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Noah snorts, intones in a caveman voice, “Piano love. Piano life.”
We crack up, even Emerson. “Not all of us can be business superstars.”
Although truth is that Emerson turned down the Storm position Dad handed to him, decided to go out in left field and try to become a concert pianist of all things.
“I’m no business superstar,” I grumble. “I’m just the guy who got thrown into the president position.”
My brothers all like to pretend that being cooped up here in this office is my calling or something. Like dealing with all the shit Dad left behind is just a blessing.
“Same here,” Landon says, his muscled arms tensed as he rubs at his light-brown-haired temples. “Minus the president part. It’s not like I have some undying love for poring over figures from five years back.”
Nolan gives him a sympathetic pat. Landon really did get the short end of the stick for this one. As hard as running this company seems without Dad, making sense of the books which Dad self-admittedly ‘played by his own rules’ is damn near impossible.
“Anyway,” I say. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Catastrophe,” Nolan agrees morosely.
I don’t call my brothers in for many business meetings, but when I do, they know it’s serious. All it took was a one-text summary of what had happened, and they were here within minutes.
“What are our options?” Landon asks.
Emerson crosses his arms across his chest, his fingers absently drumming out some chords from some piano piece. “Hire a new crew, obviously.”
“What’s to stop the same thing from happening again?” I say. “The rainforest in Corcovado National Park is no walk in the park, and Decker came with all the right credentials.”
“He was an ass,” Nolan says simply.
“An ass you all wanted to hire,” I remind him. “You ignored my reservations.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Landon states. “We’ll just have to choose better next time.”
“I plan to,” I say.
All eyes swivel my way.
“Greyson,” Emerson begins, “You’re not seriously suggesting—”
“Actually, I am,” I say. “What better way to ensure that we don’t run into the same difficulties again? That, and getting each crew member vaccinated.”
“I don’t like it,” Landon says simply. “You’re supposed to be the president. You can’t just go gallivanting off here, there and everywhere, just like…” He trails off, scowling.
“Just like Dad used to?” I point out. “Too bad. I’m going.”
Three cool pairs of eyes greet me. I have to get my temper in check if this is going to fly, even if I am pissed. I didn’t want to be president, but if I am, there should be some perks attached to it. One of them being that I get to decide what I do, when I want.
Which technically I can, but I’d rather not deal with three pissy brothers while I’m gone.
Taking a breath, I force my tone into a neutral one. “C’mon, admit it, me being there will speed everything along and make everything that much easier.”
“Not to mention that you get to return to your dream job,” Emerson grumbles.
I eye him. “That so bad?”
My brothers scowl. Clearly they agree already, and don’t like one bit of it.
“Admit it,” I say, “This is a win-win.”
“It could be,” Nolan says. “Although that doesn’t solve everything. We still need a new crew ASAP.”
I grin. And there it is, just what I was looking for: agreement, implicit if not explicit.
I get out my phone. “On it.”One Day Later…
“I still don’t see why we all had to be here.” Nolan gives his long light brown hair-ed head an irritable shake as he chomps on some cashews.
“Agreed.” Emerson’s on his phone, glaring at it as if it’s to blame. “My knowledge of business practices is exactly zilch.”
“You know I value your opinions,” I tell them. Besides, it’s not like sitting around interviewing endless candidates is exactly my idea of a great time either. If I suffer, it’s only fair they do too. “Anyway, it’s time.”
The next few hours in my office pass in a blur of faces and names, takeout food, first impressions, quick discussions and split-second decisions.
After what must be all of the hires, I’m already out of my chair, ready to leave, no questions asked, when Landon stops me. “We still don’t have a cinematographer, and we’ve got four hopefuls out there.”
Shit.
I mentally set aside my long hot shower for another hour. “Alright, send them in.” Might as well get this over with.
The first woman barks more angry questions at me than I have for her. By the end, I’m ready to fling my clipboard at her head, except she leaves first.
The next woman walks in as I’m sipping my water. I look up and freeze.
“Hello,” she says. “I’m Harley.”
“Hello,” I force myself to say, while I try and fail to tear my eyes off the showstopper that’s just walked in.
Keep your head in the game, Greyson.
