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"Go on," Virgin encouraged, not really doing anything to help the nerves.
"Are you just going to stand there and watch me?" I asked, pulling the helmet off my hair, reaching up to hopefully fluff it into place.
"Yep."
"Don't you have anything else to do?"
"Nope."
"I can take a cab home after."
"Nah."
"I wasn't going to invite you up anyway," I added a little pointedly in case that was what he had in mind.
"Okay."
Frustrated, a low grumble escaped me. "Well, can you at least look over there?" I asked, waving an arm out toward the end of the street.
"Like this view better."
Alright. I was only human. I had to admit that those words sent a little swirling through my belly.
"Go on now," he told me, jerking his chin toward the restaurant. "I might hire you for the eye candy alone, but I think Abby might want to talk to you."
Shaking my head at him, forcing my measly breakfast to settle in my belly, I turned on my heel, cursing them in new and inventive ways in my head as I made my way to the door. Pulling, I found nothing but resistance. But I knew if I didn't do this now - with an audience - that I wouldn't be able to force myself to come back. My hand lifted, knocking a few times, hopefully loud enough to be heard over the clangs of pots and pans and the loud TV from within.
There was some more slamming, followed by the muting of the TV. Then a female voice.
"If you are not the cops, a coffee delivery, or a free ride to the nuthouse, I don't have time for this!" she declared just a second before yanking open the door, shocking me enough to take a step back.
Abby was younger than I would have expected for a restauranteur. She couldn't have been much older than me with a tall, willowy - just shy of lanky, all limbs - build, an impish, delicate face with oversized, black-lined see-through blue eyes made even bluer thanks to the vivid shade of turquoise of her pixie cut hair. Her thin arms were bare, displaying a range of black and gray tattoos. A full-body apron - that at one time must have been white but was currently a mismatch of reds, yellows, browns, and greens - was folded down at her waist, mostly covering her simple straight-leg jeans.
"Sorry," I told her. "I don't have a warrant. Or coffee. Or an electroshock therapy machine. I was just looking for a job."
"You cook?" she asked, rubbing the back of her wrist across a brow beaded a bit with sweat.
"Yes."
"Tomorrow, ten a.m. Come prove it." With that, she slammed and locked the door, making me almost unsure that I had heard her correctly.
"Well, that was a success. How are you going to repay me?" Virgin asked from behind me, making me turn to find him watching me with a smirk toying with his lips.
"I will offer you a cup of coffee. But that is it."
"That'll do," he agreed with a cocky smile as he got back on his bike, making me wonder as I took the helmet he handed me to slip on my head again if he thought a cup of coffee was the 'in' he needed.
Well, I decided as I climbed on again, he would just have to live with disappointment.
Mumbling off the address, I folded my arms around him again, feeling my stomach fly out, but bungee right back in, anchored by the sense of satisfaction building inside.
I had a job interview.
Granted, she didn't know about my record. She didn't even know my name. But with her level of frazzle, I figured that so long as I lived up to her cooking expectations, she might be able to overlook all that in favor of being able to get a little time away from her restaurant.
I would knock her socks off with some recipes I learned growing up. Then I would carefully mention my criminal record once she had dreams of sleeping in on her mind.
And I would wear flats.
"You gonna make it up the stairs, or you need a boost?" Virgin asked, that bemused smile toying with his lips as my hand went white-knuckled on the banister for the steps - ten in all - up to the front door.
"I don't have a ton of pride, but what I do have would not allow me - a grown ass woman - to be boosted up the stairs," I informed him, taking a deep breath which I told myself - even though I knew it was a bold-faced lie - that the breathing would cut the pain.
I could have sworn I heard snickering as I cursed my way up the last three stairs, reaching for my key as I did so.
"The fuck you wear them for if they hurt your feet?"
