Chapter 2 #2
“Uh, I wound up at a motel,” I said with a swallow. “The Airbnb fell through.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. I had been looking into an Airbnb the last time we talked, but they wanted over a grand for the week. The motel cost me fifteen bucks a night.
“A motel?” Her tone changed.
“It’s really not that bad,” I lied again, trying to make it true. “It’s in a nicer area and the bed’s cozy. There are locks on the door.”
I was sure she’d slept in far worse places and didn’t complain at all.
Though she also knew how to incapacitate a man a hundred different ways. I didn’t, but it was something I’d decided to become committed to learning if it meant being able to sleep through the night again after what happened.
“That’s it, I’m cash apping you.”
“ No ,” I all but snapped, inhaling deep through my nose to regain control, a caffeine deprivation migraine forming behind my eyes. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I just… I feel like I need to do this myself, you know?”
A long silence filled the other end of the line, punctuated by a soft sigh. “Yeah. I know. Just promise me that if you get stuck or you need help, you’ll call?”
“Promise.”
“Because you know you would do the same for me if the situation was reversed. It’s not charity if it’s between friends.”
I cringed inwardly at the insinuation, even though I knew she didn’t mean it that way.
“Right.” I chewed my bottom lip, thinking about the not quite two hundred dollars left in my purse and how long it would last me between the nightly rate at the motel and food. Could I even afford a latte?
Before I could cave in and accept her help, I spotted the cafe I’d clocked the first time I walked this street yesterday.
“Any job prospects yet?”
The sign read Death before Decaf , and my heart leapt.
Just one latte. Then I’d use the shitty single cup brewer in the motel room from now on.
“Becca?”
“What?” I shook my head, trying to tune back into the phone conversation as I narrowly missed getting hit by a late model BMW while rushing across the street, inhaling the intoxicating aroma of a freshly pulled espresso shot and warm frothed milk as if I could taste it already.
“Have you had any job interviews?”
Right. The other part of living the broke girl life. I needed a job. Yesterday.
I’d scanned the wanted ads in the local paper that’d been placed outside my motel door like an actress out of a nineties movie, but there wasn’t much to find.
The online ads had more options, but almost everything required either some kind of degree or a minimum X amount of years of experience. I had neither.
Thanks to my wealthy upbringing, I’d never worked a damn day in my life.
“Uh… there wasn’t much that I think I’d have a shot at, but I’m working on it.”
I stepped out of the way as a nauseatingly touchy couple stepped from the coffee shop hand in hand, nuzzling each other like they were cats instead of human beings.
The door swung closed behind them before I could grasp the handle.
“You’ll find something,” Ava Jade was saying on the other end of the call. “Just don’t give up.”
A flyer posted on the outside of the door caught my eye, and I stopped, my lips parting at the simple message printed in black serif on the otherwise simple slip of white paper.
Part-time Barista Position Available. Inquire Within.
“Actually, Aves, I do have an interview. Right now. Can I call you later?”
“You fucking better. And you’re coming to the Lodi show next month, right? We miss you.”
I nodded as though she could see me and then laughed at my space-cadet ass and strolled into the shop. “I’ll be there. Love you.”
“Love you.”
I hung up and dropped my phone back into my purse, taking in the coffee shop that looked huge from the outside but somehow managed to feel small once you were swallowed up inside it.
The brick walls were painted a flat black and artwork of several different, yet distinct types adorned them in each separate cozy little nook area of the long space.
On closer inspection, it was obvious that each nook featured artwork by a different artist. Likely rotated out every few weeks or months.
A girl with curly blonde hair at the counter helped the couple of customers in line, while a guy with a shock of white hair and killer eyeliner frothed milk in a stainless steel pitcher at a monstrosity of an espresso machine down the line.
It put the little Rocket Apartamento machine I’d had installed back at Briar Hall to absolute shame.
I couldn’t wait to get my hands on it.
“Can I get you something?” the girl with the blonde hair called, finished with the other customers in line. She cocked her head at me curiously, taking in my Loro Piana and Stuart Weitzman boots, an envious but also leery expression creeping onto her heart-shaped face.
I swallowed, trying to channel my inner confidence, aka, my inner Ava Jade, as I strolled to the counter. “Hi, is the manager available?”
A crease formed between her brows. She hadn’t been expecting that.
“Is he expecting you?”
“No. I, uh, I just saw the job posting outside. I want to apply.”
Her brow lifted, but she turned, hollering toward the back of the cafe, her name tag catching the overhead light. Kate.
“Logan!”
“He’ll be right out,” she said, her blue eyes finding the person behind me, hinting that I should move out of the way.
I didn’t. “Sorry, could I also get a latte? Large, three shots of espresso?”
She nodded, keying it into the register.
Were lattes always seven fucking dollars? Jesus.
I handed over a few bills with a cringe, forcing myself to drop another dollar and change into the tip jar because first impressions and all.
“Thanks,” I said, strained, as a man pushed through a swinging door from a back room and came down the serving line to the front.
“Thought we talked about the shouting thing, Kate. What is it?”
Kate indicated where I stood and I lifted to my full height, holding out a hand to the man with the messy brown hair and six o’clock shadow that gave him an I’ll escort you to the fires of Mordor quality that was really working for him.
“Becca Hart,” I said with more confidence than I felt.
He narrowed his eyes. “Logan,” he replied, giving me a once over as he took my hand, giving it a firm yet short shake. “How can I help you?”
“Your latte,” the guy with the white hair said, pushing a tall cup across the counter to me. I didn’t miss the look he gave me or the fact that he’d put my latte in a to-go cup even though I never specified whether I was staying or not.
This wasn’t going well.
Stop overthinking it, Becks.
I cleared my throat, taking the cup with a smile. “I’m here for an interview.”
The manager’s brow furrowed. “I don’t have any interviews today.”
A good sign. The position wasn’t filled yet, then.
“Have you submitted a resume?”
The better question was whether I’d even written one. Answer: no.
No fucking idea where to start.
I scoured my brain for a sharp reply, but came up empty.
Shit.
“No,” I answered, deciding the truth was probably the best place to start if I was going to have any chance at working here. “But if you have five minutes, I promise I’ll make it worth your time. I know my way around an espresso machine and I’m a people person.”
At least the first part was true.
He scrutinized me in a new light.
“Do you have a resume with you?”
“ Umm… ”
“Look, Becca, was it? Why don’t you come by tomorrow with a resume and I’ll take a look?—”
“I’m here now, and so are you. There’s nothing a piece of paper can tell you that I can’t in person.”
His eyes popped wide at my insistence, something like interest sparking in their hazel depths.
“All right,” he acquiesced after a moment’s hesitation, jerking his chin in the direction of two vacant armchairs near the front of the shop in an alcove of rainbow abstracts. “You have five minutes.”
He lifted a section of the counter and stepped through, brushing past me, untying his apron as he went.
I followed behind him, my nerves on fire as I watched him toss his apron over the back of his armchair and flop down onto the cushion.
The pressure of knowing this job could be the difference between me surviving on ramen and motel coffee or real person food and free lattes threatened to crush me.
My palms were slick with sweat as I slipped into the seat opposite him and brought the latte to my lips. That first sip feeling helped ease the nerves enough to let my shoulders drop.
“Four minutes, thirty seconds,” Logan said, cocking his head to one side. “Tell me why I should hire you instead of one of the forty other applicants who actually bothered to drop off a resume.”
I inhaled, and readied myself to exhale the most bullshit list of job experiences and strengths I probably didn’t possess.
After my four minutes and thirty seconds were almost through, I knew he wasn’t convinced. He leaned forward over his knees, steepling his fingers as he considered me. “Was any of what you just told me true? Or was it all bullshit?”
My stomach dropped.
I wasn’t that bad of a liar.
But I also had no idea what I was talking about when it came to explaining job duties and experience. Fuck.
“Okay, look, I?—”
Logan stood up with a sigh, reaching for his apron. I beat him to it, scooping it from the back of the armchair. I pulled it over my head and knotted it at the back of my black dress.
“What are you doing?”
“Working. Give me a shot. I’ll work the rest of the day for free, and if by the end of it you still don’t want to hire me, then I’ll leave.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Behind him, I noticed the guy with the white hair cocking his head at me with a grin while he whispered to the blonde. At least I was providing some entertainment.
“I wasn’t lying about knowing my way around an espresso machine,” I pressed. “Let me make you a latte.”
His hazel eyes met mine, lips pressed in a tight line. He wasn’t saying no. I grabbed onto that life raft with both fucking hands.
“Please,” I changed tactics. “I need this job.”
“Fine,” he said, giving me a sharp look before I could jump for joy. “But I don’t tolerate liars, Becca Hart.”
“Right. I’m sorry.”
“You have four hours. Impress me.”