Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“I have a job interview, I think.” I pick up the coffee and bring it to my lips. “At Thatcher’s,” I say and he looks from his pie to my face. It’s no secret my in-laws hate the Thatchers. I mean, to be honest, there aren’t many people who my in-laws don’t hate. Mr. Mendelson is also one of them, because he rented me one of his properties when I left Winston. They gave him so many fucking problems, in the end I just left. He was pissed I would do that, but I knew he didn’t need the headache. He’s been like a father to me and I refused to put him in that position. He was also the only one who knew that I secretly baked for the bakery. He would have to know since he was the one who supplied me with all the fruit.
“Do you think that is wise?” he asks me, taking a bite of his pie, and I fill him in with regard to Winston and his late-night visits. “I’m glad someone is finally getting in his face about it,” he says, leaning back in the chair, his salt-and-pepper hair pushed back. “I wish—” I put my hand on his.
“You did more for me than anyone,” I say softly. “Now, wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck.” He smirks. “You’ll dazzle them.” I get up and kiss his cheek. “You call me when you walk out of there.”
“You know it,” I confirm to him as I walk out of the house and get into my car. I arrive at the bar at ten to ten and wonder if I should sit in the car for a couple of minutes or head in. “Better to be early than late,” I tell myself as I get out of my car and head over to the bar door, pulling it open and stepping in.
I look around the half-dark room, the lights are not even on and wonder if maybe I didn’t hear him correctly. Maybe it was my ears playing jokes on me. But I’m pretty sure he said be here at ten. My palms start to get sweaty as I take a step in and see the door from the back swing open as he walks through to the front. “Right on time,” he observes gruffly, and I have to keep moving my feet forward, or I think my knees are going to buckle under me.
“I’m ten minutes early,” I almost whisper as I walk toward him and see he’s wearing a pair of well-worn jeans with a white T-shirt that looks like it’s painted on him. You can see his broad chest in it as it’s tucked in the front, but looks like it wasn’t on purpose. The big belt buckle shows and the even bigger bulge underneath it. My eyes fly back up, thinking I would die if he caught me staring at the bulge in his pants. “Hi,” I greet when I’m close enough, trying to get my nerves under wraps. Reminding myself this could all be for nothing, but I secretly think this might just be the first step at something going my way.
“Hi,” he says, pointing over to the stool and waiting for me to sit down before walking behind the bar and facing me. I guess this is where I’m going to do my job interview.
“How much do you know about waitressing?” he asks me and I think about lying, but about five minutes after I start, he’s going to know I have never done it.
“I served my husband dinner for ten years,” I joke with him but see his jaw tighten, “but besides that, nothing.”
He looks down at his boots, probably contemplating even asking me to come to this fucking interview. “But I’m a quick learner,” I try to salvage the interview. “I can learn quick, and if I’m that bad at it, you don’t even have to fire me, I’ll quit.”
“We can start tonight,” he says and I secretly groan inside, “if it works out.” His voice trails off. “We can talk about you working five nights a week.”
I try not to fall off the stool. “You get Sunday and Monday nights off.” Shit-shit-shit, fuck-fuck-fuck, is all I can chant. “Is that going to be a problem?” he asks, taking in my face—I’m sure—when it has sunk in that I potentially have a job, but also potentially am going to have to quit on my very first night.
“Nope, should be good,” I tell him, knowing that once again I’m going to have to call up Mr. Mendelson and ask him for another favor. “What time should I start tonight?” I ask, my heart speeding up and going a million miles a minute.
“Be here at six,” he says. “I’ll have the papers for you to fill out and you can start at six thirty.” I nod at him. “It’ll be a short night. After that, you will start at five until eleven, or when we close, it could be earlier too.”