Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
Around 1:00 p.m. on Monday, the coffee shop is dead, giving me the opportunity to finally sift through the stack of resumés. I’m desperate to fill Marquess’s spot on the morning roster, especially now that school is back is session, stealing Kevin and Stacie from me several weekday mornings. And Corrine still isn’t pulling her weight.
One of the shop’s owners is on location, working out of the back office, so I’m stuck vetting applications out front. I sit at a high-top table in the farthest corner from the register. The chrome stool is hard and uncomfortable, and I just know my ass is going to be crying soon.
I’ve just finished reviewing the first application when Noémie walks through the front door. My breath catches.
Her presence is unexpected. Not only has it been weeks since she last graced Grind That Bean with her presence, but it’s also surprising to see her at this hour. The Poutine Princess only ever came during the morning rush.
My eyes eat her up, and I’m glad she’s not looking in my direction. Today, she resembles a model in a photograph more than a person in the flesh. She’s decked mostly in black—a shiny leather motorcycle jacket studded with silver hardware, distressed black jeans with the knees torn out, and a pair of chunky heeled boots. A beret rests at an angle atop her head. Beneath it, her auburn hair is pulled up in a tight bun. An orange messenger bag is slung across her body. Thick framed Ray-Bans hide her eyes.
She’s absolutely stunning.
Noémie doesn’t approach the front counter. Instead, she stands off to the side of the entrance. Lowering her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, she surveys the area. Her visual sweep ends the moment she spots me.
Our eyes meet, and a strange sensation makes my skin buzz. She begins walking towards me. As the distance between us closes, I grip the batch of applications tighter.
“May I sit?” she asks, stopping at the edge of the table. Before I can even think to answer, she’s dragging a chrome stool out from under the table.
“Yeah, sure,” I mutter, letting go of the resumés. I should be annoyed that she started taking a seat before I could answer. I should be annoyed by her attitude and rudeness, but I’m more curious than anything. And I’ve always had a thing for bitchy women who take what they want and ask questions later.
Noémie removes her bag, setting it down on the vacant stool beside her. Next, she takes off her sunglasses and hooks them onto a pocket near the lapel of her jacket. Like on Friday night, her lips are painted red, but the rest of her makeup is applied so lightly that it isn’t really apparent that she’s wearing any.
I can’t read the expression on her face, but it seems serious. A storm brews in the depths of her grey eyes. There’s the tiniest crease between her brows.
My knee bounces as I wonder what the Poutine Princess could possibly want with me. I can’t quite believe she’s here, sitting in front of me. She sought me out, and I assume it’s because of what happened on Friday night. I can’t quite believe that she recognized me—that I’m not invisible to her.
I urge myself to play the part of being indifferent—like my heart isn’t beating a million times per minute. I hope my face isn’t giving away my nerves.
A thick silence settles between us as I wait for her to say something.
Leaning over the pickup counter, Wayne observes us with his jaw dropped. Pointing at Noémie’s back, he mouths, “What the actual fuck?”
I almost chuckle, but I catch myself. “So …” I say, crossing my arms.
“So … I just wanted to say thank-you for walking me home Friday night.” She drums her fingers on the table. Her manicured nails are clipped short. They are painted a vibrant orange that contrasts nicely against the purple tabletop.
“I didn’t think you recognized me.”
Noémie blinks. A flush creeps up her neck. “I come here all the time, of course, I recognized you,” she says forcefully. Her defensiveness takes me aback.
I clear my throat. “Okay. You’re welcome.” I don’t know what else to say. This conversation is awkward, and I want to abort it while also not wanting it to end. Where she’s concerned, I’ve always had conflicting feelings, and maybe it’s because she’s someone that I’d love to take to bed but never could.
Where women are concerned, I’ve never had any troubles finding someone to keep me company at night. But the Poutine Princess is so out of my league, and her nearness makes me anxious the same way parallel parking on a busy city street does.
“If that’s all you had to say, I’m kind of busy,” I say, nodding at the heap of resumés.
Noémie’s grey eyes narrow on the stack. “You’re hiring?”
“Yeah.”
Her brows furrow. For a moment she goes quiet. Then, she says, “I want to apply.”
This time, I can’t stop the chuckle from bursting from my lips. “You want to work here?”
“Why is that funny?” Her frown deepens. Her scarlet lips press together in a display of unmistakable exasperation. “Why wouldn’t I want to work here? It’s not far from where I live, and I’m more than qualified. I’ve been working in the hospitality industry since before I can even remember. Also, I recently graduated from Le Cordon Bleu in Ottawa, where I received my Grand Dipl?me.”
“Le Cordon Bleu—I think you’re a bit overqualified for a barista job,” I say. Frankly, I’m shocked to hear that the Princess has worked a single day in her life. Her family is ridiculously rich. “I don’t know much about culinary school, but isn’t Le Cordon Bleu a big deal? Wouldn’t you rather work in one of those fancy restaurants where they plate food with tweezers?”
Noémie folds her arms over her chest and leans back a bit in her seat. A sigh escapes her lips. “Here’s the thing—are you familiar with Poutine Heaven?”
I decide to play dumb. “Yeah, I think so,” I say. “It’s the fast-food chain with the founder who hates gay people?”
Her jaw visibly clenches. “My father doesn’t hate gay people. He just thinks they’re confused.”
I snort. “And what do you think? Do you think the gays are confused?”
“I … I’m an ally,” Noémie replies.
I don’t buy her answer. Her faltering words aren’t assuring. The look I send her tells her as much.
“I’m an ally,” she repeats, sounding a lot surer.
“Okay, so your daddy owns Poutine Heaven. I’m even more confused why you’d want to work here.”
Noémie bites her lip. “The plan was that my father would help me open my own restaurant, but a few weeks ago he cut me off,” she admits. “So I just need a job to help tie me over until he cools down.”
So that’s what happened—that’s why Noémie’s credit cards declined. I’m nosy and want to pry for more information. But it’d be unprofessional to ask, so I don’t.
“The way I see things, it makes no sense to hire you,” I say. “I need someone I can depend on, and you’re a flight risk. The moment your daddy forgives you, I’m down an employee.”
“My father is stubborn. It’s unlikely he’ll be forgiving me any time soon.”
“Your background is in food and restaurants. I think coffee is outside of your niche,” I say.
“Coffee is one of my hobbies, and I’m not interested in working in a restaurant that isn’t my own,” Noémie counters. “Look, if you are looking for someone you can depend on, I’m super dependable. I’ll work whatever hours you want. I’m a fast learner. I’m a team player. Just give me a chance and I’ll show you.” Her grey eyes sparkle with a challenge and a hint of what I can only read as desperation.
I need to hire someone who doesn’t suck since Corrine is still fumbling on the cash register and is still shit at operating the espresso machine. And while I know hiring Noémie is risky and that I’m likely to regret it, I’m compelled to. If Noémie isn’t lying—if she really did graduate from culinary school—than making drinks shouldn’t be much of a challenge for her.
Picturing Noémie in the Grind That Bean uniform tickles me. A smile almost breaks across my face at the thought of me directing her to clean tables.
Before I fully can unpack all the pros and cons of hiring her, I find myself saying, “Fine, I’ll take a chance on you, but I’ll need you to fill out an application and your references will need to check out.”
I can’t quite believe those words came out of my mouth or that the Poutine Princess will be working at my coffee shop and reporting to me. Grind that Bean’s most vexing customer is about to be an employee.
“Merci infiniment,” she says, and before I can react, she’s out of her seat and her arms are wrapping around me. She’s hugging me. Noémie St. Pierre is hugging me, and my insides are turning to goo.
I freeze and try not to focus on how good the warm press of her soft body feels. Christ she smells so good.
She pulls away quickly. “I’m sorry.” Red colours her cheeks. “The last few weeks have just been really rough, and I’m just so grateful and excited to start.”
A part of me doubts that she’s actually excited. How could she be? Barista isn’t a glamourous position.
Nodding, I rise from the stool. My ass hurts, and I resist the urge to massage it. I grab the stack of resumés with the intention of returning them to the back office.
“Wait here,” I say. “I’m going to grab an application for you.”
“Okay.” Noémie beams. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile like this. Usually, she’s so … bitchy. It’s uncanny seeing her so pleasant.
I walk away from her towards the counter. Wayne watches me like a hawk.
When I attempt to pass him by, he grabs my arm. “What the fuck did I just witness?”
“It’s exactly what it looks like—I’ve hired the Poutine Princess.”