Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

I tell her about Charleston, where I fudge my title a little. Assistant slash secretary slash adult in the room is basically the same thing as an office manager, right? Wrangling a bunch of real estate agents with massive egos and attention deficit disorders should certainly qualify.

“Now I’m the office manager at the stone yard. I process invoices and payroll, scheduling, ordering. There isn’t anything that goes on in that place that I don’t keep my finger on. And I see that clients are well cared for, of course.”

“I understand you’ve taken on a lot of responsibility since your mother’s passing,” Mackenzie tells me, putting my résumé aside after reading it carefully. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

It’s still awkward when someone brings up my mom. Mostly because I’ve moved on. I’ve been over it almost since the moment it happened. Yet I get pulled right back in every time someone else pauses to process or acknowledge it. Sucked out of time and transported to the funeral all over again, back to those first days scrambling everyone on the phone.

“It’s been a lot to learn, but I’ve gotten a good handle on things,” I say. “I’m a quick study. And I think now is the right time to leave the stone yard and hand the reins off to someone else.”

If given his way, my dad would keep me in the office forever. Despite our deal, I know the only way to force his hand is to give him a deadline. I can teach just about anyone else to run the yard for him; he just needs the proper motivation to pick someone.

“I can understand getting thrown into the deep end. Or in my case, jumping. I mean, what business do I have owning a hotel, right?” There’s something disarming about her self-awareness, her self-deprecating grin. Mackenzie doesn’t take herself too seriously, so it’s easy to talk to her like a real person, not just another clone throwing their money around. “I just saw the place and fell in love, you know? It spoke to me. And once my heart was set, there was no talking myself out of it.”

“I had the same reaction when I was a kid,” I admit. “I don’t know how to explain it …” I trail off pensively. I can still picture the old brass fixtures, and the palm trees casting shadows on the pool cabanas. “It’s a special place. Some buildings, they have character, personality. I’m sure you’ve seen pictures, but I wish you could have known The Beacon before it closed. It was like a time capsule—entirely unique. I have great memories there.”

“Yeah, that’s something the previous owner said to me when I convinced her to let me buy the property. Her only request was that I maintain the original intent as much as possible. The personality, as you put it. Basically, I promised not to go mangling a piece of history.” Mackenzie grins. “Hopefully, I’ve kept that promise. I mean, we’ve certainly tried. Cooper’s exhausted himself tracking down experts to make sure every detail is as close to authentic as possible.”

“I’m honestly excited to get a look.”

“For me, part of that authenticity is about finding people who know and truly understand what we’re trying to recreate. People who care as much about that history as I do, you know? People make the hospitality, after all.”

She goes quiet, lingering on what feels like an open question as she sips her water.

Finally, she says, “I do have some other interviews this week, but just so you know, you’re comfortably among the top candidates.”

“Seriously?” I don’t mean to say that out loud and roll my eyes at myself. I offer a sheepish smile. “I mean, thank you. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

Somehow, I’m always surprised when anyone takes me seriously, especially as a matter of trust and responsibility. No matter how well I dress up or maintain good posture, it feels like they all see through me. Like they look at me and see only the screwup teenager running around drunk on the back of a motorcycle.

Nerves dampen my palms. If I get this job, there’s no room for mistakes. No spending the night naked on the beach and showing up to work late. If history is any indication, I’m a piece of twine over an open flame. Just a matter of time before I snap. So to get this job—and keep this job—the training wheels have to come off this newly self-proclaimed good girl.

As I’m about to make my way out, a golden retriever comes galloping onto the deck. She’s got that gangly look that tells me she’s still very young and not in complete control of her limbs. She nudges me with her nose and plops her head in my lap.

“Oh my goodness. Look at this cutie! What’s her name?”

“Daisy.”

I rub behind Daisy’s ears and she makes a happy sound, her brown eyes glazing over. “She’s very sweet.”

“You want to hang out for a bit? It’s about time for her walk. We can take her down to the beach.”

I hesitate. Not because Mackenzie isn’t perfectly nice, but because I think the interview was pretty great, and the longer I stick around, the more chance I have to screw that up. I’m better in small doses around people who don’t know me well. If I’m going to get the job, I’d rather sign the paperwork before my boss figures out I’m a potential disaster.

“Don’t worry,” she says, apparently discerning my anxiety. “We’re both off the clock. Consider this family time.”