Rude. But in fairness, I am holding him up.
“Wayne deserves an apology when he gets that bonus. And you should thank him for keeping that store running. Lord knows it’d be in much worse shape without him,” I rush out.
For a second, he’s dead silent.
“Let me get this straight. You’ll walk away from two hundred big if I don’t have a heart-to-heart with a random barista?” His eyes lance through me.
I smile and nod and try not to laugh hysterically at my own insanity.
“Why?” he spits.
“Remember how I told you earlier that if you talk to him like that, you’ll talk to me like that?”
“I didn’t talk to him like anything. The coffee sucked and it had everything to do with the recipe—not his technique, which seems unimpeachable.” Lancaster tilts his chair back, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s finally had enough. “At the risk of you flipping me off and running out the door—this is a ludicrous condition.”
Stay strong.
It certainly feels like lifting weights to plaster on a neutral smile.
“To you,” I throw back. “To me, it’s important. I might make a bad batch of coffee through no fault of my own. I mean, it’s pretty natural when you’re experimenting. But even if it’s not the beans or the equipment or the recipe, everybody has a bad day sometimes. Everybody human.”
His eyes glaze over, shiny arctic blue when they’re angry.
“For the last time, the bland drink wasn’t his fault. What’s the point of this?”
If he had a tail, it’d be slapping the ground in frustration.
I stare, never softening my ghost of a smile. “Because, Mr. Lancaster. If we’re crystal clear now, then we won’t need to talk this out later when one of us has a bad day. No condescension. No talking down. No bossypants.”
“Bossypants?” He glares at me. “I’ll apologize to the damn barista if you’ll sign the contract. Anything else?”
Holy hell.
...I never expected him to agree.
I shake my head, which suddenly feels ten pounds lighter.
He looks down at the neatly clipped paper packet on his desk. “Will you sign the contract now? I’ll have it over to my legal team by morning.”
“Not just yet.” I point to the phone on his desk and give him a sad look. “I’m pretty sure Wayne is working right now...”
“Right now-right now? You’re serious? You want me to call so you can witness my humiliation?”
“How else would I know?” I ask softly.
“Wouldn’t Not Boyfriend tell you?” His death stare threatens to light my hair on fire.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I’m thoroughly annoyed at how hard I deny it. “We’re busy people. Unless I pop into the store, I only really see him when I’m ordering coffee or serving breakfast at the homeless camp. Since I’ll be developing coffee, I might as well just get my morning coffee here too, don’t you think?”
That bulging, powerful fist on his desk tightens.
“Angelo, we haven’t even spent an hour together and I already don’t like you. It normally takes a few encounters for me to despise people.”
“Oh, good. I was worried it was just me. The feeling’s mutual.”
With a frustrated rumble, he rips up the phone and stabs at the buttons, dialing the number before he sets it down again. “Store’s closed. Wrong timing.”
“Oh! Well, lucky for you, I have his number in my contacts somewhere. Give me a sec...” I reach for my phone and pull up Wayne’s number, then pass it across the desk.
Lancaster glares at me as he punches the CALL button hard enough to crack my screen.
“Careful! You owe me a new phone if that comes back damaged...”
His eyes could flay me alive.
“Is this Wayne from the Seventh Street store?” he asks.
I try not to explode laughing. He sounds like a naughty kid being forced to apologize to the neighbor for leaving dog poop in their yard.
“This is Cole Lancaster. Listen, I wanted to apologize just in case my critiques of the new beverage line were overly harsh during the recent inspection.” He goes quiet, listening intently. “Yes. Right. Good. I’m certainly glad to hear there are no hard feelings...”
By the time he mutters a few more awkward words, I almost feel bad for enjoying how much he squirms.
Lancaster ends the call and chucks the phone back at me. “Sign the damn contract. Now. I’ll expect you here at six a.m. sharp tomorrow morning.”
“Okay. I need a pen.” I can barely get the words out between the laughter trying to claw its way up my throat.
He practically throws a fat, expensive-looking fountain pen with his initials engraved in shiny platinum at me.
I slash my name across the paper without pointing out his obscene taste in pens.
I suppose I’m feeling generous.
“FYI, I do my best brewing at nine,” I tell him, twisting in my seat.
“You’ll learn to do it at six.” His glare knifes through me. “See you then, Miss Angelo. Welcome the hell aboard.”