My new boss’s haircut strikes me as odd before I realize he’s wearing a beanie and I’m seeing the curled tips of his hair beneath the cuff. I notice his hands next. They’re large, and he’s rubbing them together near the fire as he leans his elbows on his knees. I can’t fully see his profile, as he’s turned away from me.
“Sit,” he says gruffly to me as I approach, making me nearly certain he’s watching me approach in the reflection of the dark windows.
This doesn’t feel like it’s shaping up to be a happy conversation.
Or maybe that’s lingering anxiety over everything that’s changed.
I brace myself, sit in the open easy chair, and reach deep for the Sabrina Sullivan charm that’s propelled me through every day of my life working here at Bean & Nugget.
I saycharm.
Some people saybullheaded, take-charge attitude.
It’s a mix of both. And honestly, the past week, I’ve been completely faking all of the happy,everything’s finethings.
“Good morning, Mr. Cartwright. I’m Sabrina, the manager here. Welcome to Snaggletooth Creek, and thank you for what you’ve done for Bean & Nugget. I hope the wind didn’t make your travels too difficult yesterday.”
“You want to discuss my travels?” my new boss repeats to me, like I’ve just asked if he tried the new colon cleanser that at least seven customers were talking about yesterday.
A tiny alarm pings in the back of my brain in the space that’s reserved foryou are missing a very important clue in this discussion.
“Oh, are you from nearby? I assumed you—never mind. Apologies. I’ll quit making assumptions.” I googled this man, but I hate the internet.
Hateit.
It never works right for me, and I don’t want to spy on people from behind a screen. I want to talk to them face-to-face. Find out their story. Who they are. What matters to them. Feel it for myself.
When I googledGreyson Cartwright, the first page of results included a blog about succulents, a recipe for cornbread, and random facts about ocean tides, because that’s how my search engine works.
I might’ve been born in the internet generation, but the internet isn’t having me.
When I addedpersonat the end of my search for my new boss, I got a list of high school athletes, musicians, and pages and pages of Facebook profiles that I didn’t want to comb through, none of which looked anything like this bearded, stiff, apparently cold man in the shadows.
I can’t tell how old he is. What color his eyes are. If he’s passing judgment because of me already doing something wrong, or if there would be some clue about something making him uncomfortable that I’d notice if I could see him in the light.
Zen leans between us with a steaming mug of what is definitely Earl Grey tea. My nose doesn’t lie. “Drink, Uncle Grey. There are eggs in the fridge. I’ll make you an omelet.”
Uncle Grey. I’m off gossip, but Ineedto know their relationship, so this is good.
“Not hungry,” he says.
“Okay, grumpy pants. Did you see this pup—oh. Oh. Well. You’re seeing him now, aren’t you?”
“Jitter.” I lunge for my dog, who’s currently attempting to climb into my new boss’s lap instead of staying in the kitchen where I left him locked up. Because Zen let him out? Or because he pulled a Houdini? Not that it matters. The point is, he’s not a lap dog, but he’s still trying to climb into the boss’s seat. “Down. He’s a puppy. I mean, he’s not a puppy, but he still has a lot of puppy in him and some growing to do. Doggy daycare opens soon, and I—”
I cut myself off with a grunt before the wordsI was hoping you were a dog person and Jitter would break the icecome out of my mouth.
It clearly worked with Zen.
Jitter pants happily at me as he settles on his haunches in front of the fire.
“Down,” I tell him.
He flops to the floor with an enthusiasm that you can sometimes feel in the floorboards, rolls over so he’s lying across Mr. Cartwright’s feet, and shows us his belly and his manhood.
“He doesn’t do that with customers,” I stammer. “He goes to doggy daycare—”
“So you’ve said,” Mr. Cartwright interrupts.
