Chapter 1
sofía
The barista is fucking up my iced matcha latte.
I should have changed my order after the young kid—still in high school, based on his shaggy haircut—gave me a bewildered look when I asked for the Japanese green tea. We’re in Los Angeles; this is not the craziest order he’s going to receive this morning, but it might be his most difficult as he raises thewooden whisk in front of him, twirling it around to examine it like an unidentified specimen.
Let me behind the counter,I scream in my mind.I can make it in two minutes flat and save us all a headache.
The mosaic tile counter is all that prevents me from leaping into action, and my fingernails dig into the canvas strap of my bag as I restrain the urge to walk him through the process step-by-step. It’s not my job to make drinks; it’s his. The coffee shop hired him for a reason, right? I need to trust he knows how to do his job.
He scoops a heaping pile of powder directly into the cup.
Oh, god.
Not the proper step in the matcha-making process. My trust is misplaced. Water steams as he pours it in, the concoction changing into a brown-green color with chunks floating around. A few ice cubes, a glug of milk, and he slaps a lid on the plastic cup.
This is why I make my drinks at home—it’s never quite right when someone else does it.
Whistling steam from the espresso machine drowns out the alt-rock music, and plants decorate the small space, vines trailing and hanging from every surface. I snag a booth in the back corner, covered in old postcards and stamps hodgepodged to the wobbly table.
In another world—one where the barista executed my drink to perfection—I could imagine this coffee shop as an ideal place to work. Quiet, inviting, void of all the businessmen and tech bros who always seem to ruin my life.
“Iced matcha latte for…Sophie?”
Ugh.
He didn’t even get my name right.
The high schooler scratches at the back of his neck, eyeing my drink, and I give it one sip—in case I’m wrong and it’s amasterpiece—but it draws up the straw like sludge and hits my tongue like bitter medicine.
Nope. I’ll make one at home after this meeting.
As horrible as the drink is, I don’t have the courage to tell him and ask for a remake. I don’t want to be difficult orhigh maintenance, so I offer him the mostgenuine smile I can muster as the goop rolls down my throat, then spin on my heel to escape his uncertain stare.
The smile may not have been as convincing as I’d hoped.
With my disgraceful drink set to the side, I pull out my laptop, notebook, and pens to prepare for the vague, anxiety-inducing meeting my newbosscalled after a week of silence.
It’s been four weeks since Jett Parks convinced me to work for him, one since my official start date, and this is ourfirstmeeting.
When I emailed him about my duties on my first day—since I would be working remotely while he was visiting his family in Indiana—he responded with “do your thing” and “Sent from my iPhone.”
The lack of direction sent me into a tizzy, considering my new role’s official title is “CLB”—or, as Jett would say, Chief Lady Badass. Do I know the requirements and responsibilities of the role? No. Was I convinced to accept the job by an astronomical pay increase from my last position at RogueWave Productions and the opportunity to build my own schedule? Absolutely.
Nolady badasswould turn down the yearly salary Jett offered (triple what RogueWave paid me). Not when said badass has student loans to pay, two younger sisters nearly ready to head to college—at the same time—and a hefty senior-living bill she helps pay every month.
The badass needed a raise, and Jett’s excessive persistence that I am “the missing piece he’s been searching for” and open policy for remote work wore me down.
When I met him eight months ago, there wasn’t a chance in hell I would accept a position with the chaotic, outgoing YouTuber. Three weeks of working with him on a deep-sea documentary was sufficient time to know we are polar opposites, and any long-term working relationship could end in a fiery blaze with our friend group burned to ashes.
As a person, Jett is great. As a boss? I’m unsure.
But here I am, his new production coordinator and team manager, eating my words and trying to ignore the anxious churning in my stomach as I wait for him to arrive.
The list of tasks I’ve completed since my start date sits beside me, and the vision board on my computer background peeks out from behind the organization and planning software I use religiously.
According to my calendar, Jett is six minutes late.
