CHAPTER 3
MERRYWEATHER
By the time I make it through the revolving doors of Briarwood Confections, my right sleeve smells of coffee, my left shoe is making a suspicious squeaking sound, and I have exactly seventeen minutes to get a new cup of coffee before I have to be upstairs at my desk so that Helena can rip me a new one for no reason at all.
To be clear, I don’t dislike my boss. No. I respect her, and fear her, and she makes me cry at least twice a week, but that’s because she’s a good boss.
Universe, I would never, ever say anything bad about my boss, okay?
The lobby is packed with the usual morning crowd, majority of them huddled around Marcy, the woman who runs the morning coffee cart. There is a group of high schoolers on a tour of the building, and two of them are taking selfies in front of the giant display of Briarwood’s seasonal products like this is a tourist destination and not a corporate office where dreams go to get reformatted into yet another set of slides that no one will read in three weeks’ time.
Above the reception desk, the massive digital screen cycles through the current ad campaigns.
PUMPKIN SPICE CANDY CORN: FALL IN EVERY BITE.
CINNAMON LICORICE CANDY CORN: A BOLD NEW HARVEST TRADITION.
I slow down for half a second, because no matter how many times I see that last one, my brain refuses to accept it as real.
Candy corn is Briarwood Confections’ best-selling product, which means that sometime around July every year, it begins taking over everyone’s professional lives. Forecasts, displays, seasonal promotions, endless conversations about whether consumers are ready for another flavor when consumers have repeatedly demonstrated that what they really want is the exact same three-colored triangle they’ve been eating since childhood.
Cinnamon and licorice and candy corn.
And yes, I realize candy corn pays my bills, but no. Gross. Even I have a limit.
Someone approved that. Several people, probably. I know there were taste tests. A full brand strategy, and maybe even consumer insight reports that said people wanted their Halloween candy to taste like a candle and a dumpster fire had a baby.
“Merryweather!”
I turn toward the lobby coffee bar and immediately regret it, because when I turn, my tote slides down my arm, knocks against my hip, and sends one folder halfway out of the bag.
Phillip Briarwood is standing near the pickup counter in a navy suit that probably costs more than my mortgage, holding two coffee cups like a man who has never once had to sprint to catch a bus to work.
He smiles when he sees me.
Not the polite smile he wears during the company’s earning calls with shareholders.
The full, warm, stupidly adorable, founder’s grandson-turned-CEO smile that makes people in the building start whispering even when he is only asking where the recycling bins are.
“Rough morning?” he asks.
I glance down at myself, knowing full well I look like a wet raccoon. Nothing against raccoons, but not really a pleasing image.
“No,” I say with a smile. “This is my chosen aesthetic.”
His smile deepens. “Then you’re very committed to the concept.”
“Thank you. I do believe in follow-through.”
The barista calls his name, even though he is already holding his drinks. The people around him move to the side, leaving a clear trail to the counter almost as if this were choreographed, because this building is committed to making everyone feel special. Except the assistants, who are simply expected to teleport and know things.
Phillip lifts one cup slightly. “I was going to see if you wanted one, but I wasn’t sure how you took it.”
My brain stops. Not in the romantic way I’ve been asking—nay, begging—internet strangers for. More like a system error. A glitch. A buffer, if you will. Because I’m still consistently and (notoriously?) aggressively gay.
“Oh,” I say. And then because I am me and I can’t really control my mouth, not even in front of the CEO of the fucking company I work for, I add, “Hot and inside my body, usually.”
His eyebrows lift.
