4. Jules
CHAPTER 4
Jules
“Excuse me?” a man’s voice hollers, laced with just enough arrogance to grate on my nerves. Then he snaps his fingers like I’m some kind of servant. Or a dog.
I glance up, already knowing this guy is going to be a nightmare. Mr. Drunk and Belligerent is in a suit that probably costs more than my college tuition, and his smirk is the kind that makes you want to take a shower after just looking at it.
“Yes?” I ask, trying to keep the I hate you out of my voice.
“I’ll take a blow job,” he says, like he’s delivering the punchline to a joke only he and his douchey friends find amusing.
“Of course.”
I’m about to walk away, when he adds, “Could you repeat my order? I’m not sure you’ll remember it.”
What are we, at a bar? Or in eighth grade? I blink at him, fighting the urge to throw the nearest bottle at his head. He’s seriously expecting me to say, “One blow job, coming up?” As if.
I smile sweetly. “I’ve got it.”
“I want to be sure, baby.”
And now he’s calling me baby.
Rather than stroke his ego, which is exactly what Taylor would do, I decide that whatever tip he’s hoarding over my head isn’t worth it and go with my inner snark. “Your order. I don’t exactly recall the name, but I know it’s made of amaretto and Irish cream, extra whip on top, and is about the size of a shot glass.” I pinch my fingers together. “Like, this big. Right?”
I skip away. He says nothing. His friends say nothing. And I feel the very real possibility I might get fired. But when I return with the drink, all his friends are suddenly gone.
He barely glances at it before sliding his phone across the table, and I already know where this is going. Discretely, I tap my phone but keep it in my pocket.
“Ready for the check?” I ask.
“Give me your number,” he insists.
“I’m afraid I can’t. It’s against policy,” I say with a smile so tight it could snap. Translation: Go fuck yourself .
He jerks my hand, hard enough to bruise. “Be nice, and maybe I’ll let you lick this drink off my dick,” he growls, low enough so no one else can hear.
I yank my hand free and take a step back, keeping my composure despite my erratic pulse. No scene, no drama. I just place the check in front of him, forcing a smile. “If you could just sign, sir.”
He stares at it, almost confused, before finally slipping his credit card into the sleeve. “Do you know who I am?”
God, those six words—nothing screams entitlement louder. It’s right up there with I’ll have your job and My daddy owns this place.
I blink, feigning innocence. “No. ”
“Trent Mercer.”
He drops his name like I should be impressed, and yeah, in any other setting, I might be fawning over him, begging for a job. But today? Not happening. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Of Mercer Media.” He says it with all the smugness of someone who thinks it’s his birthright. And honestly, it’s impressive. One of the biggest publishing houses in the country, with over two hundred bestsellers and offices in five major cities. Pissing him off would be career suicide.
But I calmly take the check and his card, settling the bill like I’m not mentally crafting the most bulletproof pen name in history.
When I return, he leans in, his voice low and sharp. “Mercer Media.”
I know I should play ball here. Give him the ego stroke Taylor’s perfected—bat my eyes, ooh and ah while I act impressed. But he’s such an ass, I just can’t do it. And before I can rein it in, or help myself, my superpower comes out, full force: the power to be the biggest smartass ever.
I pretend to think. “Still nothing,” I say, deadpan. He signs the check, not bothering to look at me. “Stop fucking around and give me your number, or I’ll have you fired.”
Yup, saw that coming a mile away. Because when an a-hole’s charm doesn’t work, they resort to bullying and threats. God, give me strength.
“First of all, touching your phone would likely require a tetanus shot. And second, if this is how you tip, hard pass.”
He’s about to say something, maybe threatening, maybe to get the last word in, and instead of taking it, I walk away with his signed tab. I head past the kitchen to the manager’s office. Marty’s on shift tonight.
I pop my head in. “Taking five.”
He nods while on the phone taking what looks to be a VIP request. “Private dining?” he asks, then adds, “Absolutely.”
I chuckle and roll my eyes. They always say yes to a private dining room because what are people going to do? It takes a week to get a reservation, and if they’re splurging on this place, they’re not getting in anywhere of this caliber faster.
They’re stuck, and the managers all know it.
I head out back and sit on the plastic milk crate and take in a breath. The air is crisp and cool as I gaze up at the stars.
It’s clear tonight, and my heart squeezes. It’s the kind of night my sister Angi would’ve waited until I looked away, then smacked my arm with a, “Did you see that? Shooting star? Quick, make a wish.”
I shut my eyes, trying to escape the ache.
But then, out of nowhere, a pair of Bishop-blue eyes slice through my mind, uninvited, tearing through my thoughts with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. My pulse kicks up, and all I want is to know what he looks like now.
Without thinking, my hand dives into my apron pocket, pulling out my phone like it’s the only thing grounding me. My finger hovers over the B on the keyboard, itching with a dangerous need and slowly peeling away my resolve.
When the door swings open, I’m snapped back to reality. Dave and Lisa walk over, sharing a plate of fries like it’s their last meal. Dave’s got his usual rocket fuel in hand—an iced double cappuccino, zero sugar, extra strong. The kind of drink that could jumpstart a dead car battery .
“I don’t know how you drink that stuff,” I say, eyeing the cup like it’s straight-up diesel.
Lisa answers before he can, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Simple. The man’s clearly burned off all his tastebuds and needs more hair on his chest.”
He nudges the plate toward me with a grin. “So, was that guy as big of a dick as he looked?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Bigger.” I hit play on the recording from my phone. His voice is even more cringy on repeat. “Do you know who I am?” We all burst out laughing as the whole ridiculous encounter plays out.
“Damn, that’s gold,” Lisa says, crunching down on another fry, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’ve got the crown tonight.” She waves her phone at me, a wicked smirk curving her lips. “All I’ve got is some woman who reminded me six times she has a gluten allergy, then ripped me a new one for forgetting her bread.”
Dave chuckles, shaking his head. “The best I’ve got is some guy insisting that his steak be medium-rare—no blood, no pink, just...somewhere in between.” He smirks. “Pretty sure he’d have eaten anything, considering he inhaled the entire plate, parsley and all. Speaking of which, what’s the difference between pussy and parsley?”
My face contorts, and I bury it in my hand just as Lisa blurts out, “What?”
Dave’s grin widens. “No one eats parsley. Well, except the guy at table eight, apparently.”
Lisa shakes her head, laughing. “So, where’s Taylor? I heard she’s off being wined and dined by some guy whisking her away to Ibiza. ”
Dave, with his mouth half full of fries, chimes in, “I think it’s pronounced ‘Ibitha.’ ”
“Is that really how you say it? Ibitha?” Lisa asks, eyebrows raised.
“Sí,” Dave adds with a wink. He takes another sip of his unfiltered swamp water, and Mr. Richards’s words come back, full force.
Find out how he takes his coffee.
To him, it’s just another task for the rookie, but the idea of Brian Bishop and coffee?
“What’s on your mind?” Dave nudges my arm, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts.
“Hypothetically,” I start, trying to sound casual, “if I wanted to find out how someone takes their coffee, how would I do it?”
Dave’s lips curl up like he’s savoring the thought. “Depends. Hypothetically, are we above stalking?”
“Probably not,” I admit, the idea churning in my mind. “But full-on dumpster diving? That’s a hard pass. I’m not that desperate… yet.”
“Is he hot?” Lisa asks, her curiosity piqued.
I haven’t seen him in a decade, but the answer slips out, automatic and sure. “Yes.”
Lisa’s lips curl into a wicked smile. “Then I’d fuck him into a coma and ask him in the morning.”
My mind goes straight to the gutter, picturing him fresh out of the shower, skin slick and glistening, those ice-blue eyes locked on mine like I’m a triple fudge sundae and he hasn’t eaten in a week. The thought of him handing me a cup of coffee before dragging me back to bed to fuck me senseless almost undoes me.
Jesus, Jules, pull it together.
The door slams open, and I barely have time to react before the boss storms out, cigarette already lit. “No, seriously, don’t bother getting up. Let’s all pretend we’re in kindergarten and take our breaks together. What’s next, nap time?”
We trudge back inside, like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Dave, being Dave, can’t resist poking the bear. “Don’t take it out on us just because you’re stuck peddling fake private dining experiences. Maybe hand out some virtual reality goggles to smooth things over.”
Marty doesn’t even blink. “Keep it up, wiseass, and I’ll make sure you’re stuck serving every VIP reservation we’ve got. Permanently.”
Dave’s smirk falters. “All right, all right. No need to go nuclear.”
The rest of the shift drags on, each minute feeling heavier than the last. By the time I’m on the subway, I’m too exhausted to even care that I’m standing. I finally make it home, drop onto the couch, and do the unthinkable. I pull up the only photo I have of Brian.
Graduation day. Not mine. His.
Three rows down, the B’s straight in front of the S’s. I zoom in, focusing on his face, but my eyes drift to the right, and there she is—Angi.
It’s like a punch to the gut every time I see her. The memories hit me in waves, the good ones tangled up with the bad, until I can hardly breathe .
If you can describe a disastrous storm as bright and beautiful, it was Angi.
My phone buzzes, and the screen lights up with a familiar face, her dark brow quirked in that signature way. “Hi,” I answer, bracing myself.
“Hi? That’s all you’ve got?” My mother’s voice blares through the speaker, riding that fine line between annoyed and thrilled. “Why am I the last to know you landed a job?”
“It’s just an entry-level position, Eomma. I don’t even start for a few weeks.”
“Your dream job, Juliana,” my mom says, her voice softening, laced with that familiar undercurrent of pride that threatens to sweep her into a full emotional riptide.
I’m not sure why landing a job makes Eomma so emotional, but considering my mom tears up over everything from Disney movies to Hallmark commercials, I’m not about to rock the boat.
“Remember how you used to interview everyone?” she asks. “And that piece you wrote on Mrs. D.? She still has it framed on her wall.”
A smile tugs at my lips. Mrs. D. As in Mrs. Delilah Donovan, the legend of the Adirondacks. She started as the local mom who could whip up a feast from scratch and ended up a celebrity chef with her own YouTube channel, turning Donovan’s from a cozy mom-and-pop spot into a nationwide sensation.
She’s not just a mentor; she’s family in the way that matters most. Mrs. D. didn’t just open a door for me—she threw it wide open, offering me my first interview, my first job. She gave a quirky, awkward girl with thick glasses and a mouth full of braces a chance—a place where she finally belonged.
And because she’s Mrs. Claus to everyone, she also gave Brian his first job, too, unknowingly setting the stage for the epic disaster of senior year.
A beautiful disaster I can’t seem to shake.
She continues, her voice brimming with excitement. “I’m whipping up a batch of my prize-winning kimchi for Mrs. D. She’s trying some Asian-fusion concepts, and you know how much she loves it.”
To the untrained palate, kimchi is not to be trifled with. Should it be part of an asian-fusion cuisine? Hell yeah. And my mother’s kimchi is the best. When she says prize-winning, she’s not kidding. It took first at the Annual New York Kimchi Contest during Korean Culture Week—a victory that brought her a $500 cash prize and bragging rights for life.
“Angi would be proud of you, too, Juliana.”
Her words linger, stretching the tension between us until it snaps under the weight of a million unsaid words. The pain is sharp, real, like a wave crashing against jagged rocks, only to pull back and leave the emptiness of a hollow ache.
But then her voice shifts, determined and light, sweeping away all the remnants of the moment as if it never happened. “So, what’s your first story going to be?” she asks, charging ahead with a forced brightness.
I open my mouth to respond, but then it hits me, like a lightning bolt cutting through the dark. Wyld Richards’s voice echoes in my mind, A good reporter uses her resources. And really, could there be better resources than the cunning wiles of two formidable mothers ?
Oh, I think not.
I mull it over for a split second, the pieces clicking into place. The Donovans and the Bishops—two families intertwined in a history that runs deep, maybe as deep as Bishop Mountain itself. And if anyone knows how Brian Bishop takes his coffee today, it’s Mrs. D.
This is too perfect. “You’re seeing Mrs. D. soon, right?”
“Sunday,” she confirms.
“I might need a little favor.”
“A source? For your story?” Her excitement bubbles up before simmering to a cool, conspiratorial whisper. “Anonymously?”
I stifle a laugh. Could there be a better partner in crime than a die-hard Gillian Flynn fan? “Definitely.”