Page 32

Dammit. I’d forgotten to give her a snack. It was in the manual, but so were a hundred fucking other things.
“Sure. Just let me…” I grabbed the manual, leafing through it. No way was raising children this precise.
When my eyes landed on Gravity’s preapproved meals, my entire soul left my body. Chicken breast, organic wheat quesadilla, spaghetti and meatballs, broccoli casserole… All those things required cooking from scratch. Most of my meals were Trader Joe’s prepacked dinners or pussy. There was no way I was whipping up any of these home-cooked dishes.
I looked around, fists planted at my sides. “Well, shit.”
“You said bad word.” The child’s eyes widened. “You give me five dollars.” Her palm was open and outstretched in a nanosecond.
The apple really didn’t fall far from the tree.
I rummaged in my wallet with a grunt. “I don’t have any cash on me.”
“That’s not my problem.”
Christ. What kind of demon did Dylan make?
“Do you accept Zelle or Venmo?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I pushed my wallet back into my back pocket. “Tell you what, I’ll treat you to a Happy Meal, and you’ll forgive my potty word.”
“What potty word?”
Did she have memory issues? “Shit.”
She giggled, bringing her small hand to her mouth. “You owe me five more dollars.”
God dammit. Outwitted by a toddler. I was taking this to my grave. Of course, said grave was fast approaching, as spending time with this kid would likely lead to a heart attack.
I opened my mouth to reprimand her for tricking me, but she beat me to it. “Now I get Happy Meal and milkshake.”
Kids truly were the best advertisements for contraception.
DYLAN
“Oh, I love your outfit! It’s gorgeous,” I gasped breathlessly, palms sweaty, cheeks flushed, delirious with the need to impress.
The subject of my admiration glanced at her colleague, who sat by her side, the two exchanging the sly look of Siamese cats that were about to swallow a canary whole.
I was the canary. I knew that before I even sat down for the interview. But I truly thought kindness had the power to change the trajectory of one’s day. Not in this case, clearly.
“Ew.” Cute Outfit, who was only a few years older than me, twisted her contoured nose. “How adorable that you think I’d take that as a compliment.”
What?
“My name is Stassia, and this here is Tara.”
Her colleague, whose hair held the same blond hue of champagne, pouted at my printed CV.
“So what made you think you could work at Beaufort, Miss Casablancas?”
“Well, I—”
“Is it really true that you’ve worked at a diner your whole life?” Tara burst out before I could answer the first question, a snide giggle tugging at her lips.
My gaze skidded between them uncertainly. Panic flared, pressing against my rib cage. This wasn’t an interview. This was a bored mean-girl setup. A way for them to pass the time during lunch break. And I’d walked right into it.