Page 18

18

One of my all-important jobs as the temp is to fetch coffee from Starbucks every morning.

I have to walk around, taking drink orders like I’m a waiter, and then Kenny gives me the company credit card. I trot off to the Starbucks three blocks away to join the line that goes all the way to the door, no matter what time I show up. If I get out of there in less than half an hour, it’s a miracle.

Today I have a whopping nine drink orders, which means I am going to be carrying two tiers of drink trays back to the office. Balancing something like that as I walk across two streets is no easy task, but I have sadly become very good at it over the two months I have worked there.

I stand in line behind four other people, inhaling the rich aroma of brewing coffee as I scratch absently at my arm. After I started cleaning out the washing machine prior to using it, the rash went away. But in the last few days, it seems to have come back. It’s just present enough to be annoying.

Not only that, but the kitchen still smells. It’s not as overpowering as it was, but the rotting food smell is still very much present, now mixed with the scent of Krista’s air freshener. And although we constructed a very formidable fruit fly trap using instructions we found online, the fruit flies are still abundant. And the trap works—at this point, the cup looks like a graveyard for fruit flies—but they’re still freaking everywhere.

“Blake? Oh my God, is that you?”

I cringe at the sound of my name. The last place I want to be recognized is while picking up drinks for the office at Starbucks. But I obligingly turn around.

Oh great. It’s Stacie, the secretary for the guy who fired me. And she looks absolutely fantastic, with those long, long legs and short skirt. She’s clutching a macchiato in her right hand.

“Hey, Stacie.” I manage a smile that I’m hoping looks at least somewhat authentic. “How are you doing?”

“Good!” She smiles, showing off her mouth of perfectly white teeth. “And you…”

I straighten my spine as she looks over my dress clothes and wish I could do something about the dark circles under my eyes.

“You look great! You got a new job, I see.”

“Yep.” I don’t bother to mention that it’s a temp job. I don’t need her racing back to the office to let everyone know about my humiliation. “Everything is going great.”

“And Krista?” She raises an eyebrow at me suggestively. “You two are still…”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “We’re engaged. Still.”

“Uh-huh.” She cocks her head to the side. “I remember. I was just wondering if anything changed.”

“Nope.”

Stacie reaches out and runs a hand along my upper arm. I take a step back. She’s just going to make the itching worse.

“Anyway,” Stacie says, “it was good seeing you again, Blake. I was honestly pretty worried about you after Wayne fired you and all. But it looks like everything worked out.”

“It sure did,” I lie. “I wasn’t too worried. I always land on my feet.”

“You sure do,” she agrees.

I hold my breath until Stacie leaves the Starbucks with her drink. There are plenty of other people from the company I wouldn’t want to run into, but she tops the list.

About half an hour later, I am heading back to the office, balancing nine cups of coffee in my arms. Two people on the street shout out snarky comments about the amount of coffee I’m carrying (“You gonna drink all that?”), and when a taxi skids to a halt a split second before mowing me down at a crosswalk, I almost wish it had just hit me and put me out of my misery.

By some miracle and what has become a lot of practice, I make it back up to the office without spilling anything. I deposit the coffee trays on the reception desk, and then I let people know the order has arrived. I suppose I could bring the trays around to everyone, but I just can’t make myself do it today.

I do, however, grab Kenny’s oat milk mocha latte and bring it to his office. I thought I had blown any chance of ever working here permanently, but in a meeting yesterday, I automatically made a suggestion about one of the big accounts. I spoke out of turn, but my idea and knowledge base seemed to really impress him. After the meeting was over, he asked me more questions and almost seemed to be picking my brain. If I can prove that I’m useful, maybe I really do have a chance of a real job here.

When I get to Kenny’s office, he is working on his computer. When I come inside, he looks up, but he doesn’t smile at me.

“Here you go, Kenny,” I say as I slide his coffee across his desk. His office isn’t as nice as mine used to be, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the cubicle I occupy right now.

“Thanks.” He gives the coffee a strange side-eye. “How many cups of coffee did you get?”

“Nine. It took some mad skills to get them back here.”

Kenny doesn’t smile. “Hey, Porter. How many sandwiches did you get for the lunch meeting yesterday?”

“Uh, twenty sandwiches. That’s what you asked me to get.”

“If you got twenty sandwiches, how come we ran out?”

I shrug. “I guess people were hungry.”

Kenny is still looking at me, an unreadable expression on his face. It’s making me very uncomfortable. I shift my weight and try not to scratch absently at my arm. Why is he quizzing me about how many sandwiches or cups of coffee I got? I’m not a waiter.

“Is there a problem?” I finally ask.

He looks at me for a moment, then finally nods his head. “Yeah, actually. I was so impressed by the insights you showed at the meeting yesterday, and I remembered seeing Coble & Roy on your CV. So I made a few calls…”

Shit. I know where this is going. So much for landing a permanent position here.

“I can’t believe you ripped off your own company.” Kenny shakes his head. “No wonder you’re still working as a temp at your age.”

“I didn’t rip off my company,” I say tightly. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“That’s not what Wayne Vincent said. I’ll bet you made a pretty penny doing that.”

I flinch. My chest is itching like crazy, but I can’t scratch it. Not now. “What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“That’s in a court, Porter.” Kenny takes the lid off his coffee and takes a sip. “This tastes terrible. You got the oat milk mocha for me?”

“I didn’t brew it myself.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He slides the coffee back across the desk. “Bring this back to Starbucks, and exchange it for another one.”

I don’t want to spend another half an hour at Starbucks to indulge a twenty-something middle manager’s power trip. But I can’t quit this job. I don’t know the consequences of quitting a temp position, but I’m not sure if they’ll place me again. Or if they do, it might be scooping french fries at a fast-food joint.

“I’ve got my eye on you, Porter.” He narrows his gaze at me. “You try to steal anything from my company, you’re not going to work in this town ever again. Even for a temp agency.”

I don’t know if this guy has the power to make a threat like that, but the truth is I don’t want to find out. So I grab his coffee and head back outside. But not before I run to the restroom and scratch my chest for five straight minutes. I scratch until I bleed.