His Fresh Start ✔ (Book Three)

Twenty Years Ago

The cheerful tune was loud enough to pierce my eardrums. Who the fuck would sing about the snow falling so early in the morning? The snow was the worst. It was cold, wet, and disgusting.

Especially when you fell asleep on it, too wasted to choose a better place.

The obnoxious song stopped because the man noticed something lying on the snow-covered pavement a few feet away from him. Guess what, that something was me —Thierry Fauber, seventeen years old, the son of Victor Fauber, the founder of Fauber Construction.

"Are you okay?" The stranger crouched down next to me and poked my arm. I jolted upright at the unexpected touch. It turned out to be a horrible idea. The sharp pain in my temples made me groan, clutching my head in my nearly frozen hands.

"Rough night, huh?" The man chuckled.

"Rough life," I muttered, staring at his polished boots.  They were too similar to the shoes someone else wore. What if the man was just like him? I didn't escape that prick's house to end up with someone just as bad on an empty street. It was time to do a runner.

I pressed my palms to the freezing ground for leverage and tried to get up. My body was too cold and numb, and my legs refused to cooperate. Just great.

Watching me stagger, the man gripped my shoulders.

"Don't touch me!"

"Okay, I get it." He raised his hands, taken aback by my outburst.

I let out a relieved breath. I'd rather let him think I was crazy than allow him to put his hands on me.

This time, I managed to move. I was about to get out of there when the man spoke.

"Listen, why don't you stay for breakfast? See that bistro over there? I'm the owner."

I eyed the disgustingly cheerful Christmas decorations in the window of the restaurant he pointed at. Breakfast with him, locked in that jolly place? I looked at the holiday display again. Freaking elves were dancing around the Christmas tree, and a clearly obese Santa was petting a scared reindeer. No, thanks.

"You won't be alone with me if that's what you're worried about. Pierre is about to arrive; he's my second cook. My name is Jean. What's yours?"

He didn't lie. A guy not much older than me strolled toward us, twisting a set of keys in his gloved hands. "It finally snowed, Jean! What a great start to the holidays!"

Jesus, not you, too. Please, don't sing that God-awful song.

Jean chuckled. "Go open that door, Pierre. On a wonderful winter morning like today, we'll have many people to feed."

The Pierre guy eyed me with unabashed curiosity.

"Go inside, Pierre. I'll be there in a moment."

Pierre shrugged, turning around and started to hum the same melody Jean had punished my ears with.

"Don't tell me your name if you don't want to, but come to have breakfast with us. You must be freezing after spending the night here."

I scratched my head, debating my options. I knew I had no money for a cab. If I called my dad, he'd lose his shit. I was supposed to stay with a friend, not get hammered alone, and sleep on the sidewalk.

The lights of the bistro went on, revealing even more Christmas stuff inside. I wiggled my numb toes and shoved my hands deeper into my coat pockets. There weren't too many options left.

"Okay, but I cannot pay for the food. I'd have to call my dad and ask him for money—"

"It's on me."

"Thank you," I mumbled.

Keeping my eyes on Jean's polished footwear, I followed him into the restaurant.

As I sat on a plush bistro chair, sipped my really good and strong coffee, and took a bite of the apple pie that seemed to melt on my tongue, I realized the place wasn't that bad.

Santa wasn't obese; let's call him mildly overweight — nothing a couple of hours at the gym couldn't fix. That reindeer wasn't scared, either. He was likely reluctant to spend another long-ass day pulling a sleigh while his boss delivered gifts to obnoxious little monsters who didn't even appreciate them.

Jean was probably a decent human being. Pierre seemed to look up to him. There was that awful song he liked, but I could bring him my music. Who knows, maybe he was going to like it better.

It took me three cups of coffee to warm up.

It took me seventeen apple pie breakfasts to tell Jean my name, and thirty days to start working at his holiday spirit-infested bistro.

And, as surprising as that was, it took me only two months to trust Jean and tell him my mother's boyfriend had abused me.

You might've guessed what we were eating when I dropped the bomb.

A/N
Hello again, readers!
So, that was the beginning of Thierry's story.
Thoughts?
The song, not appreciated by Thierry, the teen, is below.