“It wasn’t personal,” she throws back.
I blink at her. “What the hell would you call it then?”
She rolls her eyes and gives me a tired look. “I was annoyed at the way you treated an employee. If you want me to work for you, Lancaster, that rocky start isn’t personal. It’s a harbinger of things to come.”
I glare at her, trying to understand.
She sighs. “If you always talk to hardworking baristas like that, then you’ll talk to me the same way. But I’m not Wayne. I don’t have a sick mother whose meds I desperately need to cover, so I won’t put up with any crap. If I hate it here, I’m gone. I’d rather wind up homeless than deal with a bosshole. No big deal when I already hang out there anyway.”
My brain tingles with questions like the pinprick pain after taking a blow to the face.
“Breathe, Miss Angelo. I’m no bosshole, so you can relax. Not most of the time, anyway,” I growl.
Her eyes go to the ceiling like she’s holding in more crap.
“Prove it.”
“My employees are like family. Ask any of them. You don’t even know me,” I say, though I’m already feeling like what she called me. Bosshole.
And did she say that guy’s working to pay for his mom’s medicine? What kind of short-fused jackass am I, making him fear for his job?
Of course, I didn’t really do anything, though.
The coffee sucked and I told him. I also made it clear that it wasn’t his fault.
She shrugs. “Family? Wow, you’re serious, aren’t you? I’ve never had a cup of coffee with ’family’ who berated me for it being as exciting as iced water.”
I frown.
“You probably also don’t pay your family an average of eighteen dollars an hour to make your coffee. Wayne was never singled out—and again, his job is perfectly secure. When my own daughter has room for improvement, I point it out. Doesn’t mean I don’t care about her. It just means she can do better—and so can this company.”
“That makes a little sense. Still, I’m not sure I want to be contractually obligated to do better and answer to your attitude. So, you might want to consider that before this goes any further...”
The way she leans forward presses that flannel against her chest.
It’s pure hell keeping my gaze bolted to the challenge in her eyes, and not skipping down to her tits.
“You realize I’m the boss, right?” I ask quietly.
“You realize I haven’t signed anything?”
Touché.
Maybe I should just buy the existing recipe for a soul-crushing sum and send her on her merry way. She’s a firecracker, and the one I already have in my life still has to draw the line because I put a roof over her head.
Steepling my fingers, I try to cough up one last ounce of patience to deal with this woman without another screaming match. “Do you have other coffees like that drink I found?”
“Like what?”
“Like the campfire scorched brew,” I say.
“Oh, I have tons of recipes. They’re all filed away for when I come back to them later or finally have a reason to put them to good use. What are you looking for?” she asks, caution in her tone.
Fuck. The way she hints at a litany of flavors means I do need her in my lab.
“A new taste to put the spark back in Wired Cup, Miss Angelo,” I say sharply, not giving a damn whether she finds the pun cheesy or not. “That’s why you’re here today. If you’re formally hired, your friend will get the bonus he was promised, and you’ll get an additional sign-on bonus as well, for starters.”
She shrugs. “Eh, you can give mine to Wayne. If I take the job, that is, but I’m not convinced yet that working for you would be worth it.”
My hand balls into a fist.
How is it this girl struts in here and bothers to pretend she cares about this interview when money clearly doesn’t move her?
“Why are you so intent on helping Mr. Wayne? Is he your boyfriend?” And why do I suddenly get this jealous inkling in my blood? This urge to send Wayne packing to an Oregon store with his mother’s needs taken care of? Somewhere far away from Badger girl?
“He’s my friend. He critiques my coffee. Also, he needs it more than I do.”
“Critique? I thought you didn’t need to do better?” I bite off.
“Well, his feedback is a lot different from yours. He knows coffee about as well as I do,” she says matter-of-factly.
I roll my eyes, a habit I must have picked up from Destiny.
“We own a significant chunk of the finest volcanic soil for growing coffee across seven different countries. Why do you keep saying I don’t know my bean?” I demand, leaning forward.
“Because. There was nothing wrong with the cup Wayne made that you had such a problem with.”