And that’s the one thing I can’t do. Scarlett and I aren’t a permanent item. Whatever this is between us, I need to keep it exactly where it is.One week.That’s all I’m allowed.
A knock interrupts our conversation before his assistant pokes her head through the door. “Mr. Marco? I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a woman here hoping to speak to you about the vendor position.”
“Send her in,” he says, straightening some papers on his desk.
To my surprise, Scarlett enters in a pair of black dress pants and a deep red blouse. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail and she’s carrying a different bag—a sharp-looking leather satchel she’s gripping so tight the whites of her knuckles are showing. To my uncle, she probably looks completely in control. But I can see the way she holds her bag and the nervousness in her eyes.
She takes in the room—the trophies and awards on the bookshelf next to the family photos—and her step barely falters before her gaze lands on me and she stops short. “Brendan? What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.” I stand, temporarily forgetting that my uncle is watching us and hasn’t made the connection yet. Right now she looks like she could run a Fortune 500 company.
Her mouth curves. “I decided it was time to stop talking myself out of this opportunity.”
“You two know each other?” Rafael interrupts, looking between us.
“This is the girl I was just telling you about.” I gesture toward Scarlett. “Rafael Marco, this is Scarlett Rossi.”
Scarlett’s eyebrows shoot up before she stumbles over her words, “You were…talking about me?”
“Only good things,” Rafael assures her. “It’s about time I got to meet you.” He extends his hand. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better at Carmen and Anthony’s wedding.”
She stares at his hand for a beat before shaking it, then steps back, smoothing down her blouse absently. “Actually, I didn’tcome here to discuss Carmen’s wedding.” She bites her lower lip, then pulls out a folder from her bag. “I’m here to submit my application for the arena food-vendor position.” She holds out her application for him.
“You’re applying in person?” Rafael asks, his eyebrows lifting as he takes it from her.
“Yes, my family owns Magnolia Brew Coffee Shop downtown, and we’re looking to expand our operations. I manage the business side of things, and I see this as an incredible opportunity to serve more people in our community while growing our customer base.”
“You could’ve saved yourself a trip and submitted this online,” he says, flipping through her paperwork.
“I know, but I thought it would be better to meet face-to-face. Put a name with a face, show you I’m serious about this opportunity.”
Rafael skims through several pages, but I can’t get any sense of his impression of her. “Coffee, huh?”
She hesitates, her hand tightening on the strap of her bag before she answers, “Coffee, specialty drinks, and a full range of baked goods and desserts. Muffins, brownies, cookies—things that pair well with sporting events.”
He puts her application down. “What makes you think hockey fans want fancy coffee drinks? This isn’t exactly a Starbucks demographic.”
“Actually”—Scarlett tips up her chin—“I believe you’re wrong. Why do you think there’s a Starbucks in almost every town now? They’re almost as ubiquitous as fast-food chains. Our sales have grown exponentially since the arena opened. Hockey fans stop by for coffee before games, but imagine if they could get itatthe game. That’s the type of convenience you want to offer.”
Even though I could tell she walked in nervous, I’m impressed by how prepared she is for this pitch meeting.
Rafael studies her application for another moment, then narrows his gaze. “Hockey fans are different,Ms.…”
“Rossi,” she reminds him.
“They want sports food—hot dogs, nachos, beer, pretzels. Not gourmet desserts and expensive coffee drinks.”
“I expected you to say that, but I think you’re underestimating this community. The same people who attend your games wouldn’t think twice about paying five dollars for our triple-chocolate brownies. You know why?” She leans her palms on his desk. “Because they’re legitimately amazing.”
My uncle actually cracks a grin at her boldness. “Then I’m looking forward to trying one.”
“How about I drop one off tomorrow?” she offers, straightening. “For extra brownie points, of course.” She grins at her joke.
She’s absolutely crushing this interview without my help. Maybe she never needed this wedding-date deal after all.
My uncle takes off his glasses, holding them in his right hand. “It’s obvious you know how to sell brownies. But have you ever actually been to a hockey game, Miss Rossi?”
Scarlett hesitates, glancing over at me. “Not yet. I just hired a new employee so I can get away from the cafe in the evening.”