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OLIVE
* * *
Maybe my calling is to be a Spanish teacher. I’d have to learn the language first, of course, and I could never teach adults—but children aren’t quite so intimidating. I could teach Spanish to children. Small ones, like toddlers.
After working two weeks at Dos Panchos, I’ve already picked up some phrases from the cooks. In my enthusiasm to learn, I repeat everything they say to me. Then they laugh. It’s so cute.
Now, they call me into the kitchen every day and gather around me, teaching me a fun, new phase which I write on my notepad. I make flashcards when I get home.
Today we’re having a slow morning, so I’m in the back, taking my notes. Alfonso is especially committed to teaching me the correct pronunciations. The guys are all so impressed by my quick study, they’re cheering me on.
Until the bossman shows up.
Ignacio barks something to them in Spanish, and they scatter like a flock of pigeons. He’s behind me, towering over me both in height and in lofty presence.
I spin on my heel and find myself face to face with his chest. It is quite the impressive chest. Tilting my chin, I gaze up at his stormy expression and clutch my notebook in the small space between us, pen poised to write.
“Um… can you repeat that, please? All I got was hijos de pu—“
“Don’t you dare repeat it.” He turns to go, but stops to say, “And I don’t want you learning Spanish from those guys.”
Ugh. The nerve.
“Why not?”
He comes in closer to me, leaning down so there’s only an inch or two between our noses.
“Because you’re a good girl,” he grumbles. “Aren’t you, Olive?”
Gulp.
“I uh… just want to learn some phrases…”
“Then get an app.”
He saunters away toward his office, and when he glances back over his shoulder and sees me rooted in place, he curls his index finger, signaling for me to follow him.
“Olive,” he beckons, his voice stern yet somehow velvety smooth. This silly crush I have on my boss is getting to be a problem.
My traitorous feet carry me like a lamb to the slaughter, stopping right outside his office.
Ignacio does a once-over of my form. “What are you wearing?”
“Uh, my Dos Panchos polo shirt, my apron, and leggings.”
“Leggings? Is that what you’re calling them?”
“Yes, because that’s what they’re called.”
He twists his lips and scowls at them. “There are candy canes all over them.”
“I know, right? Aren’t they the best?”
I have two pairs of leggings with candy canes but these ones aren’t faded. And they’re black, so they’re slimming.
“It’s like Christmas threw up all over your legs.”
I squint at him. “Are you one of those guys who barely tolerates the holidays?”
