Page 74 of Grumpy Billionaire Bad Boy

"I feel good about it." Camille touches my shoulder before turning on her heel and bolting out of the coffee shop, leaving me and our coffees behind.

I settle back into the seat, the gravity of things pulling me down. On the one hand, this is great news—in a few short weeks I'll have a place of my own—but on the other, I have no idea how I'm going to pay for it.

Four thousand dollars a month is forty-eight thousand a year. I'll have to find something that brings that in at the very least, otherwise, I'll have no money to pay for anything else.

Resentment builds at having left everything behind because of my father. If I had access to any of my accounts, or hell, any of his, none of this would be a problem. I'd have the funds to cover rent for years and years to come.

The fact that I had to endure a lifetime of his wrath and ended up with nothing other than the scars is enough to make me want to bring him back from the dead just to inflict a little pain on him for a change.

But I wouldn't risk it, even if it were possible, because that man would claw his way into the living and make damn sure I was punished for his demise.

I study the customers that come and go, sipping the coffee Camille bought me. Workers move gracefully behind the counter, taking orders, fulfilling them, and communicating well despite the unpredictable rush that comes and goes. A bit farther away, a giant window gives us access to the kitchen area where a woman with tightly curled hair darts from one end to the other, a bowl in one hand and a measuring cup in the other. She stops in front of the counter, dumps the cup into the bowl, and frantically looks around, latching onto a wooden spoon near her, her expression softening but only subtly.

Leaving both mugs of coffee on the table, I move closer to the register, waiting in line patiently but keeping my sights on the glass. Once I'm at the front, the cashier smiles politely at me.

"Another vanilla latte?" she asks.

I point in the direction of the kitchen. "Does she need help?"

The cashier stares at me blankly. "What?"

"The woman in the kitchen. Does she need help?"

"Oh." She glances over her shoulder at the lady darting around the kitchen. "Actually, yeah, probably. Do you have baking experience?"

"Yes," I blurt out without giving it any thought. I've baked before, that counts as experience, right?

"Sasha, take over for a second," the cashier tells another worker. "Come here," she says to me.

I follow her over and she taps on the door before opening it. "Andrea, do you have a minute?"

The woman stops in her tracks, flour on her face and her hair bouncing on her brow. She blows it out of the way. "Not really. What's up?"

"London was inquiring about a job."

Andrea gives me that same blank look that the cashier had just moments prior. "Seriously?"

"I'm sorry," I speak up. "I saw you through the window. You looked like you needed help."

"Can you follow directions?" Andrea asks me from her spot still standing there.

"As long as a man isn't the one giving them."

Andrea cracks a smile. "Men don't do directions."

"Then I don't see the problem."

She slides her gaze to the casts on my body.

"Don't worry, I can keep up," I reassure.

"How much longer until they're off?"

"Hopefully only a few more days." The whole point of today was to leave and find something sharp enough to cut them off, and here I am, committed to an apartment and trying to get a job.

"When can you start?"

"Immediately," I tell her.

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