings, and it would attract a younger clientele, if that’s of concern to you. See how it goes at first and if it’s a winner, we could branch out and provide bar snacks. You could also do a “buy one, get one free” on drinks up until seven o’clock to get people through the door. Olly’s a good mixologist, so he’d be perfect for it.”

George’s head’s bobbing up and down in agreement like a nodding dog, but Art’s shoulders tense, and for some unknown reason I sense the shutters come down. He throws a look in George’s direction. “You can go.”

I’m suddenly questioning why he wants just me to stay and can’t help but get the feeling I’ve pissed him off in some way. The difference between the Art in my office this morning and the one I’m faced with now is alarming, and I’ve no doubt I’m about to find out what’s causing his foul mood.

“Oh,” George says in surprise. “Oh, well. Okay. Yes.” He leaps to his feet, clearly relieved at being granted a reprieve from more of Art’s ill temper. “Good idea, I thought.” He gives me a smile and hurries out of the door.

At least someone thought so.

The scowl on Art’s face remains in place as he leans forward on the table and interlaces his fingers together on the desk. “I asked you to come up here with George.”

I frown. “I was sorting out the drinks order for the wedding this weekend. I told George to tell you—”

“He did,” he cuts me off.

I sigh with frustration. “Are you annoyed because I didn’t drop everything? I was doing my job.”

“No, of course not.”

I really don’t get him. I’m bored of playing the guessing game and annoyed by his attitude. “You know, you don’t have to be so bloody rude all the time. George was only trying to help and make a suggestion like you’d asked him to.”

He exhales in irritation. “His suggestion isn’t the image I want associated with the hotel. It needs to be high-end and younger. That generation tells their friends about it, spends money, goes on social media, and checks in.”

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