“I want to learn. I want to do real work. I want to earn something.”
Earn.
The word hits harder than it should.
I cross my arms. “Do you have any relevant experience?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
“Well,” he says slowly. “I once burned toast so badly the fire alarm went off in a hotel suite in Zurich.”
Gwen wheezes.
“That’s a no,” I say.
“But I’m good with my hands,” he adds quickly, holding them up. “I mean, strong. Coordinated. I play squash.”
“Congratulations,” I say flatly. “So do half the finance bros who think croissants are just fancy bread.”
Gwen makes a strangled noise and has to turn away.
I rub my temples. “Leo.”
“Yes?”
“This isn’t a hobby. It’s not cute. It’s six days a week, twelve-hour shifts, burns, cuts, and being yelled at by me before sunrise.”
“I’m ok with that.”
“You will smell like yeast forever.”
“I already kind of do,” he says, sniffing his sleeve.
“You will not be special.”
“I don’t want to be special.”
“You will take directions.”
“I will take directions.”
I squint at him. “You say that now.”
Behind me, Gwen loses it.
“Ok, no, I’m stepping in,” she says, popping up between us like an unhinged referee. “Because this man, this specimen, just said he likes directions.”
Leo smiles at her. “Hi, Gwen.”
“How do you know my name?”
I point at him. “You don’t even know how to hold a bench knife.”
“I can learn.”
“You don’t know baker math.”
“I’m good at math.”
