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Dean doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s fully standing between us, deliberately trying to block Rhys from gauging my every reaction to the taste of the coffee.
I step to the side and tell Rhys, “It’s amazingly smooth. How did you do that?”
Rhys launches into a whole speech about his coffee machine he calls his “baby,” none of which I understand.
“Sounds high maintenance,” I say.
“High maintenance, high cost, low margins,” Dean says gruffly.
“Rhys is on the right track, though. Clearly you need diversification. Coffee will get new people in the door,” I say.
I can feel the tension as the three men exchange looks.
“Tell the truth. You’re bleeding money right now, aren’t you?”
Dean scrubs his face. “Yeah.”
Suddenly I feel bad for accepting a job here. And yet I like these guys, and I don’t want to leave. Well, one of them I like more than kind of.
“Listen,” I say, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I don’t have to take a paycheck until you start turning a profit.”
Laughter ensues. “You’ll fit right in here. None of us are getting paid,” Forrest says.
Dean grunts, “Of course you’re getting paid.”
I am indignant. “But…”
“No buts,” he says.
“I’d just like to point out I’m the one who hired her,” Rhys says. “So if she wants to give up her salary…”
He falls silent with one look from Dean.
I bemusedly watch the three men banter as I scarf down this coffee.
What’s the real cost of becoming a professional journalist when it’s not even what I want to do? Therapy. Lots and lots of therapy after I burn out.
Is accepting a job here any crazier than ghosting my first real job interview? No.
Maybe I really do believe in signs from the universe.
And okay, maybe, just maybe, a tiny part of me is enjoying the idea of working with this incredibly hot, great-smelling older man.
That great-smelling guy turns to me, and I catch the super quick glance at my mouth.
I smile back, and for a moment, it seems like the rest of the world disappears.
Either Forrest or Rhys clears their throat.
Dean crosses his arms over his chest and looks back at his friends. “What are you guys staring at?”
Looking smug, Rhys replies, “Time to block Kim’s number now?”
“Who’s Kim?” I ask.
“Oops,” blurts Forrest, sipping his coffee and refusing to make eye contact with me.
“Rhys,” Dean warns.
