I attempt to redirect the conversation back to my responsibilities, but he’s not having it.
“Nonsense.” Jett snatches my latte and rises before I can blink. “You deserve the most perfect drink for your hard work.”
He speaks with a different barista, his arms flailing through the air, and three minutes later, he’s back at the table with a perfect iced matcha latte.
“The barista who made your drink was new. Try this one.”
Jett tracks my movements as I lift the straw to my lips and sip.
Fuck, this isperfect.
A tiny moan escapes, and I slap a hand over my mouth.
“Right on,” he says before scooping up whipped cream with his tongue. “This is wicked good.”
The stress coiled in my muscles melts away as I savor the earthy, smooth taste of the tea. Silence descends while we each revel in our beverages, and once he’s reached the bottom of the cup—a loud slurping sound filling the air—he sets it aside and drops his elbows on the table.
A loose strand of hair falls in front of my face, and I tuck it behind my ear. Jett’s focus flickers to follow the movement, and I squash the urge to squirm under the intensity of his gaze, like I’m a bug beneath a magnifying glass and he’s looking on in wonder.
“I think it would be good to go over professional expectations and boundaries,” I say, shaking away the thought, “since this is a unique relationship and we’re also…friends—”
“We’re friends,” he confirms.
Warmth creeps down my neck.
“I want to make sure we’re aligned on what’s appropriate for our dynamic.”
“Uh, all right? Well, Molly and Doug—my accountant and videographer—are married. They do what they want, and as long as they get their jobs done, I’m happy. It’s a low-stress job. The same goes for you.”
“And how do you navigate when work crosses over into personal matters?”
Jett blinks. “What?”
“I don’t want anything to become weird because we have the same friends. Would you prefer we not speak about work in group settings? How do you handle conflict and reviews? Yearly? Biannually?”
These are questions I posed in an email before my start date, though they went unanswered. Understanding boundaries and professional expectations ensures I don’t fuck anything up.
He snatches the pen and paper from me, doodling an image of a dog. “You’re overthinking this. No reviews. If you have a problem, tell me. It’s not a big deal. No one’s life is at stake. I once had to moderate a heated debate about bagels between Molly and Doug. Nothing you ever bring up will be worse than that experience.”
A shudder racks through him, and I have to suppress a laugh. “Bagels?”
“Doug said Molly’s order was disgusting. She took offense, and they spent an hour arguing about schmears and sandwiches. Her order was a toasted cinnamon raisin topped with American cheese. He was right.”
My stomach convulses, and I resist the urge to dry heave, wishing I could erase the image from my mind.
“What about our friends?”
Forming deep friendships in your late twenties is rare, and I don’t want to lose the ones I’ve made if this job doesn’t work out. They’reourfriends—connections built at the same time.
“If we get work divorced, you can have Blondie and Ames. I’ll take Mateo and Oliver. We can switch on holidays.”
“You’re teasing me.”
He gasps, clutching his chest. “I wouldnever,” he declares. The smile plastered on his face tells another story. “I don’t know why you want more work since you’ve already done more than I expected to happen in a year, but…”
“But?” I lean forward in my seat. “Do you have a task for me? I can do it.”
It’s difficult to tamp down the eagerness lacing my question, though I try. His brow quirks, an amused smile tilting his lips. Excitement pours off him in waves as he throws his arms up and wiggles his fingers.
