SAINT (The Buck Boys Heroes Book 3), page 2
The apron is available for any employee’s use whenever citrus needs to be cut, or vegetables have to be cleaned for garnishes.
Normally, I’m dressed in jeans and a T-shirt when I’m working here.
The gorgeous jerk in the suit stalks toward me, raking me from head to toe as he does.
His eyes land on the apron. “Congratulations are in order, Champ. It looks like you got the job after all.”
Champ.
The name is stitched in white thread on the apron. I found it at a vintage store called Past Over a few months ago. I picked it up when I was looking for sundresses. I knew the apron would come in handy at work, so I paid a couple of dollars for it and brought it straight here.
“Sit yourself,” I say curtly to my neighbor.
“Will do.” He motions to the two men with him to head to an empty table in the corner. “Three glasses of scotch. Neat. The best label you have.”
“Scotch,” I repeat. “One for each of you.”
“You got it,” he says in a deep voice that sends a charge straight through me. “Keep up the good work, Champ.”
When he brushes past me to take a seat at the table, I roll my eyes.
Working for one of the world’s most prominent men’s underwear brands wasn’t on my radar, but as soon as Gage returns, I’m going to apply for the marketing position at Wells.
Seeing my neighbor here is a sign.
It’s a sign that I need to find a job that will keep me as far out of his orbit as possible.
“Thanks for the drink, Saint!” A male voice calls out, startling me.
I turn just in time to see my neighbor pop his middle finger in the air. That’s directed at one of the men leaving the bar. He follows that up with a hearty, “fuck you, Decky.”
I’d expect to hear this exchange late on a Saturday night when a bunch of college-aged guys wander in, but these men are both dressed in well-tailored suits and are wearing shoes that cost a small fortune.
I should know.
I worked part-time for a few years at a high-end shoe store.
The third of their trio chuckles as he exits the bar behind Decky.
My neighbor is on his second glass of scotch, and although he’s a generous tipper, I’m ready for him to take off too.
I glance at the watch on my wrist.
“Champ!”
Rolling my eyes, I look over at my neighbor again. I raise my chin in a silent query.
He curls one of his index fingers to lure me over.
Great.
Since Jade left fifteen minutes ago, I’ve been tending to the other few customers in the bar while working on polishing my resume on my phone.
I thought it was as good as it could be, but since I want that job at Wells, I need to put my best foot forward.
I round the bar and approach the man who has barely taken his eyes off me since he arrived.
As soon as I’m near his table, he’s out of his chair and on his feet.
He towers above me, but that’s not saying a lot. I’m barely five foot one, and I’ve only gained three inches with these heels.
The brute in the suit in front of me is at least a foot taller than me.
“We’ve lived next door to each other for how long now?” he quizzes me.
Twenty-seven days is the correct answer, but I shrug. “A few weeks, I guess.”
It feels much longer.
My neighbor from hell is notorious for listening to music late at night. I asked Mrs. Sweeney if it kept her awake too, but she pointed at her hearing aid and giggled.
The guy also loves inviting people over. It’s not just women. Whenever a baseball game is on TV, he’s wearing a jersey.
How do I know that?
The peephole in my apartment door is a perfect method of surveillance.
I’ve seen him in the hall outside my apartment dressed in that jersey and jeans as he greets his loud-mouthed friends as they exit the elevator.
Then, I’m subjected to three hours of whistling, yelling, and cursing when the game doesn’t go the way they want.
The man standing in front of me may be blessed with gorgeous looks, but he’s lacking in common courtesy DNA.
“Now that I know your name, Champ, don’t you think it’s time you know mine?”
“I know your name,” I snap back. “It’s Saint, right?”
He lets out a throaty laugh that sends goose bumps trailing up my arms.
Why is his laugh so sexy?
“My asshole brother is the only person who still calls me that.” He rubs his beard-covered jaw. “It’s a nickname from when I was a kid.”
“You must have been a lot different when you were a kid, Saint. I can think of at least a dozen nicknames that suit you better.”
His gaze passes over me from head to toe. “Like what?”
“You don’t want to know.”
His left eyebrow perks. “I sure as hell do, Champ.”
Seriously? Are we having this discussion right now?
“For starters, I’d call you a horrible neighbor,” I say with exasperation edging my tone.
A smirk slides over his lips. “How am I a horrible neighbor?”
“I don’t have time for this.” I glance at my watch. “I need to get back to work.”
“Fine.” He tilts his head to the side. “Get me another drink.”
“Another one?” I ask before I realize the question has left my lips.
I don’t need him to hang out here any longer. I want him out of this bar now.
“Is that a problem?” he questions.
“Don’t you have a job to get back to?” I paste on a sugary sweet smile. “I wouldn’t want your boss getting pissed at you for taking too long of a lunch break.”
“That’s not going to happen,” he says. “You’re not denying me another beverage, are you?”
I am, and it’s not because he’s intoxicated. It’s because he’s annoying the hell out of me.
I point at his empty glass. “You downed two drinks pretty fast today. I know how much you like scotch, but maybe save the next one for when you’re at home tonight. You indulge a lot during the evenings and weekends. I’ve seen that for myself.”
“You what?” He takes a half step closer to me. “When did you see that? Have you been spying on me?”
Yes, but I’ll never admit it.
“I’ve seen it two times.” I dart two fingers in the air. “Twice, you’ve knocked on my door when you’ve had a drink in your hand.”
A smile slides over his lips. “Right.”
He doesn’t add anything else even though both times that happened, I asked what he wanted, and he said he needed to borrow a cup of sugar.
I told him to get lost. He did after he smirked and winked at me.
I look at my watch again. “I need to get back to my other customers. Have a nice day.”
“Have a nice day?” His arms cross his chest. “Telling your customers to stop drinking is not the way to hold onto this job, Champ. Ever heard of upselling?”
There’s no way in hell he thinks that Champ is my actual name, but I won’t correct him.
As soon as Grady is back in Manhattan, I’ll find a new place to live, and I’ll never have to see this guy again.
“My job is none of your business,” I snap, mimicking his stance.
“I’m back!”
Relief flows through me when I hear Gage’s voice behind me.
“My boss is here,” I say before I turn around.
Gage is grinning when I spot him. “Sorry that took so long.”
I rush toward him. “It’s not a problem at all.”
“Did everything run smoothly?” Gage asks that question every time he steps away from the bar.
“Smooth as silk.” I smile. “If it’s all right, I’m going to take off. I have a lead on a job I think I’m perfect for. I want to apply today.”
“Go.” He grins. “If they have any sense, they’ll hire you.”
I move around the bar, rid myself of the apron, and grab my purse and phone. “That’s exactly what I’m hoping for. I’ll be in tomorrow night for my shift. I won’t leave you short-handed.”
“You’re the best,” he says as he glances around the bar. “Is everyone settled up, or…”
I look to the left and then the right, taking an extra second to lock eyes with my neighbor.
“Everyone is squared away.”
“Perfect.” Gage sighs. “You’re a lifesaver. If you need a solid reference, point your potential new employer in my direction.”
I may just do that.
I want that job at Wells more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time.
Chapter Four
Callie
“Do you have any experience in men’s underwear, Callie?”
I’ve put my hands in a few pairs while they were on men I was about to go to bed with, but I don’t think that’s what the marketing manager for Wells wants to know.
Shaking my head, I smile. “I’ve worked in retail settings, and I’ve held marketing positions, so I think I bring a solid, well-rounded experience to Wells.”
I’d pat myself on the back for that answer if I could. It’s a ten out of ten.
I’ve been in prep mode since I got the call two days ago that I’d landed an interview with Wells. I didn’t want to walk into this unprepared, so I wrote down every answer to the questions I anticipated may be asked of me.
The woman interviewing me grins. “I see that you worked at Polleys for a time. I love that store.”
I do too.
When I worked at the shoe store part-time in college, I used most of my earnings to buy designer shoes. My employee discount was fifty percent, so I viewed each purchase as an investment in my future since I knew I’d wear them to a corporate job one day.
“Polleys was a great foundation for me,” I explain. “I spent almost all of my time with customers. That gave me a clear understanding of what they were looking for and what appealed to them in terms of our marketing endeavors. I helped the owner create a very successful digital marketing plan.”
I worked at the independently run shoe store when they had one location. They’ve branched out to two now. I can’t take credit for that, but the owner was more than happy to listen to my ideas when it came to marketing.
Delora, the woman interviewing me, leans forward. “Your experience in digital marketing makes you an ideal candidate for the job. We have a strong presence online, but we want to expand. We’re looking for someone to join our team who has fresh ideas and experience to back that up.”
“I believe I possess all of that,” I say with confidence.
I did launch a statewide campaign for the party supplies company, but it never reached its full potential. The company’s owner was near retirement age and decided to sell out to a competitor who already had a full staff in place.
“I have a few more candidates to meet with,” she says softly. “I’ll call you by the end of the week to let you know.”
I’ve had enough interviews recently to know that although it doesn’t qualify as a brush-off, it’s not a job offer either.
I move to stand. “Thank you for your time.”
She looks up from where she’s sitting behind her glass desk. “Thanks for coming in, Callie. Maybe I’ll see you again soon.”
Or maybe not.
An hour later, I step off the elevator and pause because I spot Mrs. Sweeney on her tiptoes with her face mere inches from my apartment door.
From this angle, it almost looks like she’s trying to see into my apartment through the peephole, but it doesn’t work that way.
I know because I tried that myself once to make sure that my annoying neighbor couldn’t see in.
It was after he’d pounded on my door one Saturday afternoon. I wasn’t in the mood for his sugar-borrowing antics, so I never opened the door.
I did peer through the peephole as he was knocking incessantly. The sight that greeted me sent me stumbling back a few steps. He had one of his eyes pressed against the peephole.
It was both alluring and alarming. I felt as though I was in the middle of a horror movie where the villain is literally drop-dead gorgeous.
The sound of my heels clicking on the floor lures Mrs. Sweeney’s gaze in my direction. A blush settles over her cheeks as she steps back from my door.
“Calliope,” she calls out as I approach her. “You look like you just came from another job interview.”
My gaze skims her face before it lands on what looks like a yellow sticky note on my door. “I did.”
On any other day, she’d be asking me twenty questions about the potential job, but today that’s not happening. She glances at the sticky note. “It looks like someone left a message for you.”
I move around her to pluck the note from the door before I read the masculine handwriting.
If you want a lesson in upselling, you know where to find me.
“Is that from a friend of yours?” Mrs. Sweeney asks in a tentative tone.
“No,” I answer honestly. “An enemy.”
A nervous laugh stutters out of her. “You know what they say about keeping your enemies close.”
“I think it’s more important to keep friends close,” I say, noticing the pink tracksuit she’s wearing and the sneakers on her feet. “Do you want to go for a walk in Central Park? I can change my clothes in no time flat.”
I’m dying to get out of this blue pencil skirt and matching blouse. My feet are screaming for a break from the three-inch heels I’m wearing.
Her face lights up. “I’ll never turn down an opportunity to get some fresh air.”
“I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” I tell her as I unlock my door. “Do you want to come in and wait for me?”
“Meet me in the lobby when you’re ready,” she calls out as she heads toward her apartment. “I’m going to get my secret weapon in case we run into your enemy.”
I glance over my shoulder. “What’s your secret weapon?”
“I carry a mini air horn in my fanny pack.” She winks. “I haven’t had to use it yet, but a girl should always be prepared.”
Laughing, I duck into my apartment, grateful that at least one of my neighbors is a sweet soul.
Chapter Five
Callie
Patience may be a virtue, but it’s also a living hell when you’re waiting to hear back from multiple companies while searching for a new job.
Not only did I interview with Wells last week, but I met with the owner of a small tech firm. She was looking to launch her company’s first marketing campaign, and two days ago, I sat down with the human resources manager of a string of hotels.
My patience has finally paid off because an hour ago, Delora called to offer me the job at Wells.
She ran through all that is required of me, including signing an employment contract and filling out various forms. When she asked if I could start three days from now on Monday, I answered with a resounding yes.
Since I was set to see my older sister today, I suggested that we meet in Times Square so I could share the good news with her.
I know she’ll get a kick out of the larger-than-life billboard of the underwear model.
“That’s the company I’m going to be working for.” I point at the billboard. “Wells is my new employer.”
“Do you think there’s a sock in there, or is it all him?”
My head snaps to the right to catch sight of my sister’s face. She’s smiling as she stares up at the billboard.
“What did you just say?” I ask her, trying to suppress a laugh.
Naomi shoots me a look. “I asked if you think that underwear model has a sock in those boxer briefs or if that bulge is one hundred percent all him?”
I point at the stroller right in front of her. Her hands are resting on the handle. The plain gold band circling her ring finger seems brighter in the late afternoon sun. “Tabitha is right there. Do you want her to go home and tell Harlan that you’re drooling over some random model’s package?”
She leans closer to me. “It’s his dick, Callie. It’s not hard to say.”
She follows that up with a high-pitched giggle.
Shaking my head, I peek at her three-year-old daughter, who is thankfully fast asleep with her head resting on the soft blanket in the stroller.
“That was a penis pun,” Naomi points out. “I thought it was a great one. Hard. Dick. Get it?”
I sigh.
“Oh, wait.” She levels a finger in my face. “You haven’t gotten any in months, have you? When’s the last time you have sex, Calliope?”
“As if I’m going to tell you.” I smile. “You don’t need to know when I have sex, and I don’t want to know when you do.”
“It’s pretty obvious that I’m getting some.” She squeezes the handle of the stroller. “I have two kids already, and this one on the way means Harlan is still delivering in the bedroom.”
I glance at her swollen belly under the pink sundress she’s wearing. “You’re five months along now, right?”
She slides a hand over her stomach. “Give or take.”
Looking into her blue eyes, I smile. “That baby is lucky to have you as a mom.”
“I know it,” she says with a curt nod. “I am killing it as a mom if I do say so myself.”
Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, I laugh. “I say so too.”
Her gaze wanders back to the billboard that showcases a man’s ripped torso and a pair of white boxer briefs. “What do you think his face looks like? I lucked out when I married Harlan because he’s as beautiful as he is built.”
I turn my attention to the billboard. The model posing with his hands on his hips has abs for days. He may look like utter perfection, but I’d guess a hell of a lot of airbrushing went into creating that image. “Who knows? Maybe what we’re looking at is all he has going for him.”
“Doubtful,” she blurts. “Since you’ll be working there, you’re bound to meet him, right? Take a selfie with him so I can put a face to all of that.”
