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Morgan’s first thought was Nell Jameson—photo on the website—filled the air with energy.
She hit about five-four in her stylish boots, and presented a gym-fit figure in a knee-skimming dress of rusty red. She wore her beautifully highlighted brown hair back in a casual twist.
And though she took a damn good photo, Morgan concluded, she looked better in the flesh. Maybe it was that energy, or the depths of her soulful brown eyes.
She walked with utter confidence. “Nell Jameson.”
“Morgan Albright.”
They shook, and sized each other up.
“Am I late?”
“I was early.” Be yourself, Morgan thought. “I wanted to get a feel for the bar before the interview.”
“And what’s your feel?”
“The actual bar?” Morgan ran a hand over the surface. “I want it for my own.”
“Can’t blame you. My grandfather had it shipped over from Dublin.”
“I thought it was the real thing. The rest? It’s wonderful. Classy,but comfortable with it. Organized, a good flow—things guests won’t necessarily pinpoint, but they’ll feel it. And the view, well, that’s a gift.”
“Thermal windows, tinted to cut glare. You can watch the slopes—do you ski?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay then. Spring, summer, into the fall, there’s a view of the ninth tee over toward the lake. Do you golf?”
“No. But I’ve sat in gardens, even planted some, and I assume the view of those when they’re not buried in snow is pretty spectacular.”
“They are. Well, we’ll take a table and get started.” Nell held up a finger. “Before the table, why don’t we start with you showing me some practical application. How about you make me a Kir Royale?”
“I’d be happy to. I need to see your ID.”
She heard Nick suck in a quick gasp, but kept her eyes on Nell.
“Are you serious?”
“I can’t serve you otherwise.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“That’s what they all say. Sorry. You could pass for twenty. Could be exceptional DNA and bone structure, but it’s not worth the hit to this venue, or to me, to risk it.”
“Is that your personal policy?”
“It is, and I hope it’s your business’s policy or I’m the wrong person for this position.”
“I see.” Nell set her briefcase on the bar, opened it. She took a slim leather case from one of the pockets, slid out her license.
Morgan studied it, smiled, said, “Thank you.”
Her heart hammered as she walked around the bar. Then settled. She knew what she was doing here.
She filled a flute with ice and cold water, set it aside while she located a bottle of crème de cassis, a lemon, a paring knife.
“The website lists you as head of Hospitality.”
