Love at First Heist (Literally #2)

Chapter 1 – Magnolia

CHAPTER

ONE

MAGNOLIA

It’s crazy how quickly life can unravel.

And I’m not talking about the kind of unraveling that happens as a result of betrayal or scandal, or even heartbreak.

I’m talking about foam—or rather, the faint, traitorous sheen of milk where there should have been none.

An important detail, because this whole thing could have been avoided if Preston Blake hadn’t developed an obsession with bone-dry cappuccinos sometime around Q3 projections…

I can’t believe it’s only Tuesday, I think to myself as I balance two cardboard trays like I’m defusing a bomb. The elevator smells like dwindling ambition and burnt espresso, which honestly feels on brand for Blake & Associates—where dreams go to get itemized.

I’ve worked here for six years. Six-fucking-years.

That’s longer than most celebrity marriages, longer than my last relationship, longer than the time it takes to earn a college degree that would qualify me for a better paying job.

Hell, it’s longer than the time I’ve been out as a lesbian.

And yet here I am, carrying around coffee like I’m someone’s PA.

Again.

To be clear, I’m an executive administrative coordinator.

That’s corporate lingo for “woman who keeps everything from collapsing while the men take credit for it.” But Preston Blake’s mornings hinge on precision, on ritual, on a bone-dry cappuccino so aggressively devoid of moisture it might qualify as a personality trait.

And when Preston Blake likes something a certain way, the entire building adjusts accordingly.

Stepping out of the elevator, I saunter across the glittering marble floor of the lobby, passing the wall-sized photo of Preston shaking hands with some other corporate dickhead along the way.

Our receptionist, Hannah, glances up at the sound of my heels, her eyes falling to the flimsy cardboard trays in my hands.

“Dry?” she whispers.

“Bone,” I whisper back.

She nods solemnly—as she does every day—and tucks a wayward strand of auburn hair behind her ear.

There’s a subtle bat to her lashes and a meek smile to follow, but I don’t acknowledge them.

I never do. Hannah likes to silently remind me she’s bi, and I like to silently ignore her.

She’s too young, and frankly, I’ve never been one to get involved with co-workers.

Preston’s office door is already half open when I approach. He likes it that way—accessible but not welcoming.

“Come in,” he calls out, his tone irritated as if the concept of an interruption was unfathomable.

Inhaling a fortifying breath, I push it open with my hip and make my way inside.

My boss is fifty-three, recently divorced, and perpetually on the verge of believing he’s the smartest person in any room. He doesn’t look up from his desktop when I set the to-go cup on his desk.

“You’re late,” he snaps, his eyes still trained on whatever world-altering email he thinks he’s writing.

“It’s 8:03,” I reply.

“You’re scheduled for 8.”

I blink. While that’s true, we’re talking about three goddamn minutes here, not half an hour. I want to point out that he sent me to a different cafe this morning because the regular one “looked understaffed,” but I don’t. I also don’t mention the long line and the fact that it was out the door.

Instead, I smile. “I apologize, sir. It won’t happen again.”

Preston finally looks up at me then, his stare deadly as he reaches for the cup and pops the lid. The second he peers inside, his mouth thins into a tight line. My stomach all but drops out of my ass.

“There’s milk,” he deadpans.

My brain short-circuits because...what? How? “There shouldn’t be.” I step closer and inspect the cup myself. “I specified no fo—”

“There’s milk, Magnolia.” He emphasizes the K and says my name like it’s a flaw, a disgusting one at that.

I stare into the cup again. It…looks like foam. No, it is foam, but there’s the faintest sheen to the top, a whisper of gloss, only a suggestion of hydration. “It may not be fully dr—”

“I don’t pay you to ‘may’ things,” he snaps.

You don’t pay me nearly enough for any of this, I think, but what I end up saying is, “I can go back.”

His shitty brown eyes flick to the clock on the wall, then back to me in nothing short of outrage. “And delay my morning further? I think not.”

“It’ll take ten minutes.”

“I have a call in five.”

“I can make it here, then. The break room has a—”

He sets the cup down like it’s contaminated, his face contorted in a combination of indignation and distaste. “This is incompetence.”

“Incompetence?” I repeat before I can stop myself.

Preston nods and leans back in his leather chair, raking a hand through his perfectly styled salt and pepper hair. “Do you know how much I pay you?”

Yes.

Not enough to live alone in this city.

Not enough to justify the 11 p.m. emails.

And certainly not enough to absorb the humiliation of foam audits.

“I’m aware of my salary,” I grit through my teeth.

“And yet,” he gestures vaguely at the coffee, “this.”

I almost scream.

Six years. Six years of staying late, of reorganizing his calendar when he double-books himself. Six years of smoothing over passive-aggressive client emails, and remembering his daughter’s birthday when he forgot.

“For what it’s worth,” I start, and I can hear the shift in my voice, the tremor of something dangerous looming in each word, “I do significantly more here than just pick up your coffee.”

His eyes narrow into lethal slits. “Excuse me?”

I should stop, I know I should, but I don’t.

“I basically run this office, Preston. I field all of your calls and rewrite your presentations when you ‘accidentally’ plagiarize entire sections from Forbes. I’m the one who caught the discrepancy in the Sloan proposal.

I’m the one who restructured your quarterly deck at midnight so you wouldn’t embarrass yourself in front of the board. I’m the one who—”

“You’re overstepping,” he growls.

“No,” I hold my chin high, pulse pounding in my ears, “I’m clarifying.”

There’s a long, loaded pause as we hold each other’s stare. One minute, two, I don’t know how much time passes before he crosses an ankle over his knee and steeples his fingers. “If you’re unhappy here, Magnolia, you’re free to leave at any time.

“I’m not unhappy,” I say tightly, though we both know that’s a lie. The only reason I haven’t already walked out is because of rent and student loans, because the world doesn’t stop when you quit your job, and just existing is expensive.

Preston glances at the coffee again, then up to where I stand. “If you weren’t unhappy, you wouldn’t be so sloppy.”

That does it.

I am many things—tired, underpaid, and occasionally petty—but I am not sloppy. “How? Please elaborate. I’ve never missed a deadline, I’ve never dropped a client, and I’ve never once left you unprepared.”

“You brought me the wrong drink.”

“It’s foam, Preston,” I snap—like a goddamn twig. “It’s frickin’ foam. The cafe was busy, and the barista screwed up. That’s not my fault. And it certainly doesn’t warrant being called sloppy.”

Silence.

It’s so damn quiet you can hear a pin drop.

He goes stockstill in his seat, his stare pointed, and it’s then I immediately regret the words that just came out of my mouth. I know that look. In fact, I know it well. I’ve seen it aimed at interns, vendors, and anyone who forgets their place many, many times before.

“You’re fired,” he says evenly.

The words are so clean and so crisp that, for a moment, I assume I’ve misheard him. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re clearly dissatisfied, and if a simple request is beyond your capabilities, then perhaps you’re not a good fit for this company.” He doesn’t even look at me, sliding the offending coffee away and turning back to his computer.

My heart slams against my ribs as my stomach roils sourly, threatening to upheave what I ate on the subway. “You’re firing me? Over coffee?”

“No, I’m firing you primarily over your attitude, but also because you can’t follow simple instructions—like a coffee order.”

I laugh in disbelief, like actually laugh, out loud. I can’t even help it. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am entirely serious. Security will escort you to gather your things.”

That was three months ago.

Three long months in which my life has gone to complete and utter shit. I’m still unemployed, still waking up at 7 with nowhere to be. Since then, I’ve sent out thirty-two job applications—and received exactly one automated rejection. Other than that…thing.

Silence

Pure-fucking-crickets.

And that doesn’t include all of the applications I’ve filled out in person.

To put it simply, the job market is crap, and apparently, I’m not qualified enough for all the companies that are hiring.

I’ve considered being an…accountant. You know, the spicy kind, but I’m not too keen on showing my face.

Last thing I need is someone I know coming across a video.

Not to mention society seems to take offense to big girls shaking some ass and getting their bag.

I’ve learned to love myself enough that fatphobic comments in real life slide right off my back, but keyboard warriors have a way of getting under people’s skin, and I don’t need another reason to feel sorry for myself right now.

Life is fucking me hard enough, and not in the fun way.

As I skip down the steps to the subway, the pungent scents of hot metal, sweat, and garbage assaulting my nostrils, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I skirt around a few people and fish out the device. On the screen sits a bank notification.

Low balance alert!

I do nothing but laugh a self-deprecating laugh as the moment I was fired replays in my head for the millionth time.

Because really, what else is there to do?

Cry? Scream? Throw myself onto the subway tracks and call it a day?

Tempting, sure, but I’ve never been one for theatrics.

Quiet desperation does the job just fine, thank you very much.

Shaking my head, I tuck my phone away and step onto the platform as the train screeches into the station, the doors sliding open with a tired wheeze.

I move with the boisterous crowd on autopilot and sink into one of the plastic seats.

Six years. I gave Preston Blake six years of my life, and I have nothing to show for it except a low balance alert and a looming eviction.

My jaw tightens, especially when I think about the fact that he’s still up there in his glass office, in his stupid leather chair, probably drinking a perfectly dry cappuccino right now while I’m down here calculating whether I can stretch my groceries for another four days.

It’s not fair, I think to myself as my phone vibrates yet again.

I glance down at the screen to find a new notification, only this time it’s from an unknown number. My brow curves as I read the preview.

Unknown

I sent you the specs on Preston Blake’s building. East side entrance is going to be your best bet. Let me know if you’re still thinking Friday at midnight.

My heart stutters, eyes all but bulging out of their sockets because…what?