Page 52 of Business Casual
“Let him in, probably.”
I shuffle my way over to the door and inch it open. “Jeremy.”
He clears his throat. “Ms. Porter.”
I frown at him. He’s never called me that in his life. “What can I do for you? Are you selling bibles?”
“No.” He thinks about it for a second. “Would you want one if I was?”
A smile twitches at my lips. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Cool. Okay. Well.” He adjusts the sleeves of his suit. It’s cut too small, his long arms poking out from beneath the cuffs. I also think the T-shirt he’s wearing beneath his button-down has a mermaid on it. Or something…mermaid adjacent. Jeremy tips his chin up. “I’m here for an interview.”
I lean my hip against the doorway. “Did you fake your résumé, Jeremy?”
“What? No! I haven’t even given you my résumé yet.” He pops open his briefcase and a store-bought bag of pens, a newspaper from three days ago, and a roll of Life Savers tumble to the ground. He ignores all of it and pulls out a sheet of paper. “Here we go.”
I take it from him, but don’t look at it. “How’d you know I had an interview scheduled this morning?”
He shrugs.
“Jeremy.”
“Yes?”
“How did you know?”
“Luck,” he offers, his voice a shade too innocent. “Perhaps the stars aligned?”
Vanessa snickers from somewhere behind me. I sigh. “Jeremy.”
“Fine! I saw her at the café, okay? Your candidate, or whatever. She was getting a latte from Ms. Beatrice and asked for directions to the tattoo studio. She said she was here for an interview.”
“And where is she now?”
He scratches behind his ear, a blush coloring his cheeks. “She had to leave.”
“Why?”
“Because I told her the interview was canceled.”
Vanessa guffaws. I’m glad one of us finds this amusing.
“Jeremy.” I sigh. “Why did you tell her the interview was canceled?”
“Because I need a job.”
“Aren’t you working at Ms. Beatrice’s place?”
My entire life, the cantankerous Ms. Beatrice has owned the café on the corner of Main Street. She specializes in coffee drinks that are, frankly, life-changing. But you have to endure her surly attitude to snag one. She has also never deigned to name the place. Most people either call it Ms. Beatrice’s or the café. I think someone tried to put a sign up once, and she had it ripped down by the next morning. The green-striped awning over the doorway still hasn’t recovered.
“I need a career,” Jeremy emphasizes. He shifts his feet, scratches at the back of his neck, and fiddles with the handle of his briefcase. “Also, unrelated, but she fired me.”
“For what?”
“For something I don’t want to discuss with a prospective employer,” he rushes out.
I tap his résumé against the palm of my hand. “Were you caught in the alley making out with one of the customers again?”
