I selected an outfit that screamed late spring. I don’t mind black, but there are so many other colors, which is a concept so foreign to most New Yorkers.
The latte bubbles into my cup.
I grab my mug, pour some sugar in it, stir, and take a long-awaited sip.
This is amazing coffee.
“How was your meeting?” My ears perk up at a man’s voice outside the kitchen.
“Not only did it drag on, but they didn’t even have the decency of serving good coffee,” a woman says. “Don’t get me started on those monster bagels. I don’t need an injection of five thousand calories first thing in the morning.”
It must be the two supply coordinators I didn’t meet yet.
I turn around, clutching my mug.
A tall, slim woman and a man who towers over her appear at the threshold, their steps halting when they see me.
The woman’s strong fruity perfume overpowers the lovely aroma of my coffee.
I paste a bright smile on my face.
The guy with curly hair and brown eyes approaches me. You must be Harley. Pleased to meet you. I’m Pete.” He extends a hand.
I shake it. “Pleased to meet you too, Pete.”
“Welcome aboard. So, you’re the social media pimp?”
I laugh. “Something like that.”
“It’s about time we had a dedicated person. What we have now works, but the boss says you’re going to hit it out of the park.”
“No pressure.”
“I have faith in you, Harley.” He winks.
“Thanks for being team Harley.”
Pete steps aside.
Everything about the woman in front of me gives off the vibe she’s the polar opposite of Pete and everybody else I’ve met so far. Her arms are crossed and her right foot is extendedin front of the left one, as she stares down her nose at me, perched on top of her platform skyscraper heels.
If she’s going to check me out, I’ll do the same.
My examination starts at her patent leather black heels, travels to what looks like designer cobalt-blue sweatpants with black detailing where the pockets are, and up to her black sleeveless top that ends with some sort of wraparound thing around her neck that makes it look like she’s wearing a BDSM choker. I lift my gaze to her reddish-burgundy hair that’s styled as if she were a character in theVikingsseries.
She cocks a brow. “You’re Harley.”
“That’s me. And you must be Maybelline.”With a name like that, does she feel like she’s cheating if she were to wear another cosmetic?—
“That’s not how you pronounce my name.”
Her chastising words have the same effect as a whip.
I flinch.
Thank God hot coffee doesn’t splash over the rim of the cup and burn me.
“It’sMaybellynn.” She juts her chin up in the air. “Not Maybelline. Not May. Not Maybell. Not Belle. Not Lynn. Not Leen.May-belle-lynn.”
