Chapter 9
Chapter 9
I FLOATED AROUND ON Cloud Nine for the next few days, hoping—okay, praying with all my might—everything Marissa and Bailey had found out about this guy they wanted to keep secret from me was good. Only, I knew it was Marcus, so it had to be, of course. He was cute, totally my type, and had already told me he was going to ask me out. Not that I’d mentioned that to them, of course. I wanted them to feel like they were in control of this. If I told them about us, I’d take the fun out of it all for them.
I was sitting with Dad in the living room after dinner, watching another reality cooking show. Some poor schmucks had burned their desserts and were on the end of some nasty comments from the judges, one of them sobbing her heart out.
My mind began to wander to my current job situation—or, rather, lack thereof. Although I loved working at the café, it wasn’t exactly my career. I reached by the side of the chair and lifted my laptop up onto my lap. I needed to find another marketing job, only one that didn’t bore the pants off me like my last one did. I pulled up the available positions listed with one of the recruiters I’d registered with and scrolled through the roles. Email Marketing Assistant? Bleh . Email Marketing Manager? Bleh bleh . Marketing Analyst? I snapped my laptop shut. Although I knew I’d need to start applying for some jobs soon, I couldn’t get my fingers to click on the job descriptions. It all felt so . . . well, bleh .
What was I going to do? I needed to find another job soon. Just, I had no idea what I actually wanted to do with my life anymore.
As if by some cosmic coincidence, my current “boss”—although she was about as far from Portia’s overmanaging, overcontrolling, over-everything-ness as any one person could be—Bailey’s name flashed on my screen.
“Paige, I need your help.” She sounded stressed. “Do you think you could do some more shifts at the café? I’m in a bit of a staff pickle.”
The thought of spending more time at the Cozy Cottage was a pleasant one. I enjoyed the food prep, working with Bailey, and feeling part of something worthwhile. It was busy, never a dull moment for someone who’d spent the last few months in a veritable haze of boredom. Plus, there was the chance to see Marcus again while Bailey and Marissa vetted him for our big date.
“Of course. When do you need me?”
“You are a life saver, Paige. I cannot tell you.”
We agreed I would come in to work several days over the coming week while Bailey kept looking for a more permanent replacement. She told me getting quality staff who stuck around was the hardest thing about running a café. I was happy to help out while I tried to work out what to do with my life.
I slid my laptop back down against the chair and returned my attention to the TV. The sobbing cook now looked inconsolable, as her partner stared grimly at the camera, predicting certain doom.
“They’re for the chop,” Dad pronounced.
My phone rang again, and I flipped it over to look at the screen. My heart leapt into my mouth. It was Marcus. In a moment of positive visualization, I had saved his contact name as “My Last First Date.” When it flashed on my screen, I jumped up, clean out of my seat, and rushed from the room. Dad probably thought my pants had caught fire or something.
I raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and into my bedroom, where I tried to steady myself before pressing “answer.”
“Hello?” I breathed, still catching my breath.
“Hi, is that Paige?” Marcus asked at the other end.
“Yes, it is.” I was pretending I had no idea who he was and I got calls from hot men all the time. Which, sadly, was about as far from the truth as I could get.
“It’s Marcus here, from the café.”
“Hi there, Marcus from the café.” I tried to find the right balance between being happy to hear from him and desperation. It was a surprisingly fine line.
“How are those dishes? Any abuse you need to report to me?” he teased.
“Yes, I have to admit there have been some goings on. Nothing too sinister, but I did notice someone let their dog lick a plate clean yesterday. Does that constitute abuse?”
“No, that constitutes gross.”
I let out a laugh. With all my pent-up adrenaline, it came out in a gush and I launched straight into a coughing fit, having to put my hand over the receiver. Once I’d finally recovered my equilibrium, I spluttered, “Sorry about that. My gin and tonic must have gone down the wrong way.”
“A G I was going to be very happy, very happy indeed.