Page 107 of Love Me Tomorrow

Dad has spent his entire life trying to solidify our place in New Orleans history when we’ve been defying the odds all along.

I want to show people that.

I want to crack open the dusty doors of the Hummingbird Room for visitors to see, and then bring them over to Rose’s to view the country’s largest wine cellar. I want to give food tours, allowing people the chance to try our original family recipes, especially our red beans and rice, the same one that the first Edgar Rose learned from the Hotel Monteleone back in the nineteenth century. I want to be a part of ERRG, but not by sitting behind a desk while delegating duties to everyone else. And when I take a vacation, I want it to be the real deal. No laptops. No work phones. No frantic calls at all hours of the day because Sue refused to refund someone or because Matt opted to not show up for his shift.

Been there. Done it. Bought the T-shirt.

It’s time to move on.

I’ve never been scared to be down in the trenches, getting dirty, and today is the first day that I take those steps to contributing to this generation of the Edgar Rose Restaurant Group in a way that makesmehappy: Food tasting rooms. Private tours throughout our previously off-limits dining rooms. Rotating historical exhibits about the Rose legacy—and our historical impact on New Orleans cuisine—from 1888 through to today.

Squaring off my shoulders, I force myself to say the words to the first person who isn’t my own reflection in my mirror or Owen. “No, I mean, I’m steppingdown. No more being the VP.”

“Oh.”

I’m not sure if that’s an approvingOhor if Georgie thinks that I’ve lost my mind, but I paste a big smile on my face anyway. Fake it till you make it, and all that. “I should have more time to grab cocktails now, which should be fun. I haven’t had a girl’s night in, well, it’s been awhile.”

Georgie’s lips part—any wider, and she’ll be catching flies. “Wait, you’re serious?”

I pluck my café au lait from the tray, flicking open the tab so the steam can escape. “Deadly.”

“You’re actually quitting?”

“Not quitting, just . . . moving departments. Or, rather, creating a department that doesn’t exist yet.” I blow the steam away, watching my executive assistant over the plastic rim. “I have a plan, and without causing a revolution up in here, I’d like for you to make the move with me.”

Now, Georgie’s mouth is flapping open. Flies? She could catch a small bird in there. “Y-you”—she runs a hand over her curly hair—“you want me tomovewith you.”

“Yes.” I nod, tilting my chin toward the long hallway. “Bernard’s office has been empty for months and it’s large enough for two desks. Didn’t you go to college to be an archivist—and then ended up here when you couldn’t find a job in your field? I swear I’m not making this up and remember it from your interview.”

Georgie’s coffee cup collides with the desk. “I—I mean, yeah.Yes.” Her gaze turns panicked. “I mean,notthat I don’t appreciate what ERRG has done for me, which is a lot, like making sure I don’t eat Ramen for the next decade while having five roommates that all smell like cheese.”

When I raise a brow, she plods on: “Will this—will this new position have something to do with history?”

“History all day, every day. Also, food and tours and if I haven’t said this officially yet, you’re hired.” I sip from my coffee, then step back. “Can you send my dad to my office when he comes in? I have to break the big news.”

And pray that he doesn’t want to kill me in the process.

Once Georgie gives me the affirmative, and I’m sure that she’s not going to faint from excitement, I head for my office. Or what will be myex-office sometime soon. I’ll miss the large windows that overlook Lafayette Square—a view that Uncle Bernard’s old office doesn’t have—but atmosphere is what you make of it.

I kick my shoes off before I take my seat, then boot up my laptop. As it whirrs to life, I grab my phone from my purse, only to find a series of notifications filling my home screen. In the last week and a half sinceCelebrity Tea Presentsshared that picture of Owen and me dancing, I’ve been bombarded with requests for interviews—all of which I’ve ignored.

But this isn’t one or two emails; there arehundredsof messages.

Notifications from social media.

Texts from friends and acquaintances, and even one from the mayor.

I tap on Frannie’s, my breath clamped tight behind my teeth while it loads:

Mayor Barron: Here is my publicist’s contact info. She already knows you’ll be calling. And, Savannah—do not be stubborn with this. Please let me know if you would like me to pass along my lawyer’s information, as well. I am here for you, dear girl. Always.

“What in the world,” I mutter under my breath, sitting up tall in my seat. My heart races at a fast clip. Frannie Barron has been in my life since I turned eleven, but she rarely texts me. She calls, often, but she’s always been of the opinion that texting is the killer of modern-day relationships. Then again, she once said the same thing about Buzzfeed, and I swear to God, she takes those little quizzes they publish more than anyone else I know.

I scroll through my notifications, only to find that I have missed four calls from her. She’s left two voicemails, and I play them both:

“Savannah, you’re probably on your way to work. I can’t believe this happened—I’m calling your father right now. When you get to the office, stay there. Don’t leave. I’m here for you.”

“Savannah, just got off the phone with your father. He’s on his way now. Do not panic. Everything will be okay. I’ve handled worse scandals than this, I promise you.”

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