Page 27 of Masks and Mishaps

This is salvageable.

Sighing, I eye the sliver of open space on the ledge adjacent to the pick-up counter where a man in a suit has placed his phone and a copy ofThe Wall Street Journal. The whirring grind of coffee beans has already drowned out my two previous requests for him to kindly move his shit so I can adjust my cardboard coffee tray, but I can’t quit.I’m completely fine.

“Excuse me,” I repeat, standing on my toes to force my way into his periphery, but he still doesn’t hear me. “Hi, excuse me. I need a second to—”

“Jesus, I heard you,” he snaps, whirling to face me. He has a second phone against his other ear, and he shoots me a glare like I just uncovered an October surprise on his candidate (because his drab suit tells me he’s definitely a Hill staffer). “Yeah, hold on. This girl keeps trying to make me move,” he mutters into the phone.

I bite down, clenching my jaw while he gives me another annoyed look. He tucks his phone between his ear and his shoulder and slides his junk over with obvious flourish, trying to make a point.

He makes his point right into the woman standing next to him.

“Shit,” she blurts out as coffee rolls over her once-pristine camel coat. She slams her crushed paper cup onto the ledge and glares at the Hill staffer, who doesn’t even bother half-assing an apology.

I take a stack of napkins from the nearby dispenser. “Here.”

She blots the stain along the seam, but it’s useless.

“Wait.” I dig into my tote for my detergent pen. “Use this.”

Cautious, the woman takes the pen and studies it, holding it at arm’s length. Her eyes are dark charcoal, but a rim of red circles her irises. The hint of weariness stops at her eyes though. She’s absurdly pretty, truly one of the most stunning women I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing up close, which is saying a lot because Valeria and Cora are proof biology plays favorites. Her features are angular, more striking than subtle. The black hair cascading over her shoulder is a perfect mix of wavy and straight, and her gaze is piercing, just short of intimidating, even with confusion layered over her face. “Do you color it—”

“It’s simple,” I assure her. “Can I show you?”

While I clean her coat, I can feel her watching the fine motions of my hand. “You always have this?” she asks eventually.

“Habit. I raised three brothers.” Finished, I cap the pen and hold it out to her. “Keep it.”

She drops it into her purse before she exhales and straightens her coat. “Be honest: How do I look?”

“Gorgeous. Fuck it—let’s run away together,” I reply, using a line Valeria, Cora, and I say all the time.

The woman’s face splits into a smile. “I needed that today, actually.” She studies me before she asks, “How’s your day going?”

“Honestly? Not great.”

“No?” she asks, hitching her purse higher. “What happened?”

“Eleven months ago, my estranged father met the mother of my best guy friend, who I’ve had on the back burner. They fell in love, got engaged fast, and in four weeks, I’m going to become step-siblings with a guy I thought I’d date.” I let out a sigh. “And we got drunk and accidentally fucked on Halloween.”

“Wasn’t expecting that answer,” she replies, canting her head. “Seriously, should we run away?”

“Never. I’ve seen people run, and I know their problems don’t go with them. Those problems stay behind for someone else to fix.”I’m completely fine. I’m divulging my secrets to a stranger, but I’m completely fine.I pick up my coffees. “I’ll never become someone else’s problem.”

“Me neither. Al mal paso, darle prisa,” she responds surprising me with fluent Spanish.Just get the bad over with quickly—something mymother used to say. “Thanks for the pen and the pep talk.”

“Likewise,” I answer, giving her the most reassuring smile I can muster.

She smiles back.

And without another word, she taps the Hill staffer. When he looks at her, she snatches his phone from his ear and drops it right into her ruined coffee cup, submerging it. “Ciao!” she calls, waving as she goes, not bothering to look back at the carnage in her wake.

***

“How long have you been here?”

Startled, I look to my left where the rolling chair next to me squeaks as my manager, Weston Hannington, falls into it. Immediately, a look of annoyance paints his face. “We need better chairs,” he murmurs as if every chair in this office isn’t a Herman-Miller—twelve-hundred dollars at retail.

“Since seven thirty,” is my honest response.

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