Which hurtled across the birchwood tabletop right at me.
Fortunately for me, Parker had cat-like reflexes. He leaped out of his chair, snatched a fistful of napkins from the dispenser,and sopped up the flowing foam just as it reached the edge of the table.
Unfortunately for me, Parker had hippopotamus-like hand-eye coordination. In his heroic efforts to stem the tide of turmeric cardamom, his elbow smacked the pistachio lavender, which tumbled straight into my lap.
Lava-hot latte soaked through my LoveShackFancy miniskirt, hot coffee dripping down my legs. My nether regions felt like they had gotten a bikini wax with a flamethrower.
That’s when man-bun intervened.
“I got you!” Super Man-Bun leapt to the rescue, barista towel waving like a superhero cape, lunging toward my crotch. Head between my knees, he froze, realizing the compromising position of where he’d need to dab. His face turned the color of a boob-shaped muffin.
“Thanks.” I snatched the towel from his hand. “I got it from here.” I tried to mop up the spill, but the coffee soaked through. An unfortunate wet patch now stained my entire pelvic area.
Man-bun and I made eye contact, neither one of us sure how to proceed. I handed back his towel. “Thanks?”
We both looked down at my wet crotch before resuming the awkward eye contact. “You’re welcome?”
As Man-Bun slunk back behind the counter, I looked up to find Parker smiling, not at all concerned with my latte scalding.
“Why are you smiling?”
“You know what that was, don’t you?”
“A third-degree burn?”
“That was a meet-cute,” said Parker, a twinkle in his eye.
“That was not a meet-cute. That was a ‘random coffee shop guy with a man-bun invading the personal space of my crotch.’ There was nothing cute about it.” I grabbed some more napkins and sopped up the espresso that had leaked into my shoe. “And if it was a meet-cute, it was a terribleone. People don’t form relationships based on random coffee shop misadventures.” When I looked up, Parker’s eyes were still twinkling. “You’re still smiling. Stop smiling.”
“You should get his number.”
“So I can send him my dry-cleaning bill? Good idea.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I. This skirt costs almost as much as my monthly rent. If that boutique in Sherman Oaks hadn’t sent it to me as part of a promo, I’d never be able to afford something like this on my own.”
“He’s totally into you,” said Parker, ignoring my skirt problems. “Plus, he’s kinda cute.”
“If I were into man-buns,” I said. “Which I am not. Besides, I have no time for dating. And even if I had time to pursue some semblance of a relationship, there isn’t a decent guy worth … relating … in the entire state. California men are sus. L.A. men especially.”
“Ouch.” Parker placed his hand on his heart in mock indignation.
After drying my skirt under the hand dryer in the ladies’ restroom (and an apologetic smile to the elderly woman who walked in on me), Parker and I hopped in an Uber, which dropped us in front of the company headquarters of LuxeLife Resorts and Spas. We stared up at the towering fortress of steel and glass for a few moments, calming our nerves. It was where our wildest dreams or deepest nightmares were about to come true.
“Yikes.” Parker’s jaw hung open.
My mouth joined his. “Yeah. If a bunch of evil supervillainsever got together and built a corporate headquarters, it would look exactly like this.”
“You ready?”
I glimpsed my reflection in the mirrored surface. My coffee-stained skirt clung to my thighs like plastic wrap. At least the ruffles partially obscured the stain. “Of course I’m ready.” I took a deep breath. Then another one. And finally, a third. “I was born ready. You queued the deck?”
“Locked and loaded.” Parker patted his laptop bag. “We’ve got printouts of all the social metrics spreadsheets, engagement forecasts, and competitor analyses.” When he peeked in his bag, it looked like twelve acres of Oregonian forest had valiantly sacrificed themselves just for this presentation.
As we approached the front entrance, the glare from the sun punched right through the tint of my Prada sunglasses, another promotional gift I could never afford on my own. That was another reason the LuxeLife contract was so important. There I was, a professional influencer, supposedly showing people how the better half lives. But the truth was, I wasn’t in the better half. Not even the better two-thirds. Maybe the better fifteen-sixteenths? I don’t know; fractions were never my specialty. The point is, this was finally my chance to be something real.
The first-floor lobby of LuxeLife Resorts and Spas stretched before us like a temple. Sunlight knifed through floor-to-ceiling windows. The perfumed air hung cool and still. My heels echoed across the marble floors. The softer I tried to walk, the louder they seemed to get.
