Page 3 of Renegade Roomie

Ouch. That insult stings worse than that one ill-fated summer trip to Myrtle Beach, when I unknowingly wandered into a cluster of jellyfish. Contrary to urban legend, no hot lifeguards jogged up and offered to ease my pain.

But still, I’m no quitter. And I’ve faced plenty of rejection to even make it this far. “My products speak for themselves,” I insist. “You’ll see. Take them, think about it, that’s all I ask.”

Gregory sighs and shoves them into his bag without a second glance. “I need to get on the road, traffic to the Hamptons is a nightmare on a Friday,” he explains.

“Oh, absolutely,” I agree, as if my weekend plans also involve a jaunt to my beach house. “Don’t you just hate that?”

“I’ll see you Monday,” he says, heading for the door. “And please, do think about the promotion.”

“If you think about my samples!” I call after him.

He strides away, and I release a shaky sigh. That definitely didn’t go the way I’d hoped—gasps, praise, a massive order—but maybe once Gregory has the time to inspect the samples from the comfort of his pool, he’ll be wowed by my originality and brilliance.

Maybe.

I exit after Gregory, back to the main floor. He pauses to talk to one of the other department heads, then heads for the front doors, pausing to toss something into the garbage can outside.

Something that looks awfully familiar.

He heads off to frolic in the Hamptons, but I freeze in place, my stomach dropping.

Oh no he didn’t.

“Callie?” Lorelei asks. “How did it go?”

“It’s going,” I answer grimly, sprinting after him. I push through the crowd of customers, and barrel out the doors onto the busy sidewalk. The trashcan is right out front, and I race over to push back the flap.

Oh, yeah. He totally did.

There, nestled among crumpled food wrappers, empty cups, and a browning apple core is my sample box. My precious, perfect sample box—with the brochure buried right alongside them.

“No freaking way,” I vow. “Don’t worry, babies, I’m getting you out of there.”

Passersby give me a sidelong look, because, yes, I’m talking to trash right now, but I don’t care. I stick my entire arm into the opening and reach around to grab them, but my arm isn’t long enough.

This calls for drastic measures.

Holding my breath to block out the smell, I wedge my head and shoulders into the gap. The first item my fingers graze is wet and slimy. I shudder but force myself to keep searching. Finally, I grab the box and hoist myself out to find…

A line of customers staring at me like I’m day-old fish.

“Nothing to see here!” I call, holding up the box in victory. Something brown and slimy slides off and falls to the ground with a SPLAT.

Ah, the glamorous life of a budding entrepreneur!

I rinse off as best I can in the employee bathroom, then lay low for the rest of my shift, wondering if I’m ever going to find my break.

“Of course you will,” Lorelei says loyally. “Your products are amazing.”

“If that was the only thing that mattered, Rouge Blanc wouldn’t be our bestseller,” I reply, wryly naming the line with terrible quality, but superstar endorsements. Lorlelei grins.

“OK, maybe so. But good people succeed all the time. My old roommate’s cousin invented that dating app, Perfect Match? They just went public, it’s a massive hit. Although, her brother was a pop star, and she married the billionaire who invested in the company,” she adds. “Oh, but I did a glam squad for this amazing female founder last week. She’s killing it! But her dad did front her the money for the company,” she finishes, smile slipping.

“So, what you’re saying is, I need to marry a billionaire, or be related to one?” I ask lightly. “I’ll add it to the list.”

Lorelei grins. “If anyone can make it, you will. You’re the most stubborn person I know.”

She leans in for a hug—and then stops. “You know, I can cover if you want to leave early. Go home, shower, shower again.”

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