First Day of Mission: Find True Love

I grinned like a cat who ate a canary as I observed myself in the mirror. I look dandy, if I do say so myself.

Black power suit: check

White crispy shirt: check.

Well-knotted tie: check.

Italian black shoes: check

Hair tied into stern auntie style: check.

I look so damn professional and ready to crack down on the labor market.

I made faces at the mirror and struck different poses as I admired what reflected at me.

Restaurant, here I come. I smiled smugly at the mirror before I turned and left my tiny apartment.

For this operation, I rented the cutest condo, away from home. I don't need my father catching wind of this. He would never go for it. Patrick Boyle is not only a savvy business mogul, but he is as overprotective as a father, as a lioness is over her cub.

So, Dad will not know anything about this until it is done and dusted.

Walking down the stairs leading to the lobby of my apartment, I catch people staring at me, and they aren't even trying to hide it.

In response to their weird stare, I had to look down at myself to make sure I wasn't wearing my clothes backward. I gather that I am dressed expensively, but surely they have seen a fashionably, very serious, young woman, ready to conquer the world of waitressing.

My friends think I can't do it, but the joke is on them because what Kathleen Boyle sets her mind on, Kathleen Boyle gets. Ask the numerous boyfriends that I have conquered.

Though nothing serious materialized from them, I still get the man I want as long as I want him, and this waitress thing wouldn't be any different.

Outside my apartment building, I press the car key to unlock my red 2010 Chevrolet Camaro. This car would tell whoever runs the restaurant how much I am struggling, and they would be so touched in their hearts that they would give me the job.

I am not above using pity to get what I want, as long as I get it.

It is a beautiful morning: blue sky, not too warm, not too cold. Just right.

The street is a bit empty, as it is six o'clock in the morning and most people are still trying to get out of bed.

Early, I know, and it is so unlike me to wake up at this time. My morning usually starts after 12 p.m., but last night, I couldn’t sleep with all the excitement coursing through me. And now, I am ready to kick-start my day with enough enthusiasm to wow my prospective employer.

First, my coffee.

My day never truly starts until I shoot down this energy booster.

A few minutes down the road, I came across a small café tucked between two other commercial buildings. One appeared to be a bookstore, while the other looked like an art shop. I wasn’t entirely sure, though—the odd-looking paintings displayed in its windows didn’t exactly make it obvious. Above the café was an electronics store.

I pulled up along the boardwalk and parked. I stepped out of the car and made a beeline for the shop. Just as I was about to reach the door, a sign caught my attention—a “Server Wanted” sign.

Bingo.

I can't believe lady luck is already smiling on me. I snapped my suit into place, put on my "I am here to snag the job" face, and marched into the cafe.

The inside is warmer than the outside, and the air is filled with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and freshly baked pastries. The smell around the cafe also had a hint of something flowery.

Probably came from the freshly-looking flowers scattered around the cafe.

There wasn't anyone in the cafe except for the young, freckled-faced girl behind the counter, with her blonde hair tucked under a red face cap with the cafe logo on it.

It seemed as if they had just opened and were setting up for the day.

“Hi,” I greeted her even before I reached the counter, with my famous winsome, friendly smile firmly in place.

My smile always elicits a smile from whoever is on the receiving end, and this beautiful employee is no exception.

Or maybe she is just being nice, as I am a potential customer. Anyway, it doesn't matter; she is smiling, which means she would be very receptive to what I have in mind.

“I want to work here,” I tell her confidently as soon as I get to the counter. She blinked, then stared, stunned, looking as if I had just asked her to empty the safe.

“Excuse me!”

A small wrinkle appears between her brows as she stops looking shocked and stares at me as if I have just escaped from a mental institution.

I don't let her judgment stop me. Still smiling like I am in a toothpaste commercial, I carried on, my voice still as confident as when I first walked in.

Dad says fifty percent of landing a job depends on how confidently you convince whoever wants to employ you that you can do the job.

“The sign out back—I point behind me, toward the door—says that you are looking to hire.”

“And you want to work here?” She said it so slowly, as if there could be another explanation for why I brought up the sign and the way she was looking at me.

Like I am pulling her leg or something.

“Yep.” I smacked the counter softly. “So what would it take for you to give me the job?” I leaned in, seeming eager.

The girl smiled as if she found something about me humorous. I don't know why, but she is smiling, so that is a good sign.

Who says finding a job is hard? I am going to land this so easily. I can't wait to brag to Tasha and Abigail.

“First, I can't hire you, as I am not the manager. And second, why do you want to work here? You obviously look rich.” She raised a brow at me, and this one I read so easily.

She seemed to be saying. “Have you lost your mind, lady?”

I began shaking my head as I quickly refuted her words. “Oh no, you are wrong. I am not rich,” I stuttered, my voice nervous. I can't believe I was found out so easily.

“Mmhmm,” she said in disbelief, arms folded across her chest, her eyes giving me the same emotion her lips just communicated.

“You have to believe me. I am poor,” I argued firmly. “And I am Cleopatra,” she retorted, clearly mocking me.

I relaxed, took a deep breath, and stared at her squarely in the eyes. “Clearly, you are not Cleopatra, and I am—”

She interrupts me.

“Look at you, lady.” She runs her eyes from my head to toe and back again. “I bet you my ovaries that the suit you are wearing cost more than my salary.”

“Well, tell me how much you own, and I will let you know if the suit costs more than you earn.”