The Employer

Chapter 9

Celeste Peters

After googling ways to not throw up, I take a couple of deep breaths. I hate that my stomach gets so fucking sensitive like it's Louisa watching those talking dog movies. I shouldn't be nervous. Marc probably looked me up, like I looked him up. What else could he possibly want to know?

I guess it makes sense, since I did offer to show him my boobs– a very unladylike proposition that should carry a bright red flag for any future employer. Yet he hadn't kicked me out on my ass yesterday, so that's something. Maybe he just wants to talk about the job? Or see my face when he tells me I didn't get the job?

Last night I tossed and turned in bed, praying I'd get the position. Kristina's tour of the house was just the cherry on top of my desperation akin to a high schooler who "accidentally" texted their crush. When I say that the house is unreal, it's a fucking understatement. There's a jacuzzi and a huge pool at the back with a freaking water slide leading from one of the overlooking patio decks. I thought only cruises, water parks, or celebrities were allowed to have water slides. Apparently lawyers are allowed too. And it's not one of those pathetic inflatable water slides reserved for peasants. It's a premeditated waterslide, likely with the signature of the architect on the underside. On top of these water features, the property also has a tennis court, a beautiful creek, and an indoor movie theater.

I don't normally ask for many things in life, but just once I'd like to work at a place that's giving more Miami Coast Resort than Greasy Furnace.

Stepping into the coffee shop, a little jingle signals my arrival and I'm instantly hit with delicious aromas of coffee and pastries. I look around the fancy, Gatsby-esque space, with its modern, gold and dark green velvet furnishings and décor, but don't see Marc here yet. I'd decided I'm going to be on my best behavior no matter how rude he gets. That means being polite and thinking about the words I choose to let out of my mouth before letting them out.

I shuffle to the ordering station. "Hi, I'd like two small coffees, please. One with milk and sugar, and one without anything." Everyone likes free things. Maybe this gesture will soften him up somehow.

"We don't have sugar or any chemically formulated syrups here. If you want to sweeten your drink, we can put some agave in it," the young, brunette barista says with a disdainful inflection, like I offended her for even asking.

"Oh my God. What is it with people and sugar these days?"

"So, do you still want the coffee?"

I can feel a line start to form behind me and sigh. "Yes, please. Two coffees, one with agave," I stress the word like I'm British royalty, "and with whatever is closest to regular creamer you have. And the other one, just plain black."

"That'll be nineteen dollars and sixty cents."

"What the fuck? Are you serious?"

Her brows furrow. "Yes. Each small coffee is nine dollars and with tax that comes out to be nineteen sixty."

I glance behind me and see that there is indeed a line of people waiting to order. My stomach whirs when I catch sight of Marc through the glass window crossing the street toward the coffee shop. "Fine. Here." I hand her my card and cry a little on the inside.

After she charges me, I grab the receipt and turn to the man of the hour walking in and looking around. When our eyes lock, my stomach flips and I quickly step out to meet him. "Hey," I say with a slight lilt, somehow making the word two syllables instead of one.

"Hey, Celeste," he says in his deep voice that straps around me like it's one of those dog harnesses. He could easily ask me to do whatever he wanted. Sit. Lie down. Roll over.