If I Were You [FEATURED]

1 - Florian

"Damn it, Florian. Can you carry an object without dropping it, or were you hired because of your good looks?"

Warmth creeps up my ears as I nod towards Mrs. Helgadottir. The stout, middle-aged woman crosses her arms over her chest. Her lips narrow to thin lines, threatening to disappear among the wrinkles around her mouth. With trembling hands I pick up the silverware scattered on the floor then scurry away to the bustling kitchen. Before the door shuts, she mutters under her breath, "Boys."

Tears well up my eyes, and I dash to the scullery before they come streaming down my cheeks. Once away from the curious looks of my busy colleagues, I put the cutlery in the sink then douse it with liquid soap. When the sound of pouring water fills the space and covers my whimpers, I allow sadness to overwhelm me.

Since Mrs. Helgadottir took the reins of her mother's catering company this summer, my shifts are a never-ending suite of barked orders and annoyed scowls. Her disapproving stare follows me everywhere, scrutinizing all my acts and gestures. I've never been one to work well under pressure. My level of clumsiness is already above average, but, with Big Sister monitoring me, it goes through the roof; hence the dropped silverware.

"Are you okay?" Christina Castillo's tall and athletic frame is towering above me. Her cheekbones are reddened from unloading the catering truck, but as one of the brawniest members of the team physical tasks often fall to her.

At the sight of my only friend in the company, a loud sob racks my body. I shake my head vigorously, and the bun I had tied my hair into comes loose. Soft, golden curls fall to frame my puffy face and sway with my every bawl. Great. Now I'm a disheveled mess.

Through blurry vision I pat my black tulip skirt and while blouse, to no avail. Those stupid clothing items have no pocket. Why am I forced to wear such impractical clothes while my female colleagues stroll around in suits?

Christina removes her manutention gloves to rummage through her vest. She offers me the pack of tissues she started carrying around when we met; I'm a gentle soul, easy to upset and prone to tears.

While I blow my nose, Tina has the delicacy of turning away and pretending to study the wall.

"Thanks." I sniffle loudly and wash my hands in the sink before braiding my hair.

Worry darkening her russet brown gaze, she lets her fingers fidget with the padding of her gauntlets. "What did Mrs. Hellannoying say to you this time?"

I gasp and stifle a giggle. When I shush her by putting my palm over her mouth, surprise makes Christina's gloves slip off her hands. Her brows shoot up high, almost reaching the brown mop she calls her hair. She stills while I observe our colleagues behind her, but none seems to have heard the nickname we gave our employer.

When I release Tina, her cheekbones hold a vibrant red shade. She says, "Hey, at least, you're smiling now."

"Yes, I am." A grateful smile spreads on my lips as I add, "I'm lucky to have you. Your presence makes this crappy work atmosphere bearable."

Christina opens her mouth then shuts it. Rubbing the back of her neck she reports, "Mrs. Helgadottir wants you to take the foie gras macarons out of the fridge and arrange them on the buffet."

Before I can thank her, she whispers, "Do you want me to do it? The platters are pretty big and heavy."

Hesitation, then determination floods me. I'll show Mrs. Hellannoying I can lift those dishes. "It's okay. You can go finish emptying the truck. How do I look?"

With a weird gurgling noise Tina answers, "Perfect."

While I exit the scullery, I can feel Christina's gaze drilling a hole in my back. I cross the kitchen keeping my head down; being both the boss' punching bag and the only boy in the team garner me too much attention these days. My heart races furiously as I pretend not to notice that my colleagues' conversations stop in my presence. After what feels like an eternity, I reach the cold room facing the chef's office and welcome the quietness.

Inside the walk-in fridge I browse the shelves and cardboard crates, to no avail. Furrowing my brows I enter the freezer part and instantly regret wearing a silk blouse; the thin fabric clings to my skin and adds to the cold. Fog forms before my face, and a remnant of tear turns to ice on my lashes. Blowing on my hands to keep them warm, I examine the containers lining up the racks. The moment I consider asking Christina if she knows where the macarons are, I catch a glimpse of silvery reflection on the top shelf.

There they are; the platters onto which we mounted macarons this afternoon. But why would they be stored so high? Because of their weight anyone would have trouble bringing them down--the more so my five-foot-three, skinny self.

I look around for something to step on and, finding a couple of empty wooden crates, pile them up. Once on my makeshift ladder the dishes are within hands reach. All I have to do is lift them with caution and--

A platter swooshes over my head and clatters with a loud bang. My eyes widen in horror while fifty macarons roll on the floor, bouncing on the tiles and crashing against the metal furniture.

"No, no, no..." I mumble and drop to the floor. Tremors agitate my hands while I scramble to gather the macarons, scratching my sheer tights on the tiling seal. Not that it would make much difference: the pastries touched the ground; they're only fit for the trash.

Mrs. Helgadottir is going to kill me. Then fire me.

Fighting against renewed sobs I peek under the shelves, where I spotted one macaron disappearing. Damn it. It's out of reach.

The situation is too much. First the silverware and now this... A lone tear glides down my cheek, then another, and the dam breaks down when I realize my student loans are in jeopardy. I sit down and wrap my legs with my arms to give free rein to despair.

"Are you okay?" a deep, unknown voice asks in my back, startling me.

When I turn around, snotty and mewling, I come face-to-face with the most striking pair of eyes I've ever seen.

Author's note:

This first chapter was incredibly difficult to write. My mind-eye kept confusing characters because of gender-bending.

How about you? Did you struggle to identify who was talking, moving, thinking?
If that's the case, don't hesitate to point it out. I welcome all forms of constructive criticism!

In this introduction we met sweet, gentle Florian. Any thoughts on our MC? Wanna befriend him, cuddle him, comfort him?