Page 5 of The Havenport Collection

Cecelia

W hat am I doing? Why am I trying to convince this guy to hire me? I am so unqualified to work in a brewery, and I don’t even like beer for Chrissake. I am also way overqualified for whatever they do here, and this will in no way be a résumé boost.

But that damn overachieving part of my brain would just not turn off.

I had never not aced a job interview. NEVER.

And I wasn’t about to start. Truth was, I need something to do.

What I didn’t need was this holier-than-thou hot guy droning on and on about the magical powers of beer.

This is a dingy warehouse. Not the state of the art office towers I was used to back in New York.

I was not going to let him talk down to me.

“I think ‘selling drugs,’ as you so eloquently put it, has many practical real world applications. I have a deep scientific acumen, and I can master and explain complex concepts. I am used to rejection and dealing with difficult people. I can stay on brand and on message through any situation and am a very quick study.”

“Listen,” he said gently, “I think we got off on the wrong foot. You are clearly very impressive, and I was trying to be funny, not belittle your career. I was just trying to push you a bit because marketing beer is a bit different than marking arthritis drugs.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, giving me a spectacular view of his biceps and forearms. He was giving off a very strong angry hot guy vibe, which was diluted a bit by the rubber pants.

I relaxed a bit. Maybe he wasn't an asshole. Maybe he was just awkward? “With all due respect, no, it’s not. You manufacture a product here. And you market, sell, and distribute that product. I can help you market that product to the right consumer base.”

Why was I pushing so hard? This seemed like an interesting place, but I should have been back home contacting recruiters and polishing up my résumé.

With my experience and contacts, I could have found another job quickly.

Especially now that I was back in New England, which was a health care and Pharma hub.

I was sure there were other arthritis drugs I could sell, or insulin, or, if things got really bad, I could always sell boner pills.

But as I’d sat in my childhood bedroom with my laptop trying to update my résumé, I’d had no motivation to apply for anything.

Every job description sounded just as bleak as the last.

I hadn’t wanted to market pharmaceuticals.

I went to college and got a business degree, not because I was passionate about business, but because I wanted to get a steady job that paid well.

I pursued marketing because I wanted to be creative and to innovate.

I had lofty goals about helping people connect and building communities.

I loved art and psychology and business, and it seemed like a great way to earn a respectable living by doing something I enjoyed.

The reality was far from my college dreams. I ended up in Pharma because of money—those student loan payments were not going to pay themselves.

And I stayed because I climbed the ladder, got promoted, got stock options, and I felt the invisible handcuffs get tighter and tighter as I slowly lost all of my creative instincts and passion for my work.

It’s part of the reason I was so attracted to Xavier.

Not that I found accounting particularly hot, but he always seemed so steady, so responsible, and so upstanding.

Despite his annoying habits and general snobbery, I liked being with someone like Xavier.

I thought that I could hide my inner hot mess with a boring boyfriend and some designer purses.

Turns out, your hot mess will show when you least expect it.

While the alpha dog overachiever part of my brain whirled around trying to convince this guy I could market his brewery in my sleep, the cavewoman part of my brain couldn’t help but notice that Liam Quinn GREW UP HOT.

And not pretty-boy hot either—dark, hairy, broody MAN hot.

And I’d be lying if I wasn’t a tiny bit distracted.

It was all that thick beard, ropey forearm energy.

My stupid lady parts were tingling, and my nipples were trying to poke holes through my bra.

He was tall and imposing and a little stern. Even wearing ridiculous rubber pants, he exuded competence and manly vigor. My ovaries were throbbing, and it wasn’t from the lack of ventilation in this weird-ass building.

It was pretty obvious he was not going to hire me.

And why should he? I didn’t have the background he was looking for.

And this was certainly not the type of workplace I had become accustomed to.

I doubt I would even fit in here. And I used to head up a pretty sophisticated sales organization.

Mopping floors and pouring beer is probably not going to fulfill me professionally.

So why was I pushing so hard? Why was I sitting here trying to get this grumpy—and admittedly very hot—guy to hire me for a job I was overqualified for?

I straightened up and looked him straight in the eye.

“Listen. I am good at what I do. I am professional and work hard and have almost a decade of marketing experience. We both know that qualified candidates don’t randomly show up at your door every day.

” There. I said my piece. Now I could leave with dignity and go home and eat some ice cream under a weighted blanket.

He sighed and gave me an awkward smile. “Okay. Let’s give it a try. I need help ASAP, and when I woke up this morning, I had no idea a marketing expert would show up at my door. I’m not about to tempt fate. So let’s discuss pay.”

We went through the details. What he was offering certainly wasn’t anywhere close to what I made before, but it was fair and, for a short-term gig, not terrible.

I got the sense money was tight, so I appreciated his offer.

I couldn’t help but think about some of my friends from college who had built up their own marketing firms or those who did freelance work on their own terms. It was certainly attractive, being able to pick and choose my clients, take on meaningful work, set my own hours and expectations.

Too bad I wasn’t cut out for that kind of life.

I liked a dependable paycheck, benefits, and two weeks’ vacation. I was a worker bee, not a queen.

He scratched the back of his neck. “But this place isn’t fancy. Please keep your business Barbie clothes at home and show up in jeans and sneakers Friday.”

“Friday?” I squeaked, both surprised and terrified. Oh, there goes my whole boss bitch act.

“Yes. Nine a.m. Friday. You can shadow me for a few days, learn the brewing business. Then we can figure out where to best leverage your…”—his eyes graze over my body, lingering at my hips.

I knew this skirt was too tight to wear.

Damn my mother and her delicious vegan meals—“talents.” He exhaled, like this conversation was too taxing for him.

I stood up and offered him my hand. He looked up at me and gave me a bone-crushing shake. “Copy that, boss. I’ll be here at nine, ready to learn and wearing practical shoes.”

I gathered up my tote, my folder full of printed résumés and references, and what was left of my dignity, and did my best to calmly walk out the back door to my car.

I did it. I am a badass. I just walked in there and talked myself into a new job. A job where I get to wear sneakers. I shook my hips a bit as I unlocked my trunk. Take that, life crisis!