“No, you won’t. You and Dean will probably run around naked the moment I leave.”
Bree grinned.
Rachel was happy for her friend. She’d met Bree at Dusty’s, a bar that was a downscale Andromeda. Bree had been working through the last week of a two-week notice.
They’d bonded almost instantly, which Rachel did with almost no one. By the time she’d made the decision to leave her marketing job, Rachel called Bree to ask if the Andromeda Club was hiring.
It’d occurred to her that when she’d moved to Chicago alone, she intended to be an island. She’d never expected to have a roommate—certainly not one she was dating—and since the whole Shaun debacle, she’d become anxious to reclaim her island status. She’d hate to think she’d lost the ability to be independent after coming to depend on a man who wasn’t dependable in the end.
Her recent breakup with her boyfriend of two years, being homeless, and losing the job for which she’d attained her degree was a series of minor setbacks.
Living with a dog was the bridging step from roommate to once again living on her own, and she would take it. Somewhere in her lived a fearless woman who was ready to take on a new adventure.
Rachel was determined to find her.
* * *
Tag’s oldest brother and CEO for Crane Hotels, Reese Crane, had no love for the board of directors around the conference table. As of last year, when they’d razzed Tag about lagging profits at the hotel and pool bars nationwide, he had recently put them on his shit list as well.
Today, they’d changed their tune.
“Given that the losses fall within an acceptable range, we are downgrading the bar issues at Guest and Restaurant Services from a code red to a code yellow.” Frank smiled at his own joke, but the only thought in Tag’s brain was that the older man’s teeth matched his code. “Thank you for your careful preparation, Tag. Now if you’ll excuse us, Bob, Lilith, and I have a meeting to attend downtown. This marks the end of our agenda. Unless either of you have anything to add?”
Tag had plenty to add, but when he opened his mouth, Reese spoke for him.
“Nothing on our end.”
Tag felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. Reese cast him a sideways glance as the board shuffled into the hall. The door shut behind them and he faced his brother.
“The term ‘acceptable losses’ isn’t bad news.” Reese arched an eyebrow.
“Loss should never be ‘acceptable,’” Tag growled. “The board harps on falling profits in the hotel bars last year, but as of thirty seconds ago they no longer care?”
Tag dropped his unused number 2 pencil to push a hand through his hair, then remembered it was pulled back. Long, nearly to his elbows, he preferred wearing his hair down, but for board meetings he wrangled it into a low-hanging ponytail/man bun hybrid. He’d also wedged his wide shoulders into an uncomfortable button-down and wrapped his bulky thighs in restrictive trousers. He felt…not like himself. Agitated about being here, about this whole downgrading thing.
Ever the underestimated brother, he shouldn’t be surprised that they’d shrugged him off. Even if Guest and Restaurant Services wasn’t his baby—and it was—he’d consider cooperating worth it if the board left him the hell alone and went back to whatever it was they did when they weren’t giving the Crane brothers grief.
“I prefer to handle this, not ignore it,” Tag said.
“They know you’re capable. They’re not worried. Take that as a compliment.” Reese shrugged easily, taking it in stride. A far cry from where he was a year ago, when he nearly went apoplectic on Frank.
The board had tried to keep Reese from becoming CEO, citing disapproval over Reese’s playboy lifestyle. The good news was Reese had ended up with a wife—now ex-wife, soon to be his wife again (long story)—but at the moment, Tag was having a hard time finding his own silver lining.
He didn’t consider futility a compliment.
He lifted the report in front of him—the one he’d received months ago. Filled with spreadsheets, numbers, and projected targets, it was seriously structured. And seriously pissing him off.
“Why the fuck did they give me this if they weren’t going to follow through?” The cover read “Fiscal Projections for Food and Alcohol.” The word fiscal was enough to give him hives, but he’d pored over those sheets, those numbers, until his eyes felt like they were going to bleed.
Tag preferred to do things his way, and his way consisted of two main elements: his gut and people. He could rely on himself for decisions and his interactions with the staff to ensure his decisions were carried out. Spreadsheets and charts didn’t translate into good business in most cases. He could relate better to an employee over a beer than he could by sending a memo.
“I came in prepared to discuss numbers, and Frank brushed me off,” he continued, still grinding his teeth over the wasted time.
“Need I remind you how undesirable it is for them to watch your every move? Care to have the paparazzi chasing you around? Parts of you highlighted on social media with a hashtag?” Reese’s wry humor was showcased with a slow blink.
But even the mention of the Twitter debacle and Reese’s nefarious #ReesesRocket hashtag didn’t cheer Tag up.
“Yeah, well, I don’t care what they say. I’m going to make the profits sing.” Tag stood from the desk. “Acceptable loss doesn’t factor in to my plans for Crane Hotels.”
Reese’s lips curved into an almost proud expression reminiscent of their father. Tag pulled in a breath and stood straighter.
Over the years since Reese had been clamoring for CEO, Tag was content to run GRS. He’d risen in the ranks by paying attention and talking to everyone who worked for him. He’d learned how to invest his inheritance, part of which he’d retained since he hadn’t blown it on a college degree.
Tag was self-made, self-confident, and self-aware. He worked for Crane not because he needed to, but because it was his purpose. He had a part to play in preserving their family’s legacy and in no way took the task lightly.
“I’m doing things my way,” Tag stated. “This”—he held up the report, then dropped it into the wastebasket by the door—“is bullshit.”
Reese followed him to the door and flipped off the light. They walked silently through the hall and out into the reception area where Reese’s secretary, Bobbie, was typing, her fingers flying over the keyboard.
“Look forward to hearing more.” Reese slapped Tag’s shoulder. “Don’t let ’em get to you.”
That gave Tag pause. Reese was almost laid-back since he’d been married to Merina, which wasn’t easy to get used to.
“Thanks, bro.”
Reese vanished into his office, where he could be found most of the time. The Cranes—their father, Alex; Reese; Tag; and Eli, who was currently overseas serving in the Marines—were in this battle together. Tag liked everything about that. The way he could count on his family to be on his side and the way he’d rise to any challenge they set forth. The Cranes would never bail on each other.
He waved to Bobbie, who acknowledged him with a brief nod; then he collected his coat and scarf from the coat rack next to the elevator.