Page 87 of The Main Event

“Aren’t you going to set the record straight?” she demanded after several seconds.

“Not really.” I shook my head. “If you have nothing to report, I’ll be heading to the dining room.” I hesitated for just a beat. “My father will be arriving shortly. You can have someone show him into the restaurant.”

Sheryl nodded. “Okay. I still want the dirt on you and Daisy.”

“I have nothing to offer you. Be careful around my father, though. If you’re expecting him to be like my grandfather, you’ve got a rude awakening in your future. He’s not a pleasant man. Just show him to the restaurant and don’t overly engage with him.” I was offering up the warning for her benefit, not mine.

She seemed to take it seriously. “We all heard stories about George’s family when we were working for him. Nobody likes you guys on principle. We expected you to be an ogre. Instead, we got a pleasant surprise.” She paused a beat. “Actually, it sounds like Daisy got the best surprise of us all, but I digress.”

I kept my expression impassive.

“We like you well enough now, unless you do something dirty with your family,” she continued. “Then we’re going to hate you for life and help Daisy’s moms curse you with one of their spells.”

“I didn’t realize Daisy’s mothers were witches.” I was tickled by the notion. “That sounds kind of fun. Who else have they cursed?”

Sheryl ignored the question. “I’m going to find out the truth. You can’t hide it forever.”

“I’m going to get some coffee.” I started toward the restaurant. “I need the caffeine.”

“Because you were up so late with Daisy?” she challenged.

“You’ll understand when my father gets here.”

“Well, now I can’t wait.”

“I’ll remember you said that.”

I WAS SEATED, SIPPING COFFEE, AND GOINGthrough the updated reservation list for October when Sheryl appeared next to my table. She had my father with her, and she looked as if she’d gone through some sort of ordeal during the brief walk from the front desk to the restaurant.

“As promised, here is your father,” she announced. She gave him a wicked sidelong look. “I’d double up on that coffee if I were you.” With that, she huffed her way out of the restaurant.

I automatically stood—one should always be on his feet when greeting his father after all, at least according to my mother—and extended my hand. “Father.”

Jared Hunter was an austere man. His hairline had been receding for as long as I could remember. He did his best to cover it with some fancy comb work, but it was starting to look ridiculous. He would’ve been better to buzz it and just embrace being bald.

That wasn’t how my father operated, though.

“Jaxson.” My father gave me a hearty handshake before releasing me and looking around. “This looks different from how I remember it.”

“The main floor was renovated a few years ago.” I sat and closed the ledger I’d been perusing. “The ballroom, lobby, tavern, and bathrooms were all included in that, as well as the restaurant.”

“It looks better than it did.” My father had perfect posture as he sat. “How is the food?”

In truth, I wasn’t a fan of the breakfast offerings at the hotel restaurant. I planned to get on the chef about updating them. I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. “I’m assuming you’re just going for your usual. If so, I’m certain you’ll be fine.”

“That wasn’t really an answer,” he pointed out.

“It doesn’t matter what I say. You’re going to find fault regardless. I don’t think there’s any reason to drag it out.”

He considered it a beat, then pushed forward, clearly signifying that he didn’t disagree. “What’s the timetable for the sale?”

I was expecting the question. Perhaps not so quickly, or so bluntly. Jared Hunter was not the sort of man who liked to dilly-dally with his time, however. “I don’t have one.” I leaned back in my chair and braced myself for the onslaught.

“What do you mean you don’t have one? I understand you can’t sell the hotel during the busy season—only an idiot would even try because that’s when you’ll bring in the most money—but why don’t you have a real estate agent lined up for some time in November?”

“Because, in November, the fourth floor is being renovated.” I could’ve lied and said I had other things going on. I could’ve told him to mind his own business. I’d discovered, over the years, that going straight at my father’s concerns was the best course.

“Why would you possibly pay for renovations on a hotel you’re going to sell?”

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