Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love #5) - Ali Parker Page 0,12
at the restaurant I worked at in Waynesville.
“Julie’s? It’s a lunch and dinner restaurant. I worked as a hostess there for two and a half years. It’s a very popular local restaurant.”
“How many tables?”
“Um, I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?” he asked sharply, looking up at me. He passed my resume back. “You’re applying for a server position here and you have no concept of how many tables you had at your old job? No thank you, Ms. Sommerfield. Best of luck to you.”
I stared at my resume and never managed to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth as he walked away.
Fine then. I wouldn’t want to work for you anyway.
I maintained that attitude for the rest of the afternoon as I dropped off resume after resume. Not because I wanted to, but because every single employer had the same bitchy attitude as that manager. They clearly didn’t have much time on their hands and they saw talking to me as a burden, even though they had hiring signs in their windows.
It left a poor taste in my mouth.
So did getting bulldozed by New Yorkers butting in line in front of me whenever I tried to make my way to the counter to drop off a resume. I even stood in line and waited patiently but that didn’t seem to matter to the people of this city. Soon I started to strategize, and I stood with my hands on my hips and used my elbows as weapons to ward people off who got too close or tried to slip in front of me.
Not today, motherfuckers. Not today.
When six o’clock rolled around, I was still roughly three miles from my motel. My feet hurt, my back ached, and my legs felt like putty from so much walking. It had started to rain well over twenty minutes ago and the hood of my jacket was soaked through, as were the shoulders, and I was so cold my teeth had started chattering. Everyone else on the sidewalks had umbrellas and I felt like a dumbass for not thinking ahead and buying one.
Everyone in the movies had them. I should have known better.
When I spied the warm lights of a hole-in-the-wall bar spilling out onto the sidewalk, I stepped up to the door and read the menu posted on the wall. A customer came out and I got a whiff of French onion soup. My mouth flooded with saliva. I pushed my hood off my head, raked my fingers through my wet hair, and scowled down at the red stains left on them.
Nobody had warned me that red hair dye bled for days after application.
The pub was small and cozy. Everything was different shades of brown. The booth seats were warm brown leather and all the furniture was a glossy stained cherry color. Candles flickered in mason jars and the lighting overhead hung from old rafters and didn’t provide much light at all.
I moved up to the bar and took a seat at one end. There was a couple sitting at the opposite end, sipping drinks and talking quietly to each other. I took my coat off and draped it over the back of the stool. The bartender, a good-looking man in his late thirties with thick arms and tattoos from wrist to elbow, handed me a menu. It was red leather and bound with gold hinges. I thanked him and flipped it open, even though I knew I wanted the French onion soup I smelled.
I ordered the soup as well as a Moscow Mule. I needed something to take the edge off. It had been a brutal day.
My drink arrived first and I drank gratefully. While I waited for my food, I fired off two text messages. One to the group chat that was always going between me, Riley, and Madison, and the other to my parents who I doubted would see it for a while since they were still in France. I told them all that I’d spent my first day job hunting and that it seemed promising. I did not tell them about the rain, the poor-mannered New Yorkers, or my general disappointment at how the job hunt had gone.
When my soup arrived, my mood brightened. I warmed myself up from the inside and turned down the offer of another drink or more food. This was all that was in the budget and it had hit the spot.
Chapter 6
Wes
She wasn’t from around here. That much was obvious.