My computer chimed with a message!
Already?
Boy, that was fast. Now I must message back.
What am I going to say?
Forget what!
I need to leave before Christian gets even madder at me.
Oops, another chime.
And another.
My adrenaline surges all the way to my neck. I can’t chat with all these men! What did I just do? I opened a tsunami of ethical issues.
A knot in my throat swells, making it hard for me to breathe. If I tell all these men I’m too busy to chat, they will want another match at some point. All this did was buy me a little time. Not much time. This can’t be happening!
The lump in my throat pulsates, but this time when I try to swallow it down, it lodges tight, not budging.
Everything I have worked for this last year and all the savings I dumped into this app flash through my mind. If I don’t get the ratio balanced soon, I’ll be inundated with bad reviews. Reviews that stay onlineforever.My app is too new to absorb all those bad reviews. I’ll be buried by them.
I want so badly to yank my hair because I’m frustrated. Instead, I scream out, overwhelmed as tears flood my eyes.
Don’t panic. I breathe into a new thought. I must stay positive.
I didn’t make it this far to fail now.
I quickly swap my status to say I’m interested in chatting but busy. Then I race to the coffee shop, vowing to respond to all of the messages in between customers.
fifteen
Christian
With my gaze pinned to the floor—thanks to this lovely new back hunch—I hobble out of my office into the lobby and brace a hand on the wall. “What did I miss?”
One of Arielle’s penciled on brows rises above the other. “Absolutely nothing. This place is a dive.”
“Thanks, sis.”
“I watched a ton of YouTube videos teaching me how to make these coffees. Oh!” She flashes a jug at me. “Which reminds me, you’re down to your last almond milk.”
“So, let me get this straight. Not only are you not making any money, but you are using all my resources. Perfect.”
“Well, I have to practice somehow. I had two lattes already, and I’m buzzed. I think you should try one of these almond milk lattes.” She points to the nutrition label on the side of the jug. “Look at how much less sugar it has. It’s a lot better for your insulin levels. It may help stabilize your mood.”
“Nothing’s wrong with my mood, or my insulin.” I scoff. If I could walk, I would run over there, grab that jug and chuck it to prove my point. I don’t need anything special to help my mood. I’m not moody. She’s moody. Why is she even talking about moods? “Are you a doctor now?”
Arielle backed up against the counter, lifting herself to sit directly on it, with her feet hanging down. I glare at her. “Nobody wants your butt on the place you put their drink.”
She cringes, muttering, “Almond milk will fix your mood,” as she slides off the counter. “How is your back?” My heart tanks to a whole new low as I toss a discreet glare out the front door, watching the people walkpastwithout even looking inside. “Fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Arielle tilted her head, giving me an angled stare.
“How would you know?” I button my bottom lip, not wanting to leak even the slightest clue that my back is erupting in pain at this very moment.
“I can tell because your brows are beaded together. That lady should be back any minute to help.” She checks her watch. “Then you can rest. What did you say her name is?”
