“Do you like being a driver?” I ask. He might not make as much driving somewhere else, but there are other things he could do. Or maybe I’m wrong. Heron does pay well, I’ll give him that.
“Yes, ma’am! I was a truck driver in the Army for a while, and again back here. My mama lives in Florida, and when she came down with skin cancer, Heron sent her the best doctor he could find and gave me all the time I could ever ask for to visit. Then I had a minor stroke about a year ago...he paid me while I was off for over a month and got me looked at by top-notch specialists. Hotshots who aren’t even covered under the company insurance plan. He takes care of his employees when he’s not working them to death.”
Honestly? I’m shocked.
The idea that Magnus Heron might think of someone besides himself for more than three seconds never occurred to me.
“You seem to think very highly of him,” I say.
“Well, I’ve got it easy, I’ll admit. Car rides are kind of his downtime. Sometimes he works through his commutes, but he talks to me more than most folks around the office, besides Ruby. He doesn’t have much of a social life outside business, so I’d even dare say I’m his friend. He’s a good guy.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it, Armstrong.” I’m still not convinced, but it’s interesting to have another view of the monster I call boss.
We pull into an upscale shopping center, and I still haven’t looked at any emails yet.
The only thing open this early is The Bean Bar.
“Shoe Import is two doors away from the coffee shop. It’s not quite open yet but knock and tell them you’re there for a pickup for Heron, and they’ll give you the shoes. I’d get the coffee once you have the shoes, because he doesn’t like his morning cup of joe cold. Who does, right?”
I smile in agreement as I quickly step out of the car. Picking up the shoes goes without a hitch. I’ve printed his very specific order and read it off to a tiny blonde behind the counter at The Bean Bar.
“That will be thirty-three dollars and fifty cents,” she says.
Holy crap! What the hell kind of coffee does he drink? And it never occurred to me that if I’m here ordering the coffee, he hasn’t paid for it. That’s more than I have in my debit account. “Umm—I left my wallet in the car. Be right back!”
She sighs like I’ve disappointed her. “Right.”
I scan the room. There are a few other people here, but they’re not paying attention.
“That’s my boss’ coffee, and I really need this job. Please don’t throw it away. I’ll be right back, I swear,” I beg.
She nods. “I’ll leave it right here.”
I race across the parking lot as fast as I can in heels with a box of shoes hugged to my chest and throw the passenger side door open. “Armstrong! We have a problem.”
I don’t know what size shoes this guy wears, but they’ve gotten heavy in my hands so I drop them in the seat.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, turning around.
This is so embarrassing. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“The coffee order’s over thirty dollars and...I don’t have that.”
“I don’t miss being young. Here.” Armstrong chuckles and pulls a wallet from his back pocket.
God. I’m taking money from the company driver now?
He’s probably not rich, even if Magnus Heron pays him well. He removes a sleek black card and hands it to me.
“Company card. Tell Heron to give you one.”
Well...that’s a little better.
But the fact remains that I’ve woken up late and still had to make a second run to the coffee shop. I’m going to be so late. When I tumble back inside, there’s a line forming. King Dickwad’s coffee is sitting there, getting cold.
I’m so fired, and only on my second day.
The barista has my drinks in a carrier. She swipes the card and pushes the cups out.
“Thank you!” I rush to the counter, snatch the carrier, and dart for the door. Somehow, despite lids, coffee sloshes on me.
Yep, I’m about to scream.
I have no clue why Heron hired me, but I’m not even close to fit for this job.
I don’t have the know-how or the warp speed. My shoes are borrowed. Coffee seems destined to land on my clothes in this life, whenever it doesn’t hit my employers. I’m a big fat floppy fish out of water.
“Good luck!” barista girl calls behind me, like she knows.
Thanks. I need it.
Once I’m back in the car, Armstrong asks, “You made sure you got a coffee with no sugar or sweetener, right?”
“I printed the instructions and ordered exactly what he sent. Two didn’t have sugar.”
He smiles. “The sugarless medium roast is mine. I’m diabetic. Could you pass it up here, please?”