The man in the image is sporting a noticeable bulge.
It’s not as though I’ve stopped to stare, but I know some women have.
I’ve witnessed that myself.
I shift the subject because I’d rather talk about a potential job than what’s in a random model’s underwear. “Are you going to apply for the administrative job?”
Her head snaps up. “Me? No. Why would you think that?”
Let me count the reasons.
She lost her job today due to the untimely death of her boss. Her phone’s browser is opened to a job listing website, and not more than thirty minutes ago, she was sobbing into her martini about how badly she needs a job.
I don’t touch any of that because she goes on, “I’m looking for a job in the field I was trained in. My job at Mirnan Mortgage was never going to be forever. I want to get back to doing what I love, and I think now is the perfect time.”
The question begs to be asked, so I do it. “What field were you trained in?”
She looks me in the eye. “I’m a high-wire performer.”
I stare at her because I need time to process that.
Fortunately, the sound of the bar’s door opening and muted male voices save me from continuing this conversation at the moment.
I turn to greet my newest customers, but I freeze as soon as I spot the man leading the pack of three into the bar.
Goddamn this day all to hell.
Out of all of the bars in Manhattan, why did he have to walk into mine?
My annoying neighbor smirks when he catches sight of me wearing a black bib apron.
I yanked it from behind the bar and put it on so I wouldn’t stain my white blouse with an unwanted splash of anything.
The apron is available for any employee’s use whenever citrus needs to be cut, or vegetables have to be cleaned for garnishes.
Normally, I’m dressed in jeans and a T-shirt when I’m working here.
The gorgeous jerk in the suit stalks toward me, raking me from head to toe as he does.
His eyes land on the apron. “Congratulations are in order, Champ. It looks like you got the job after all.”
Champ.
The name is stitched in white thread on the apron. I found it at a vintage store called Past Over a few months ago. I picked it up when I was looking for sundresses. I knew the apron would come in handy at work, so I paid a couple of dollars for it and brought it straight here.
“Sit yourself,” I say curtly to my neighbor.
“Will do.” He motions to the two men with him to head to an empty table in the corner. “Three glasses of scotch. Neat. The best label you have.”
“Scotch,” I repeat. “One for each of you.”
“You got it,” he says in a deep voice that sends a charge straight through me. “Keep up the good work, Champ.”
When he brushes past me to take a seat at the table, I roll my eyes.
Working for one of the world’s most prominent men’s underwear brands wasn’t on my radar, but as soon as Gage returns, I’m going to apply for the marketing position at Wells.
Seeing my neighbor here is a sign.