Page 10 of The Proximity Effect

“Says the man who spent his morning teaching beginners instead of reviewing the maintenance budget.” Archer came in and shut the door. “We have had an alarming rate of complaints recently.”

I didn’t have a good response to that because I had volunteered to teach those lessons, needing a change of pace. “Most of the complaints are because ofyourchanges.”

Archer sat down in the other chair across from my desk. “If you’re referring to the shuttle service, you know damn well that it was bleeding money. This is California, not Switzerland. People can drive cars in the snow, and if they can’t, they shouldn’t be visiting here when it snows.”

I wanted to scream because we’d been over accessibility for people from non-snow places at least once a week. “The shuttle service is an added perk of staying here. If we’d invested in?—”

“We can’t agree on what to invest in,” Archer cut me off, his lawyer voice in full effect. “The occupancy rates are declining, the reviews are getting worse by the day, and?—”

“People don’t want to stay in rooms that look like a tween decorated them.” I thought of Evan’s changes to the four honeymoon suites.

“The room designs are... unique,” Evan admitted, “but they have character!”

“Character?” Archer’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that what we’re calling those heart-shaped beds now?”

“At least the bathtubs have running water.” I knew that someone was bound to bring up my failed attempt at cleaning the jets, which led to them no longer working. We should have just paid a professional. “At least the restaurant still serves edible food.”

Was it the five-star dining experience previous guests had raved about in their glowing reviews? Not even close. The current situation was more like a college cafeteria during finals week—chaotic, unpredictable, and likely to give you regrets later. I should know; I’d made the mistake of trying the “catch of the day” for lunch, which tasted like frozen fish sticks. It was yet another horrible budgetary decision that didn’t even need to be made.

The resort was doing well and made plenty of profit. Somehow Evan and I had let Archer steamroll us into agreeing with cutting costs. If I cared more, I would have fought him tooth and nail.

“Don’t even get me started on that disaster,” Archer growled. “The food costs alone?—”

“Hey, hey!” Evan stood up, arms spread wide like he was directing traffic. “Let’s look at the bright side. At least we still have...” He trailed off, clearly struggling to find something positive.

“Snow?” I offered dryly.

A knock at the door saved Evan from having to come up with actual bright sides. Jenny, one of our waitresses, poked her head in, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Um, we have a situation...” She twisted her apron in her hands. “Marcus quit. And he took Katie and Steve with him.”

“Marcus the cook?” Archer was on his feet instantly. “What do you mean he quit?”

“His exact words were, ‘I’d rather flip burgers at McDonald’s than deal with this three-ring circus.’” Jenny winced. “That kind of started a chain reaction in the kitchen. Dinner service starts in...” She checked her watch. “Thirty minutes.”

“Perfect.” I slumped back in my chair because Marcus, Katie, and Steve were the entirety of our current kitchen staff for lunch and dinner. “Just perfect.”

“We could order pizzas?” Evan suggested brightly. “I know this great place in town that?—”

“This isn’t a college dorm party, Evan!” Archer snapped. “We can’t serve delivery pizza to guests!”

Evan, for once, looked defeated. “Well, what’s your suggestion then? Because unless you’ve been hiding some culinary skills under that suit?—”

“We’ll handle it.” I stood up, the familiar resignation settling over me like a heavy coat. “We’ve been rotating the breakfast shift anyway, right? Dinner can’t be that different.”

“Breakfast is easy!” Archer looked at me like I’d suggested we all go skydiving without parachutes. “Dinner is actual cooking!”

“Good thing I know how to cook.” I said it with a confidence I didn’t feel. If I manifested it hard enough, it would be true, right? That’s what all those self-help books claimed, though they probably hadn’t anticipated their methods being used to fake culinary expertise in the middle of a crisis.

I’d watched Hell’s Kitchen a time or two. How hard could it be?

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Of course, tonight’s menu couldn’t have been something simple like burgers or pasta. Instead, it was pan-seared salmon with lemon-dill sauce, braised short ribs with red wine reduction, and butternut squash ravioli with sage brown butter sauce.

I wiped sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, wondering how professional chefs did this every night without losing their minds. The kitchen looked like a war zone—if wars were fought with pots, pans, and various sauces that had somehow ended up on the ceiling.

“Is butter supposed to be black?” Evan called from his station, holding up a pan of what looked like tar. I could smell the burnt dairy from here, and it wasn’t the nutty, toasted aroma we were going for. “Because I think I might have overshot brown by... a lot.”

“Throw it out and start over,” Archer snapped, his perfectionist tendencies on full display as he arranged each element of the salmon with surgical precision. The fish looked decent—a small miracle considering our collective culinary expertise consisted mainly of takeout orders and microwave dinners. Thank God Marcus had prepped most of the proteins before his dramatic exit. “And try not to set anything on fire this time.”

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