Chapter 6
MYA
It’s a typical Tuesday morning at the café.
The sound of the espresso machine fills the quiet as I pull my hair into a messy low bun.
It’s been a week since my interview at W.H.M. HR hasn’t called, but I’m not holding my breath. They said we’d have answers by the end of this week—I already know mine. I’m still haunted by Mr. Miller’s words like a verdict I can’t appeal.
We can’t hire her.
Part of me thinks he’s right. I don’t deserve the job.
I shake my head.
A few rebellious strands of hair fall around my face, but I don’t bother fixing them.
Like an idiot, I even mentioned my dead father. Who does that? Who drags their grief into a work interview?
Apparently, me.
But my dad is the reason I even wanted this career in the first place.
However, what I really can’t shake—what I hate that I can’t shake—is the rush that went through me when Mr. Miller looked at me.
My stomach twists as I think about the interview again, about Worth Miller’s penetrating eyes and the way his dismissal still rings in my head. He doesn’t want me there. He made that perfectly clear.
Apron tied at my waist, I’m halfway to the cash register when the front door swings open.
One of my co-workers, Eric, shuffles in, hood up, sunglasses on, muttering something about how he should still be in bed.
“Morning to you too,” I tease, stepping aside so he can pass.
“Ugh,” he groans, dragging his feet towards the counter. “Never doing tequila shots on a Monday again. Who even thought that was a good idea?”
I chuckle and pat him on the back. “Sounds like you had fun, though.”
“Fun, sure. Though my liver disagrees.” He grins at me through his hangover. “You should come out with us next time. We’re doing trivia night at O’Malley’s this Thursday. Cheap drinks, good music, bad decisions. You in?”
My smile falters before I can catch it. “Maybe! We’ll see,” I hedge, turning my attention to the register.
I remember when I used to say yes to nights like that without a second thought.
In my first year of college, I went out constantly—drinks with friends, late-night takeout, spontaneous weekend trips.
I lived like I had an endless supply of cash, swiping my credit cards without blinking.
Two cards, actually. Both maxed out before I’d even graduated.
Being twenty-four and thousands of dollars in debt isn’t how I pictured starting my life. When I finally faced the reality of the hole I’d dug for myself, I slammed the brakes on all unnecessary spending. No more trips. No more random bar tabs. No more “fun” if it came with a price tag.
I push the thoughts away before they drag me under and start counting the till, sliding crisp bills into place.
The shop doesn’t open for another thirty minutes, so Eric puts on a 2000s pop playlist, and we fall into our usual prep routine. He loads the baked goods display while I replenish the coffee cups, both of us singing badly and loudly to Britney Spears’ ‘Stronger.’
Eight o’clock arrives faster than I expect. I flip the sign to Open and unlock the door for the first wave of customers.
As I hurry back behind the counter, the bell above the door jingles again. I glance up.
My body freezes, a jolt shooting straight down my spine. No. It can’t be.
Worth Miller?
I don’t even have to get a good look to know it’s him. His presence has been lodged in my head for days.
What the hell is he doing here, anyway?
I scold myself. He’s here to get coffee like everyone else, duh.
I keep my head down and hide behind one of the machines, like if I don’t make eye contact, maybe he won’t notice me.
Then I hear a softer, feminine voice answering his lower tone.
Before I can think better of it, my head snaps towards the sound, completely ignoring the fact that this means risking him seeing me. Not because I’m embarrassed about working here, but because after my dumpster fire of an interview, I’d rather not face him again.
It also doesn’t help that the man is gorgeous. In a clean-cut, should-be-illegal kind of way. Meanwhile, I look like Ursula just crawled out of bed and decided to sling lattes for the day.
Dammit. I knew I should’ve washed my hair this morning.
When I finally focus on who he’s talking to, my brow furrows. Standing beside him is a teenage girl—thirteen, maybe fourteen—tall, with sharp cheekbones and the same greyish eyes as his.
She’s smiling at something he says, nudging him in the ribs.
He has a daughter?
The young girl heads straight to the booth in the far-left corner by the window, sliding in like it’s her usual spot, even though I’ve never seen her here before.
Worth turns from her, scanning the café, and his eyes land on the bar.
I duck so fast behind the counter, my knees slam on the floor.
“Ow.”
At the same time, Demi steps out of the kitchen and freezes when she sees me crouched like a fugitive. “Mya, what the hell—”
“Shhhhh!” I hiss, pressing my index finger to my lips.
Her mouth twists. “My bad.” She tiptoes away, disappearing to the opposite side of the café like we’re in the middle of a spy op.
If any customers notice my ridiculous behavior, they don’t comment.
Thank God Tiana isn’t here. She’d have a field day with this.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my apron pocket.
TJ:
Why are you playing hide and seek at work, MJ? Are you drunk?
My gaze shoots up towards the security camera. How could I forget? My sister has remote access to the feed on her phone.
Tiana takes her job a little too seriously.
But I get it. The owner, Mr. Patel, is a sweet older man who’s been hinting for years that he’s ready to retire and sell the place.
TJ’s a social media influencer—good at it, too—and even though she likes what she does, she’s always had bigger plans.
She was supposed to start a business degree before her brand blew up.
And when the followers and sponsorships hit, Tiana pressed pause to ride the wave.
It’s worked for her, but she’s not about to pass up a real foothold in the business world.
Owning something of her own has always been her dream, and she loves Willow’s so much she treats it like it’s already hers.
I can respect that, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s a total creep for watching me like some café security overlord.
I glare at the little black dome and flip it the finger.
Another vibration.
TJ:
You’re fired.
Buzz off. I’m kinda freaking out here.
TJ:
Why???
Look at who’s in line…
A three-dot bubble appears for a second, then her reply pops up.
TJ:
Gasp! It’s the blue collar playboy in the flesh.
I slide to the floor and crawl towards the kitchen. Eric glances over mid-pastry prep, one brow raised, but he doesn’t say a word.
Something hard taps the top of my head. I look down to see a cardboard cup rolling to a stop by my hand.
I turn towards him, narrowing my eyes and mouthing, What the fuck?
Eric smirks and mouths back, You owe me, before turning on the charm for the next customer like nothing happened.
Finally in the safety of the kitchen, I let out the breath I’ve been holding and fish my phone out again.
Do you think he saw me?
My phone rings almost instantly.
“Why are you hiding from him?” Tiana demands the second I answer.
I pace in a small circle. “Well, we didn’t exactly get along at the interview. Plus, if he sees me here again, he’ll realize I left Willow’s off my résumé, and that might tank my already nonexistent shot at the job.”
There’s a pause. Then she bursts out laughing.
“Mya, you’re overreacting. He’s not gonna care that you have a job. If anything, it shows you’re responsible. You’re a graduate with bills to pay. He’s probably been there himself.”
Maybe she’s right. I’ve read a few articles about Worth since the interview.
Strictly research for the job, of course.
Most of the articles weren’t about construction or business.
They were about his other reputation—the man is always photographed with a different woman on his arm at every gala or charity event.
Then there were paparazzi shots of him shirtless on a yacht in Saint-Tropez, swim shorts hanging low on his hips, sunglasses shielding his eyes while the sun lit up the salt-and-pepper scruff on his jaw.
His body was chiseled, unfairly so, and the image burned into my brain before I could click away.
I shake my head hard, dragging myself back to reality. Nope. Absolutely not. I can’t think about him like that. He’s my potential boss, for God’s sake.
“You should seize this opportunity and go back out there to talk to him! It’ll show initiative, and you’ll most likely leave a mark on him, if you haven’t already,” she says, her tone filled with mischief.
“Show him that you’re interested. I’m sure he won’t bite…
Actually, maybe you do want him to bite you, if you know what I mean. ”
I can practically hear the waggle of her brows.
Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “Focus, Tiana.”
She’s not wrong, though. This could be my last shot at showing Worth I’m serious about the job. I need this—not just for my career, but to keep up with my bills. Not that I’d ever admit that part to her.
“Okay, I’ll do it. Let’s just hope I don’t embarrass myself again.”
The memory of me talking about my deceased father, my voice wobbling, eyes stinging, flashes uninvited. Nearly crying in front of the entire hiring board… Perfect first impression, really. And then practically arguing with the CEO on top of that? I cringe.
“You’ll be fine. Go get ’em, tiger!” Tiana roars into the phone, making me shake my head with laughter despite myself.
I hang up and draw in a deep breath, forcing my shoulders to relax and my pulse to slow.
The plan is simple: walk out there, greet him like he’s any other customer, and when I pretend to finally see him, I’ll stop by his table for a quick, casual chat. Easy.
Hopefully, he won’t mind me crashing what’s clearly a daddy–daughter outing.
Daddy.
The word sends a sudden rush of heat down my spine, and I immediately clamp down on it.
No, Mya. Get your mind out of the gutter.
I’m aiming to be his employee—his subordinate. Not someone who daydreams about him in ways that would definitely violate a HR policy. And besides, I’m too young for him. Way too young.
Either way, this is a big gamble. He’s already made it clear he didn’t want to hire me.
But what do I have to lose?
I step back out, cheeks still warm, a timid smile tugging at my mouth. I can feel the embarrassment in my eyes as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t have.
Worth is at the counter, and his gaze immediately lands on me. His brow furrows, like he’s only just placing me.
“Good morning, Mr Miller.”
“Mya, is it?”
“Uh, yeah. Hi. Nice to see you again.” I extend my hand before I can overthink it.
He waits a beat too long. My smile falters and I start to pull back, mortified, when his fingers close around mine at the last second.
A spark shoots up my arm. My pulse spikes, and for half a second, the room narrows to just the two of us.
We both let go quickly, and I try to pretend nothing happened.
What was that?
“Likewise,” he says flatly.
I yank my hand back and stuff it into my pocket like I can smother the zing still humming under my skin.
“I didn’t realize you worked here.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I figured it wouldn’t help my chances,” I admit. “It’s just temporary anyway.” I shift my weight and tuck a loose curl behind my ear, wishing it would behave.
Eric slides Worth’s order across the counter—two drinks and a bag with muffins. Worth nods to him, then to me. “Thanks. Well, best of luck, Mya.”
I paste on a polite smile in return.
As he turns away, I stand there with a thousand bad ideas crowding in.
Should I go over and explain that I wasn’t trying to be insubordinate at the interview? That I panicked and my mouth outran my judgment? I should definitely apologize, at least.
I glance toward his table. He’s already seated, jacket off, sleeves rolled, smiling at his daughter as she digs into one of the pastries.
You could walk over there, Mya. Own it.
Or you could leave with what little dignity you have left.
I wipe my palms on my apron. Then I square my shoulders and make myself move.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Miller. I was actually wondering if I could have a word?”
He glances up. “Sure,” he says, leaning back in his seat.
I turn to the young girl across from him and soften. “Hi, I’m Mya.”
She smiles politely. “I’m Brianna. Nice to meet you.”
I draw a breath, fingers knotting together to stop them from shaking.
“I just wanted to apologize if I came across unprofessional during the interview. Bringing up my father and speaking to you the way I did was inappropriate. I don’t know what I was thinking; I promise that isn’t how I normally conduct myself. ”
The word father scrapes my throat raw. My eyes gloss and I blink. He doesn’t say anything, just stares.
“I’m probably just making this worse,” I mutter, already stepping back.
“Apologies don’t retroactively make an interview stronger,” he finally responds before I can leave, his voice even. “Your portfolio will either hold up or it won’t.”
I swallow. “Understood.” I should go now. Instead, I hear myself say, “For what it’s worth, I wasn’t trying to be dramatic. It was context.” Worth nods, and I straighten. “But I’m aware of timing, Mr. Miller. I also thought owning a misstep mattered.”
His mouth tips. “Owning it. Noted.”
My cheeks flame again.
Worth exhales, looking at my fidgeting hands.
“I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent,” he says, a little less clipped, “but I understand loss. When you lose someone or something you thought would always be there, it leaves a big hole. Sometimes it closes. Sometimes it doesn’t.
But either way, it changes you. That’s all. ”
Then he adds, almost dismissively, “You’re still young. You have time to find your footing again.”
The way he says ‘young’ lands like an insult. As if grief has an expiration date. As if pain means less when it comes in a younger body.
I swallow the anger down.
Because from someone like Worth Miller, I believe it’s the closest thing to comfort I’ll ever get.
He clears his throat and checks his watch. “If you’re asking for an answer, I don’t have one for you. If you’re selected, you’ll hear from HR by week’s end.”
I nod, throat tight. “Thank you for your time.”
He gives a single, dismissive dip of his chin and glances at Brianna. “I need to get my daughter to school.”
“Of course.” I force myself to turn away, feeling the sting of his cold professionalism like frigid air on an open wound and hating that a part of me still wants to look back.