Page 62 of Addicted to Santino

“Okay . . . are you on vacation or something, Gabby?” I inquire, shifting in my leather boots in the snow.

“Dad thought it was appropriate for Steven to take over.”

My eyes bug out. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Steven opens his mouth. Gabby’s hand sharply cuts the air. She then replies for them. “No, we made a weekend of it. Later today, the two of us should go for a massage.”

“Who? You and Assh—”

“What?”

“Gabby, I mean you and Steven or you and me? I’m sorely confused.” I drop the handle of my rollaway to knead my neck.

“Steven, take Little Stevie to the nanny. Hurry up, your meeting with Mr. Turner is minutes away.” Once finished addressing Steven, Gabby’s wrath turns toward me. “Gina, French toast is your favorite. The owner at the resort where we’re staying swore by this little shop around the corner. Let’s—”

“Gabriella,” I snarl, “I woke up at 2:30 this morning. I didn’t sleep a wink on the flight.”

“Turbulence?”

“No! Santi . . .” I clamp my jaws. The number one rule with someone who spews negativity is not to admit that the ship you call love has a minor hole in it.

“What is it, little sister?” Her long, faux lashes flutter. I can’t stop the feeling that my sister is smiling in my face.

“My coochie lips are ice-covered over, Gabby! Every orifice of my body is frozen. I’m meeting with Turner! Dad gave me the assignment after Stevenfucked up, so you all figure that out. Tootles!” I hold a gloved hand to her face, grab the rollaway, and attempt to strut away. Each step feels like I’m sinking into a slushy.

Gabriella surpasses my stride. She holds open the door to the B&B. As we enter, I’m assessing all the reasons why Turner’s place is failing. With nobody to greet you upon arrival, why stay?!

Gabriella leans against the wooden counter, eyeing me. She says, “I was once in love with a stripper, Gina.”

Having ignored her, I glance around. With logs crackling in the fireplace, a stone wall would make the perfect focal point for the living room. The furniture is eclectic, and not in the I’m-scenting-homemade-chocolate-chip-cookies kind of way.

“It was this seedy little strip club. Shanda’s sister took me to it.”

“Good for you. When you were best friends with my best friend’s sister, your face wasn’t so shriveled andsmirky. Maybe you missCora, um, I mean the stripper.”

“Maybe you should shareyourstripper.”

At this point, I’m beyond perplexed. Letting out a laugh, I tap my index finger on a silver bell. “Ring, ring,” I say in an attempt to garner some attention.

Mr. Turner comes from a backroom, his smile lighting up. “Gina,” he extends a hand. “I was just chatting with Steven. He shared that you weren’t able to—”

“There’s been a mistake.” I take his awaiting hand. “On behalf of Galloway Enterprises, I must apologize. I want to assure you that we’d like to work together to rectify . . .”

“Gina, please, all my doubts ended the day I met you.” His lips pull into a flirtatious smile.

“I’m Gabriella Galloway.” My sister's hand protrudes between us. “I held the position a few years longer than my little sister. I … would like to also ensure that . . .”

What position, heifa? What was your job title?I level a confused look at her, as does Mr. Turner. Gabriella was catapulted into her phantom position and held the title for a few days. Then she said she’d marry someone to do the dirty work for her. Not sure what she meant by dirty work, but she hasn’t clocked in an hour of analytical work in ages.

Mr. Turner invites us all into the kitchen. Out of every room I’ve seen, this one is clearly loved. A long, wooden table reminds me of spending time with my uncle’s family in North Carolina. A teal teapot is in the center of the table with fresh flowers. There are family-oriented sayings in worn-wood picture frames.

For the next hour, Steven and Gabriella talk over each other. Consequently, Mr. Turner glances at me. “Ms. Gina, you were telling me that you had a few innovative ideas. I must apologize to you all,” he stares at the husband and wife, “But I’m an attorney. Turner’s has been in my family for . . .”

“Thirty-two years,” I reply, on his behalf.

“Yes.” Again he smiles. “So, Gina, if you have any divergent plans, I’d like to hear them as well and weigh them all.”

“Actually. . .” I grin. “I haven’t finished my process. Usually, I view a business, interview staff in various positions. After an assessment of the grounds, we sit around the table to discuss my thoughts.”

---