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Fiona snickers behind me, and Trey covers his mouth to hide a laugh but his shaking shoulders give him away.
“Hey, Bennett,” Trey drawls, winking at me.
As usual, Trey is somehow the complete opposite of Lincoln. He sports a slightly wrinkled blue button-up, which is rolled up at the sleeves, showcasing his ridiculously hot forearms. His navy tie is thrown back over one shoulder, and his messy blond hair is practically glowing under the warm concession lighting. He looks like some sort of golden god—though despite looking like Thor, his personality is more akin to a trickster like Loki.
“Ah, I see you met my son,” John says, walking into the lobby carrying a stack of drink cups. “Lincoln is going to be running the theater.”
Son?
The world tilts as the realization hits that he’s my boss, and I consider immediately quitting. I’m not sure I can stand any more forced proximity with Lincoln Evans and his mood swings. But, dammit, I really need this job.
I vaguely remember John from my stepdad’s elbow-rubbing functions, but I don’t remember Lincoln at all—probably because I always stuck close to the adults like the goodie-two-shoes I was.
Was he there?
I watch them, feeling numb, as Lincoln and his dad walk over to the manager’s station to exchange a few quiet words.
Their rapport is strange. Lincoln's expression is closed off, as usual, but John’s shifts between sad and hopeful, as if whatever he’s saying is meant to elicit some sort of emotional response from his son. Finally, he claps Link gently on the back and turns back to us.
“You’re in good hands,” he says with a wave before he leaves.
I grit my teeth because I’m entirely sure that’s not true, but I take a deep breath and attempt to play nice.
“So you’re John’s son, huh? Our parents did business together. I suppose that means you’ve been to a few of my stepdad’s parties?” I ask, raising my eyebrows in question.
Lincoln’s expression darkens, but he doesn’t answer me.
What did I do now? He’s so confusing.
Finally, he says, “I have the perfect job for you today, Sunshine.” His tone suggests that unlike me, he has no intention of playing nice.
I roll my eyes. “Can you just call me Charlie?”
“Nah,” he says, running his thumb over his bottom lip.
I’m distracted by the gesture, despite feeling infuriated by his response. He steps closer to me, and I’m assaulted by his earthy scent. But I refuse to back down. I look up at him to keep eye contact.
“And I suggest you drop the attitude. Now.” His voice drops to a low growl. “As soon as you walk through that door, I’m yourboss.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I hate that he’s right. So much.
I’d never think to sass anyone else in a position of authority, but him flaunting it makes my blood boil. I hold back a sarcastic comment and force a smile.
“What job,boss?” I bite off the last bitter-tasting word.
He stares down at me, and I swear I see the corner of his lips twitch with amusement before he nods at the box office.
“You’re going to work in the box. You can come out for bathroom breaks.”
I stifle a groan before grabbing my coat and purse.
Working in the box office sucks. It’s cold because of the opening at the bottom of the ticket window. John let us leave often during training, but Lincoln is being an asshole by keeping me in his version of ticket purgatory.
Just as I move toward the entryway, resigned to my fate, a warm hand on my forearm stops me. I swear I feel electricity shoot directly to my core at the contact.
“No personal items,” he says, his voice cold.
“Not even my coat?” I protest. “It’s freezing in there!”
