Handing me the roll of paper towels, she bends to rinse her mouth in the sink. Swishing and spitting, she coughs as she edges sideways to make room for me.
“Sorry,” I mutter, scraping my tongue with my teeth. “It’s—uh—my first time making coffee.”
“I kinda guessed by watching you,” she says. “But this is beyond awful.”
I finish gulping water from the tap and stand to face her. Water dribbles down my chin, and this is so far from the interview I imagined that there’s no point in saving it. “You knew I was screwing it up, but you didn’t say so?”
She folds her arms over her chest and stares me down. “It’s not my style to micromanage. I was giving you the benefit of the doubt that you had a different way of doing things.”
“And that I wasn’t trying to kill you?” I shake my head, feeling like an asshole. “I really am sorry.”
“Don’t mention it. What kind of coffee is that, anyway?”
I open the cupboard and pull out the flowery tin. “Jovan’s Special Blend,” I read off the label.
“Jovan?” She frowns. “The cult leader? Weren’t they raided like two years ago?”
I sniff the contents of the canister. “What does tear gas smell like?”
Vanessa grimaces and dumps the contents of her mug down the sink. “I think I’ll skip the coffee, thanks.”
“Good thinking.” I start to chuck the whole canister, then stop. “Maybe I should have this tested.”
She sniffs the contents and shrugs. “It smells like coffee. Really bad, really old coffee, but still coffee.”
I smell it myself, and she’s right. So maybe it’s a case of user error.
“Come on.” I put the lid back on and set the canister on the counter. “There’s a coffee shop on the other side of the compound. It’s not fully operational yet, but at least the coffee is drinkable.”
Vanessa cocks her head. “Does this mean we’re continuing the interview?”
She’s already hired as far as I’m concerned, but yeah. I should do my due diligence. Failing to do that has burned me before, and no way am I repeating that.
A chill snakes down my arms, and I wonder if she feels it. The way she’s looking at me is so intense, so intimate, that it stalls the breath in my lungs.
Vanessa takes a step back. “I should tell you up front that I’m here for a fresh start,” she says. “I’ve had bad luck in the past mixing business and—and—not business, so this role would be purely professional for me.”
I stare at her as my subconscious jumps up and down yelling.
You’re hired. You’re so fucking hired.
But I’ve learned not to listen to that asshole.
Clearing my throat, I turn toward the door. “Let’s get that coffee.”
***
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AMBER
“Picture a bunch of twinkle lights in those rafters, and the hay bales over there would be the edge of the dance floor.”
I deliver my most charming smile to the bride and groom before zeroing in on the mother of the bride. She beams like I’ve handed her a puppy and a vodka-laced Frappuccino, and I’m positive I am currently her favorite person in this barn.
I have that effect on moms.
But it’s the bride who needs convincing, so I turn back to her. Julia’s blonde hair is arranged in a stylishly messy French twist, and her outfit is classic college-girl-approaching-the-threshold-of-real-life. I want to ask where she found her vintage Coach bag, but now’s not the time.
“Did you get the Pinterest page I sent with those flowers in mason jars?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says slowly, glancing around like she expects a farm animal ambush. “They’d be pretty with rose gold ribbon.”
“Absolutely.” I flick a hand toward the imaginary tables. “Picture them with little stargazer lilies. Or maybe early-season tulips. Those should be available this time of year.”
Julia’s blue eyes continue a survey of the space, and I know she’s seeing it in her mind.
The rustic wine barrels spilling with wildflowers.
The cute chalkboard signs pointing people to her guest book.
The train of her gown gliding through a pile of fresh reindeer droppings.
The beast responsible for the droppings snorts and rubs her branchlike antlers on a post.
“Tammy won’t be invited to your ceremony,” I assure the bride and groom. “We keep the reindeer penned up during weddings.”
Tammy the reindeer stamps a hoof and keeps banging her antlers on the post. She’s due to lose them any day now, and I say a silent prayer it won’t happen in the next five minutes.
“It’s totally fine, honey,” the mother of the bride assures me. “The whole point of doing a rustic, country-style wedding is having some flavor.”
“We can certainly offer that.” I turn back to the happy couple. “We’re all about the quaint, country charm.”
The groom—who’s been mostly quiet up to this point—takes his bride’s hand and studies her face as intently as she’s watching Tammy. “What do you think, honey?” he says. “It has that homey, folksy vibe going for it.”
Julia does an agreeable little head tilt, though I can’t tell from her face if she thinks that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “I guess rustic country chic is all the rage right now.” She glances at me for affirmation. “I see a lot of that on Pinterest.”
I nod like a bobblehead, grateful for the powers of Pinterest in backing up my business plan. “Did you see last month’s cover of Bride magazine? Country chic is in.”
The mother of the bride puts a hand on her daughter’s arm. “Remember that episode of Say Yes to the Dress where they had those adorable burlap table runners and centerpieces with bright red apples in little metal tubs?”
Tammy the reindeer swings her antlers our direction, and I hold my breath. She knows that word, and she’s poised to stomp over here and start snuffing at pockets for Honeycrisps. I focus very hard on using mental telepathy to beg my sister to come drag the blasted reindeer out of the barn.
But since Jade and I aren’t telepathic, Tammy just stares.
“It’s nice, I guess,” Julia says, with roughly the same enthusiasm I’d use to describe the work gloves I bought last week.
“I think it’s totally charming.” The groom squeezes her hand, and I can tell he really means it. “My family would say it’s exotic.”
“Exotic.” Julia frowns a little. “That’s because they’re from Manhattan. It’s not exotic when you spent childhood summers mucking stalls.”
“Now, honey.” The mother of the bride puts an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and smiles at me. “It’s a hat tip to your heritage.”