CHAPTER THREE - TANYA

My encounter with Mr. Asshole had me fuming all morning. My attraction had dropped by a hundred percent—okay, fine, fifty. Don’t judge me. Have you seen the man??

And you won’t believe this: everyone at LH walked around like smiling required corporate approval. Except the sweet receptionist. Honestly, considering their boss, I understood why. That brief sympathetic look she gave me finally made sense. Job listings here needed hazard signs: Warning—may cause emotional trauma.

I cleaned the entire office with Olympic-level precision. Outside of studying numbers and reading dark romance books—which have definitely ruined my standards in men—I had the attention span of a toddler in an amusement park.

“There. Perfect,” I muttered to the spotless desk. “Let’s see you complain now, Mr. Asshole.” I packed up and headed toward the elevator after changing in the janitor’s closet.

Just as I stepped out, I almost bumped into a woman whose pencil skirt looked two sizes too small.

“Watch where you’re going,” she snapped, wobbling on stilettos that could double as weapons.

Glossy hair, manicured nails, resting bitch face, and makeup that had never heard the word “minimalist.”

I forced a polite “sorry,” even though she was in my way.

She looked me up and down like I was contaminating the air.

“You must be the new cleaner. Mr. Lockewood hates tardiness.”

“Yeah, you would know that,” I shot back before I could stop myself.

Her brows rose. “Don’t mistake proximity for importance. You’re just a cleaner.”

I smiled sweetly. “Oh trust me, I don’t feel special at all. You’ve made sure of that.”

She spun around, muttering something about HR’s poor recruitment standards. Whatever.

In the elevator, the receptionist—who’d witnessed the whole thing—joined me.

“So you’ve already met the witch on your first day. Impressive luck,” she said.

“Tell me about it,” I sighed dramatically. We burst into laughter, and I learned her name: Rose. I instantly liked her.

“Since you’re only here in the mornings, are you interested in helping my cousin at a café for extra cash?” she asked.

“Girl, I hope I don’t look like I need it—but yes, I do.”

She gave me her cousin’s number and hers.

Outside the building, I called the cousin. His name was Nick—yes, very much male, unlike what I assumed.

“Are you available for a quick meeting?” he asked.

“I’ll be there in fifteen.”

The second I walked into Morning & Co., nostalgia hit me. Warm wood, good food smells, soft jazz—it all made me miss my parents. For once, I wasn’t thinking about surviving; I was thinking about belonging.

“Morning!” a deep voice called.

“Tanya, right?”

“Depends,” I said, still taking in the place. “Who’s asking?”

“The guy who might sign your paycheck.”

“In that case—yes. Tanya Reed. In all my glory.”

“Nick. Nick Callahan.”

Now, question: am I allowed to meet two obnoxiously good-looking men in one day? Because Nick looked like he walked out of a cologne ad—tall, olive-skinned, dark hair, stubble. And yes, I describe people accurately.

“Nick Callahan,” I repeated. “Sounds like someone from my mafia books.”

“Depends on who’s asking,” he grinned.

“Someone hoping this job comes with dental.”

“Only if you smile for customers.”

“Then I’m doomed.”

He laid out the job: “Report at eleven, close at four on weekdays. Every other Saturday, seven to one. We’re drowning in oat milk orders.”

“I can handle oat milk. It’s the people I can’t promise.”

“You’ll fit right in. You’ll take orders, run the register, help with the books, maybe learn the espresso machine—if you don’t break it.”

“Pinky promise.”

“Welcome to Morning & Co.”

He led me to the back and introduced me to Lila Torres—another person who could double as a model. Warm-toned skin, blond curls, expressive eyes that missed absolutely nothing.

Seriously, were these people running a modeling gency or a cafe?

“This is Lila,” Nick said. “Our best barista and unofficial therapist.”

“Emphasis on unofficial,” Lila added, shaking my hand.

“Do I get a manual, or do you just throw me into the grinder?”

“You’ll survive. Anyone who sasses Nick on day one is built for this place.”

Her and Nick wore matching aprons that read Good mornings are earned.

“You’ll get one too,” Lila said, catching my stare. See? Those eyes missed nothing.

By then, my mood was sky-high. Who would’ve thought I’d land two jobs in one week? Two jobs that actually complemented each other? I couldn’t wait to call Meghan to rant about Mr. Asshole—whom I’d momentarily forgotten. We’d trash talk, eat ice cream, celebrate.

But the second I walked into my tiny apartment, my smile vanished. Meghan sat on my faded couch—eyes red, face swollen, looking like she’d been fighting a battle she never stood a chance of winning.

“Oh my God, Meghan!” I breathed.

Before I could say anything else, she burst into hysterical sobs.