I greet Braids—Lucinda—and tell her to reach out if she has any questions at all, then scope out a good place to take pictures. The staff parking lot is on a hill above the venue with a great view of the garden and faux Greek ruins. Aria thinks the fake, crumbling pillars look cheesy in the middle of the Georgia countryside, but I think they’re lovely.
But then, I’m easy when it comes to lovely. I enjoy pretty things too much to care if they’re classy or locale appropriate.
I take a dozen or so shots of the venue, then snap a few of Mitch making hideous faces that I’m sure Felicity will find hysterical the next time we’re flipping through my phone together. Then I check my email and post an update on social media with the appropriate wedding-catering-friendly hashtags, but fifteen minutes later, there’s still no sign of the other new hire.
“Maybe I should run home and grab my uniform,” I say, nibbling my lip as I cast another worried glance at the time on my phone.
“It’s cool, the six of us can handle it.” Mitch puts an arm around my shoulders, treating me to a whiff of his onion-y pit.
“No, I can suit up and help out. I don’t want y’all to be slammed, and it’s Lucinda’s first day.” I fight the urge to wrinkle my nose and discreetly begin to breathe through my mouth. I can’t believe I ever thought Mitch was cute. Even for a minute. His body odor is seriously out of control.
I make a mental note to convince Lark to have a talk with Mitch about his deodorant choices. I know he’s a hard-core, save the planet, don’t put poison on your body or in the earth kind of guy, and I love him for it, but surely something can be done. There has to be deodorant on the market that’s friendly to Mother Earth and other peoples’ noses.
I’m about to head inside to tell Lark I need to run home to grab my server uniform, when a mechanical roar rumbles through the air from the bottom of the hill. The ungodly noise has all seven of us turning in unison to watch a decrepit MG Midget in desperate need of a muffler rattle up the hill.
It stop-starts its way to the parking area, sputtering and coughing and threatening to die several times before finally shuddering to a stop beside Lucinda’s VW bug. A moment later, a boy with dark brown hair spiked up all over his head like an angry hedgehog emerges from the driver’s side and starts toward us.
The sun catches him from behind, accentuating his wide shoulders, narrow hips, and long legs. I’m instantly struck by how cute he is.
No, not cute…dangerously good looking, with full lips a girl can’t help but stare at and enough swagger for five Mick Jaggers.
“Oh my, who is that luscious little dumpling?” Manny asks beneath his breath.
“I’m assuming he’s the new guy.” I frown.
New guy is admittedly easy on the eyes, but he’s fifteen minutes late and the cocky expression on his face practically oozes defiance. He’s the poster child for Does Not Play Well With Others and a far cry from Lark’s usual, grounded, easy-going hires.
What in the world was she thinking with this guy?
“Hey.” New guy jerks his chin at us by way of greeting. “Nick.”
“You’re late, Nick,” I say, sliding out from under Mitch’s arm.
Nick shrugs, his eyes skimming over me to take in the rest of the staff. “Looks like we’re all still standing around to me.”
My frown digs deeper into my forehead. “We’re still standing around because we were waiting for you.”
“Oh, well…” He grins, and something about his smile makes me feel like a cat that’s been stroked the wrong way. “I’m sure we’ll still have plenty of time to wait on rich people today. Don’t stress, Blondie.”
“Dude, Melody is, like, our boss,” Mitch says in a whisper that’s ridiculous considering I’m standing right next to him. “Or, like, the sister of our boss, which is almost like our boss.”
Nick’s eyes return to me, flicking up and down with a bit more interest, his attention arousing a strange mixture of nerves and awareness that only serves to irritate me even further.
I’m attractive, but I’m not the type of girl boys like this pay attention to. I’m wholesome and sweet looking, the girl most likely to be mistaken for a kindergarten teacher. Bad boys are as repelled by me as they are infatuated by tattoos, of which this guy has several if the ink peeking from beneath the sleeves of his white tee-shirt are anything to judge by.
“So, you’re the one who married Nash,” he says with a huff, his eyebrows arching in surprise. “Never took him for a cradle robber, but…whatever works for you two.”