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“Bet he’d be okay if there was something up with you two. Did you at least ask him for a job?” I hear the anxiousness in her voice, and I understand why.
We’re both depending on me making it happen. It’s a lot of pressure, to be honest, and makes me wonder if I should’ve declined Mr. Hammond’s offer and continued my job hunt today.
“I can’t ask the CEO for a job. Anything I’m qualified to do at his company would be so far down on the totem pole from him. Think mailroom or copy girl. He’d have no clue if the position was even available. And if he did find me a job, I’d always be the girl he helped. You know how people talk. They’d think it was a trade-off between us.”
“Oh, you mean like you blew him, and he wanted you working under him?” Maggie roars in laughter.
I flush at her comment, then fan myself as I imagine really being beneath him. My short daydream comes to an end when his tie falls in my face as he hovers over me. Even my fantasies are lame.
“Miss?” the man assisting me at the bakery draws my attention. “Your cherry tart is ready.”
“Oh, Maggie. I need to let you go. I have to pay.” I place my trusty bag on the counter and dig for my wallet. “I’ll text you later.”
“Have fun. And by fun, I mean steam up the windows in the backseat. I’m sure his driver has seen it all.” She laughs, and I roll my eyes. Then it hits me: I’ll be sitting in the backseat next to Mr. Hammond for miles.
What will we talk about? Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. Plus, he’s a giant-sized man and will take up most of the seat. I’ll have nowhere to escape from him. My skin itches under the starchy coat. I hope I don’t break out in hives.
I toss the phone in my purse and hand the man Barclay’s credit card. For the first time in my life, I need a drink—preferably a couple. I glance over the bakery menu and see a familiar friend: mimosa. I want to blow it a kiss.
“Can you add two mimosas to that charge?” I should ask Mr. Hammond before I voluntarily make him pay for liquid courage, but I’ll just rationalize it as my cost of labor for helping him. My father, the sheriff, would call it stealing. I hate moral dilemmas so early in the morning.
“Two, miss?” I nod and peek out the window, wondering if Mr. Hammond’s car has arrived yet. There’s only a standard yellow cab dropping off a passenger, but I do see a familiar man walking into the bakery. It’s Trevor Spears, the résumé helper from the lobby. Once on the other side of the door, he spots me … or more like my legs with his tongue hanging out and eyes bugged. A smirk of approval slides across his face, but it has the opposite effect as Mr. Hammond’s.
“What happened to your clothes—or should I ask?” Again, he tiptoes on the border of inappropriate. Mr. Spears leans against the glass case beside me. I hope he doesn’t leave prints on the glass or a layer of grease, because this is one slick guy.
“The coffee. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I was distracted,” he says while gazing at me, or more like my boobs. Gross!
“Miss, here’s your order.” The smiling bakery helper hands me a sturdy paper shopping bag with handles on each side. “I need you to sign this first.”
A slip of paper and pen lay on the counter in front of me. How the heck do I sign this?
“Just a second, Mr. Spears.” I grab the pen and scribble something down on the signature line. Actually, I write a big fat lie of a name.
Mrs. Barclay Hammond.
I pray Mr. Hammond doesn’t ask me for a receipt.
“Miss, we can’t give you to-go cups for the mimosas. I’m afraid you’ll have to drink them inside,” says the crestfallen worker. They truly aim to please here.
“That’s perfect.” I wave off any concern, and the bakery guy smiles in relief. “Do you like mimosas, Mr. Spears?”
“Usually not this early, but I’m a man of exceptions.” And there goes that grin of his again. It doesn’t take a psychic to read his dirty mind.
“Great,” I say, turning toward the bakery man and taking the mimosas from his hands. I hand one to Mr. Spears and lift the other. “Cheers.”
I consume the drink like a champagne shot. Mr. Spears eyes me in amusement as I hand my glass back to the man behind the counter.
Mr. Spears follows my lead, tossing back his, and then sets his glass down on top of the glass, likely leaving drippings all over the place. The man has no consideration for the workers who keep the displays spotless. Speaking from his experience as the town sheriff, my father always said one’s true character is revealed by how they treat those who work service jobs.
