I luck out and find a parking spot on the street in front of HERS. But as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I don’t want to move. So many conflicting thoughts run through my mind. I want to prove to Mr. Mahler that I’m the best person for this job. I worked my ass off for this job and I didn’t get it by running from a challenge. But on the other hand, I’m having a hard time sorting out my thoughts about Quinton Howard Junior. I completely respect the stance he’s taking. It’s brave and admirable. But on a personal—and selfish—level, I hate that I feel like I’m being forced to choose between two parts of myself . . . again. This is my dream job. It’s been my rainbow after the darkest, worst year of my life. I refuse to just walk away. There has to be a way I can keep everyone happy and I guess it’s my job to figure it out.
With that thought, I pull back my shoulders, plaster a smile onto my face, and open the door to HERS like I own the place.
Even on a Monday, the place is far from empty. Music drifts from the speakers just over the rumbling of conversations taking place and glasses clinking. The wall by the front door is covered in flowers and a pink neon HERS sign that I know for a fact is used as the background for many an Instagram post.
“Welcome to HERS,” a woman with the thickest, blackest, most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen greets me. “Would you like a table or are you going to the bar?”
Bar. God. I wish I was going to the bar.
“I’m actually meeting someone, but thank you.” I feel myself cringe, but if she noticed, she doesn’t let on, which makes me like her even more. Maybe if I get fired, I could try to get a job here and she can be my friend. Plus, I’m really good at drinking . . . maybe that could translate to my skills behind the bar too.
“Great.” She smiles and her teeth gleam against her brown skin that, even inside, sparkles. “Please let me know if I can help you find them.”
Unfortunately for me, Quinton Howard Junior is the only thing more noticeable than the meticulously decorated bar I’m standing in. I was hoping he would be in some spot that made him hard to find, or even better, would be late. But luck just hasn’t been on my side these days.
For the second time today, I thank Liv for convincing me to splurge on my shoes. It’s impossible to have a timid stride when you’re wearing four-inch, five-hundred-dollar shoes . . . and that’s science. Even if on the inside I’m a nervous wreck, at least I look confident in my approach.
Not that it matters much, because even though Quinton looks directly at me as I’m walking toward him, he dismisses me just as quickly.
Rude.
“Hello, Mr. Howard,” I use the voice that Marie mocks me endlessly for. “Nice to meet—”
I don’t finish, not because I don’t want to, but because he doesn’t give me the chance to.
“I’m sorry, I’m waiting for someone.” I assume that he’s talking to me since I’m the only person standing at his table, but I’m not positive because he hasn’t looked up from his phone.
Super fucking rude.
“Actually, I—”
“What do you want me to sign?” He holds out his hand expectantly.
“Nothing, I—”
“Listen,” he cuts me off again and actually takes his eyes off his phone this time to look at me. “I appreciate a forward woman as much as any man, but you’re not my type.”
I know I’m no beauty queen—Liv is definitely the one in my group that would take that title—but this was harsh no matter how I look. I’m sure his type is a six foot tall, size zero model with flowing blonde locks and eyes as blue as the ocean. Basically the complete opposite of my five-foot, three-inch frame that hasn’t fit into a size zero since middle school . . . and even that is pushing it. My hair did have gold highlights for a while, but because I blast it with a flatiron at least once a week to tame my wild curls, I stopped dyeing it so it didn’t all fall out. And my eyes are more the color of trees—not the leaves, the trunks. They’re brown. I’m about as average as they come and I’m usually fine with that because most people have at least a sliver of manners.
In any other situation, I would be completely and utterly horrified. I mean, that’s not just rude, it’s hurtful! But thankfully for my tear ducts—and my pride—I’m just pissed. Who the hell does he think he is? Just because he was blessed with perfect, smooth dark brown skin and sharp cheekbones that are noticeable even with the thick beard that is infuriatingly even more gorgeous up close, does not mean that every woman who approaches him wants in his pants.
At my sides, my hands form into fists so tight that my neatly trimmed nails start digging into my palms, and I can actually feel the heat rising in my face like my head might explode at any second.
Even through my brown skin and peach blush, Quinton must see the red in my cheeks. He just reads it the wrong way.
I know he gets it wrong because instead of running away screaming, he has the audacity to touch me. His oversized hand wraps around my fist that is now shaking with the almost unbearable urge to punch him.
Much to my dismay, my body isn’t on the same page with my mind. Because as soon as his calloused palm rubs against the sensitive skin on the back of my hand,
