Three
“Mr. Kristoff will be here shortly,” says the Manicotti as Jason settles himself at the table. “You’ll introduce yourselves and tell us what you hope to do at Emergent. You each get two minutes.” He points at me. “Laurel, you’ll time everyone.”
“I will?”
He glowers at me, and Chocolate Eyes smirks. I’ll be glad when we do the introductions because I need to stop with the nicknames.
“Laurel is your personal assistant for the summer,” Mr. Mantoni says. “Which is much more than a secretary. Not that there’s anything wrong with secretaries. It’s a noble profession for women. Ah, men, too, if that’s all they want. I mean…” He breaks off, clearing his throat.
This guy desperately needs help digging out of the hole, but I’m not going to hand him a shovel. I’m appalled by his bumbling sexism and his attitude with the interns. Dad and I are going to have a serious chat on the drive home about the way the interns are treated, and this crazy idea of me being the final vote on the scholarship winner. What the heck is my dad thinking?
I glance at Trish, feeling a twinge of sympathy for her. I’d be a fan of anarchy, too, if the Manicotti were my dad. She looks like she wants to throttle him, but she keeps her mouth shut. I bet she’s planning an after-work dad chat, too.
We sneak peeks at each other, look away, then sneak more peeks. Jason eyeballs Supermodel, which sort of breaks my heart but isn’t surprising. He’s got a type, and she’s it. Trish sits with her arms crossed over her chest like a shield, giving everyone the slit-eye. Suit Guy eyes Mr. Mantoni warily, like he’s half-expecting a racist comment. Chocolate Eyes’s steady gaze sweeps around the table, making me flush when it pauses on me, then returns to Mr. Mantoni. The door swings open, saving us all from more painful, awkward silence. Everyone sits up straight, even Trish, because my dad has that effect on people.
“Welcome to Emergent Enterprises,” he says. Even though he’s my dad, I know he’s exceptionally handsome in his dark gray suit. He’s even rocking cufflinks today, which I didn’t notice earlier. I try not to roll my eyes at the affectation. His thick dark hair, shot through with a few distinguished strands of silver, won’t dare move between now and the end of the day.
Dad takes a seat and graces us with his practiced public relations smile. “I’m Rhett Kristoff. Please call me Mr. Kristoff, or Mr. K.”
Mr. K? Seriously? I wince with embarrassment.
“You’ve met Mr. Mantoni, of course, when he interviewed you for the intern positions. Mr. Mantoni and I go back many years and he has my full trust.” Dad’s penetrating gaze takes in each of the interns, but he avoids eye contact with me. “I’d like to go around the table. Each of you tell us a little about yourselves and why you want to intern here.” He flashes a smile. “Besides the financial reason, of course.”
The Manicotti raises his eyebrows and taps his watch. Great. I open the timer app. Dad frowns at me.
“I’m timing them. Two minutes each.”
Dad turns to Mr. Mantoni. “I think we can allow more than that. This is a chance for everyone to get to know each other.” He shakes his head at me ever so slightly, so I dim my phone’s screen. “Does anyone want water? Coffee? Soda? We have a big selection in the kitchen. Laurel can get us drinks.”
Though Dad’s calm demeanor is a relief from Mr. Mantoni’s intensity, I’m not thrilled he’s treating me like a waitress. I catch Trish smirking from the corner of my eye. I sneak a peek at Jason, whose eyes are fixed on my dad. He looks almost…worshipful.
“I’ll take an iced tea,” Trish says. “Two sugar packets and a straw.”
It takes all of my self-control not to fry her with my death glare.
“Me too,” chimes in Supermodel, beaming at my dad. “But Splenda for me.”
“Coke for me, please,” says Suit Guy.
“Coke would be great,” Jason says eagerly, like my dad invented the red can.
Hiding my annoyance, I turn to Chocolate Eyes. “How about you?”
“I’m good. Besides, that’d be too much for you to carry.” He shrugs and gives me a smile that does something unexpectedly swirly to my insides.
“Be right back.”
As I head into the hallway, Dad calls out, “I’ll take an espresso, Laurel.”
So much for Dad worrying about how I’ll carry all the drinks. I close the door more forcefully than I should and head toward the kitchen.
“Laurel. How nice to see you, sweetheart.”
It’s Ms. Romero, Dad’s personal assistant. As usual, she looks terrific, dressed like a female version of my dad, except her suit is red, and she wears awesome shoes with clear Lucite heels. I wonder if I’d look good in those shoes or like a kid wearing a Cinderella costume.
Mom and Dad talk about Ms. Romero a lot at home; she’s been with Emergent since a few years after Dad started the company. They think she’s amazing. Brilliant. Loyal. Hardworking. All the ideal qualities my dad talks about ad nauseam.
“Hi, Ms. Romero.” I tug at my hair. I inherited my mom’s curls, though the color is boring brown unlike Mom’s strawberry blond, thanks to Dad’s DNA. Like Mom, I usually let my hair do whatever it’s going to do. Today I should’ve put it in a hairnet since I’m apparently in charge of food service.
Ms. Romero takes a granola bar from one of the snack baskets and tears it open. “There are homemade brownies in that basket.” She points to the end of the counter. “I thought you and the interns might want them.” She winks like she knows exactly how Mr. Mantoni is behaving.
“That’s great, but I can’t carry those plus drinks.” I open the fridge and retrieve two Cokes and two iced teas.
“Here.” She opens a cupboard and removes a lacquered serving tray. “Ta da.”
She’s a genius. I stack the drinks on the tray, count out brownies, then grab napkins and the required sweetener packets. I’d better earn bonus points for this.
“You let me know if you need anything, Laurel. You can come to me with any questions or concerns. Okay?” Her warm brown eyes are full of sincerity.
“Thanks. I will.”
“Let me know if you want to grab lunch one day. We’re surrounded by great restaurants.” She grins. “My treat.”
Maybe I should be her assistant for the summer. I hesitate, then grab a Coke for Chocolate Eyes and head back to the room of doom. Balancing the tray in one hand, I open the door with the other.
“…then in 2008, I bought this building,” Dad says. “You’re all too young to remember, but it was a rough downturn for the economy. Real estate was hit especially hard, so I got a great deal on this place, and a few other buildings in the area.”
Dad pauses his Emergent history lesson as I set the tray on the table…and that’s when I realize I forgot his espresso. My cheeks burn, and I straighten, ready to return to the kitchen, but he stops me with a raised hand.
“Never mind, Laurel. I’ll take a brownie, though.”
Is that shimmer in his eyes frustration or silent laughter? Dad Vader is so hard to read. I slide a brownie down the table, and he grabs it, tearing open the plastic enthusiastically. Maybe this is the reason Mom keeps us mostly sugar-free at home.
“Help yourselves,” he says to the interns. I push the tray across the table and watch everyone dig in. Chocolate Eyes points at the extra Coke, then himself, brow furrowed in a question. I nod, and he reaches for it, his dark eyes fixed on me. Must. Not. Blush.
“All right.” Dad swallows the last bite of his brownie. “Let’s start with you.” He points to Jason, who tries not to choke on the soda he just swigged.
“I, um, I’m Jason Riggs. I, um, wanted to intern here because it’s a cool company. And I think I have a lot to offer. I mean, I hope I do.”
Oh, you do, I want to say. So very much to offer me, in particular. My cheeks heat at my naughty thoughts, so I duck my head, but not before Chocolate Eyes narrows his orbs at me like he’s calculating something in his head. I glance up, and his lips curve slowly, deliberately. My cheeks burn even hotter under his scrutiny. I turn back to my dad, hoping my blush will fade.
“What do you want to study in college?” Dad asks Jason.
“International business.” Jason sits up straighter and I swear his chest puffs out. It’s easy to picture him jetting around the world, making deals. Being adorable. Meeting gorgeous French girls. Okay, scratch that last one.
“And what skills do you have to offer us?” Dad asks. “I understand you’re quite the athlete.”
Jason’s ears turn red. “Um, yeah. I’m good at teamwork. Been doing it all my life. I’ll be captain of the football team next year.” He chews his lip. I hate seeing him so nervous. He’s different here than how he is at school, swaggering through the hallways with his posse of jocks. Today he reminds me of a giant teddy bear stuffed into the wrong clothes.
Dad nods, looking thoughtful. “Teamwork is critical to any business. I’m sure you’ll excel.”
He turns to Supermodel. She blinks her lovely eyes and every guy at the table stops chewing to stare at her, except my dad, who’s doing serious damage to a second brownie. Trish shoots me a look and I think it might be one of solidarity, but she turns away before I can be sure.
“I’m Ashley Goodson. I want to study art history. Maybe work in a gallery someday.” She gives everyone a beauty queen smile and I try not to resent her, reminding myself she was the first one to champion Jason when the Manicotti wanted to toss him overboard.
“I can bring a sense of the aesthetic.” She blushes prettily, unlike me, who blotches. “You have so much wonderful artwork here already, Mr. Kristoff. My skills might also be helpful for advertising. Some of your campaigns have used iconic art in such clever ways.”
Somebody did their homework. I dart another look at Trish, who rolls her eyes, and for one brief moment I know we’re in agreement. I don’t bother looking at Chocolate Eyes and Suit Guy because I know they’re salivating like dogs. Jason probably is, too, and I don’t need to see that.
“What period of art interests you most?” Dad asks, surprising me because he sounds genuinely curious.
“The Renaissance and Baroque periods. I’d love to attend Colorado College; they have a fantastic program.” She tosses her hair over her shoulders and I can feel the testosterone levels in the room spike. I’m impressed with how at ease she seems. Another assumption popped like a balloon.
Dad turns his attention to Suit Guy. “Your turn.”
Suit Guy flashes a gorgeous smile that must get him free stuff from smitten clerks everywhere he goes. “Elijah Sampson. I’m hoping to get into Fisk.” He keeps his focus on my dad as he talks. “I applied here because you’ve done a lot of work with minority-owned businesses.” He glances at Jason. “I’m planning to study business, too. Finance.”
A bean counter? He’s going to be the sexiest accountant ever. But then I scold myself because that’s just as bad as me discounting Ashley’s intelligence just because she’s pretty.
“Excellent,” Dad says. “You speak my language.” He even cracks a smile, which is more than he’s done for anyone else. He nods at Trish. “Patricia.”
She lifts her chin like she’s ready for a fight. “I’m Patricia Mantoni but everyone calls me Trish. I’m here because I have to be.” She shoots her dad the stink-eye. I smash my lips together to hold in laughter, then glance at the Manicotti, whose face is rapidly turning purple.
“Also,” she adds quickly, “I know this is a good company. My dad has worked here forever, and he likes it.” She tugs at her choppy Smurf hair. “I’ll be a sophomore at CU Boulder next year. My major is Women and Gender Studies.”
Of course it is. I’m both impressed and terrified.
“I see,” Dad says. “And how can that benefit us, Trish?”
Careful, Dad. She’s armed and dangerous. I dart a glance at Elijah, who shoots me a wink, I think. Maybe it was just a nervous tic.
“I can spot sexism a mile away.” She glares at the Manicotti and I cringe. “Also, generational stereotyping.”
Dad clears his throat. “Can you elaborate?”
She rolls her eyes again and I try not to laugh. Dad hates eye-rolling almost as much as he hates texting.
“Like if you put together an ad you think is hip and cool, but it’s really not. No offense.”
This time I’m certain Dad’s jaw is twitching with suppressed laughter. “We do our best,” he says. “We have millennials working here for that very reason.”
“But what about Gen Z?”
Dad glances at me. Uh-oh. I do not want to speak for my generation.
“We don’t have clients who advertise to consumers that young,” Dad says, “though we will soon, I’m sure.” He smiles at her. That’s two people now who’ve earned them. “And what are you hoping to accomplish this summer, Patricia?”
Trish sits up straight. “I want to work with a nonprofit. I had another internship lined up but it, um, fell through, so I’m working here instead.” She glances at her dad, who nods. Trish squares her shoulders and looks at everyone but me. “You should all know that I’m not competing for the scholarship.”
I’m relieved to hear she’s not in the running for the money. Dad always refers to Mr. Mantoni as his right-hand man, so I assume he makes decent bank. I study Trish, wondering why her other internship fell through, but she’s scowling at her purple fingernails.
“Thank you, Patricia,” Dad says. “All right, next?”
I finally get a chance to check out Chocolate Eyes without being obvious. He doesn’t exude the awkward jock adorableness Jason does; instead there’s an energy about him that makes it impossible to look away.
“I’m Carlos Rubio. I hope I can get into CU.” He pauses and shoots a significant look at Trish. “Probably CU Denver, not Boulder, unless I…” He clears his throat and I know what he almost said: if he doesn’t win the full scholarship he can’t afford to live on the Boulder campus, so he’ll attend the downtown commuter school instead.
He takes a swig of Coke, then continues. “I haven’t decided on a major, but I’m interested in political science. Maybe pre-law.”
I check to see if Dad’s smiling, but he’s not. Instead, he steeples his fingers as he returns Carlos’s intense gaze.
“I see. And what interests you about Emergent?”
Carlos leans forward, and I can feel the intensity pouring out of him like he’s channeling his own version of the Force.
“You started with nothing and now you’re a huge success. I’m starting with nothing, too. I want to know how you did it.” He hesitates, then plunges ahead. “Your employees are loyal, like Mr. Mantoni, who’s been here since the beginning. Your assistant, Ms. Romero, she’s been here for what, thirteen years? You’re always rated one of the best local companies to work for. Even though you could cherry-pick clients at this point, you still take on new start-ups who don’t have much money. Your business is diversified: corporate and residential real estate, branding and marketing, even an art gallery. You win awards every year. You do a lot of pro bono work for the causes you support. You work people hard but they’re loyal. So are your clients.”
Carlos takes a deep breath and I feel like all of us are holding our breath because holy crapoli, how does he know all this? He just made Ashley look like a ten-second Googler, whereas he’s clearly dug deep on Emergent, and my dad.
Also, since when does Dad own an art gallery? No wonder he was interested in Ashley’s major. I bet she’s thrilled to learn that tasty morsel of data.
“I think you’ve just proven what you can bring to the table, Carlos.” Dad leans back in his chair and his lips curve into a full smile.
A quick flash of what looks like relief lights up Carlos’s eyes right before he ducks his head. My stomach dips, transmitting a traitorous oohh-he’s-intriguing-keep-ogling-him message. Rattled, I turn to Jason, who looks awestruck and a bit envious.
“Well, then.” Dad places his hands on the table, signaling he’s ready to leave, but Mr. Mantoni clears his throat and inclines his head toward me. “Oh,” Dad says. “I almost forgot. Laurel, please introduce yourself.”
Way to make me feel like chopped liver, Dad Vader. I’ll remember this when the Rebels storm the Death Star. Although, based on all that data Carlos just spewed, maybe the Empire isn’t quite as evil as I’ve always assumed.
“I’m Laurel. Laurel Kristoff.” I tilt my head. “He’s my dad, so that’s why I’m here.” I smile tentatively at Trish, hoping she’ll appreciate my echo of her introduction. She doesn’t smile back, but Carlos is watching me as intently as he watched my dad. I take a breath and continue. “I haven’t decided which college I’ll go to yet. I want to study photojournalism, but…”
I dart a glance at Dad and decide it’s best to keep our family feud private. Dad thinks it’s an impractical major, but Mom is on my side. I’m hoping I can wear him down eventually, like I did with this job.
“Anyway, I, uh…I’m here to support all of you.” I twirl a strand of hair around my finger, a nervous habit I can’t seem to kick. “I know a lot of software programs so maybe I can help with, uh, proposals and graphics or whatever, so…” My voice trails away. Compared to everyone else’s introductions, I feel like I just showed up at a kegger with juice pouches.
“You get props for snack delivery skills.” Elijah grins and I’m ridiculously grateful for the acknowledgment.
“Agreed,” Carlos says, lifting his soda can in a mock salute.
Dad stands up. “All right, I need to get back to work. Mr. Mantoni will fill you in on the details. I expect to see each of you here every day, other than excused absences cleared with Mr. Mantoni or my assistant, Ms. Romero.” He narrows his eyes at Trish. “Patricia, we do have a dress code. It’s reasonable, but it doesn’t include shirts with inflammatory slogans or torn jeans. Save those for your free time, please.”
Trish’s pale skin turns the color of a ripe tomato and I feel bad for her. I wonder if she and her dad argued about her outfit this morning.
After Dad leaves, the Manicotti stands up. “How about you all take a ten-minute break before we dive into things? Laurel can show you where the kitchen is. Bathrooms. Whatever you need.” He exits quickly, probably to run after my dad.
“Take me to your snack bar,” Elijah jokes, making me laugh.
Trish jumps up. “I know where everything is, too.” She sounds defensive.
A stab of guilt slices through me. She has the better dad/daughter summer gig, an intern instead of a personal assistant, but my dad embarrassed her. I hope she doesn’t try to poison me with arsenic or whatever poison anarchists use on their enemies.
Elijah and Ashley leave with Trish. Jason digs through his messy backpack, then heads for the door. I want a few minutes to myself, but Carlos hasn’t moved. I send him silent Jedi vibes to follow the others, but he’s immune to my powers.
Jason stops at the door and turns to me. “You go to Clarkson Academy, right?”
“Yeah.” This is where he confesses his secret crush on me, right? And how grateful he is that I voted for him to stay.
Jason scratches the back of his head, looking slightly baffled. “I sort of knew that, I guess.” He studies me like he’s never seen me before and my body tingles. I wish we didn’t have an audience, but apparently Carlos isn’t going anywhere.
“Your sister is Kendra, right?”
Of course he remembers her; everyone does. She’s the brilliant social butterfly and I’m the awkward nerd. He gives me a lopsided grin. “Wish I’d known who your dad was in advance, right? I could’ve pumped you for info.”
“That’s what he said,” Carlos mutters under his breath.
Seriously? It’s bad enough he’s witnessing my humiliation, but he has to make a rude joke, too? I refuse to be the butt of a smug guy’s mocking humor; I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime, thank you very much. I shoot him a warning glare but his long eyelashes flutter with fake innocence.
“Do you, uh, do sports and stuff at CA?” Jason asks me, apparently deaf to Carlos’s stupid joke. “Clubs?”
His question stuns me. I was in the Harry Potter parody skit with him in seventh grade. How can he not remember I was Dobby to his Draco?
“You gave me your stinky sock to set me free.” The words blurt out of me, desperate and pathetic. Next to me, Carlos choke-laughs on his soda. I ignore him.
“What?” Jason tilts his head like a confused puppy.
“The Potter Parody. When you were Draco and I was Dobby?” This is beyond humiliating. I want to crawl under the table, but instead I grip the chair arms like they’re lifesavers.
“Maybe you don’t recognize her without the ears,” Carlos suggests. We turn to him and he shrugs. “I assume you wore house-elf ears in the play. And maybe a burlap sack?”
Is he mocking me again? Or is he trying to help? Those melty eyes of his are distracting, as is the permanently smirking mouth. Still, I know better than to trust this type of guy. I shoot him another death glare and refocus on Jason.
“That must be it.” Jason nods. “The costume and makeup crew did a great job, so good I didn’t know it was you.” He grins affably, and I don’t know what to say.
I side-eye Carlos, who cocks a dark eyebrow. “I wouldn’t cast you as a house-elf.” He rubs a thumb across his chin like a casting director considering my role. “You’ve got more of a Hermione vibe going on.” He flicks his hand like he’s holding a wand, then he and Jason laugh.
I know just how Hermione must’ve felt when she wanted to bash Ron’s and Harry’s heads together. Heaving an exaggerated sigh, I roll my eyes to the ceiling.
“I’m gonna grab another drink,” Jason says. “You guys want anything?” We both shake our heads. As soon as he leaves, I scoot my chair away from the table, anxious to escape, but Carlos’s voice stops me.
“I’m sorry. About my dumb joke.”
His apology surprises me, but I’m not letting him off the hook easily. “Which one?”
“The, uh, first one.” He blinks those eyelashes again, then grins, which throws me off-balance. It’s a showstopper of a smile, with a dimple and everything.
“You’re fine with mocking my house-elf self?”
He shrugs. “Actually, I was mocking him for not remembering you. I bet you were a great Dobby.” He glances at the empty doorway. “He was Draco? But Lucius gave Dobby his sock, not Draco. Unwillingly, of course.”
His Potter knowledge makes my heart skip a beat.
“It was a parody. We changed stuff up.”
Carlos’s eyes stay on mine. “Is he a good actor?”
The question surprises me. The truth is, Jason’s not a great actor. He’s…workmanlike. He memorizes his lines and understands stage direction, but he doesn’t have much stage presence. I assume he performs so he’ll have something artsy on his college apps. Still, it feels disloyal to reveal this to a guy I’ve just met, so I lie.
“He’s great.”
Carlos studies me intently and I’m convinced he knows I’m lying. He inhales deeply, nostrils flaring.
“You’ve gone to school with him for how long?” He drums his fingers on the conference table. He should definitely become a lawyer; he could stare the truth out of criminals.
“Are you cross-examining me, counselor?”
“I’m just curious.” His cocky grin reappears, and I can’t decide which is more discombobulating—his smile or his stare-glare.
“You and the monkey.”
His nose wrinkles, then he laughs. “Curious George? That’s me.”
The last time a guy this good-looking talked to me for more than five seconds it ended with mortification. For me, not the guy.
He takes another long swig of his soda and I decide to tell him the truth. He’ll probably just find it on Google, anyway, since he’s great at research.
“I’ve known Jason since the third grade, when he transferred to Clarkson. I mean, I’ve known who he is.” My cheeks start to burn. “Obviously he doesn’t know who I am.”
Carlos nods slowly as he scans my face. My hair. Every part of me that’s visible over the table. My skin burns under the heat of his perusal.
“Well,” he finally says, “it’s too bad you girls voted him back on the island.”
My hackles rise. “Why?”
“Because he’s obviously an idiot.”
“He’s not,” I protest. “He’s smart.” At least I hope he is, though in real life he’s never at the honor roll assemblies with me. Still, some people struggle with classwork even though they’re geniuses, like Einstein. I’m sure Jason’s brilliant at something; I just don’t know what it is. Yet.
Carlos’s eyes narrow, never leaving my face. “Not the type of smart that matters. Like remembering someone he’s gone to school with for eight years.”
I feel like I’ve just spiked a fever. I glance at the wall clock; our break is over soon. Carlos leans back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head like we’re old friends just hanging out.
“You want to study photojournalism but…”
“Huh?”
His wide mouth curves and I hate how my body responds, like he’s fresh spring water and I’m parched. Shields up.
He flashes the dimple again, like a missile aimed straight at my protective shield. “You started to say you want to major in photojournalism, but then you stopped yourself. Why?”
“Maybe you should major in journalism,” I say. “You definitely know how to research.” I take a deep breath. “No offense, Carlos, but you’re, uh, sort of freaking me out.”
“How so?” He unclasps his hands from behind his head and grips his chair arms, a frown knotting his forehead.
“You knew all that stuff about my dad and his company and now you’re, um, sort of putting me on the spot.”
“I don’t mean to freak you out. I’m just curious.” His eyebrows meet in a dark slash over troubled eyes.
I swallow and glance out the window, but all I see is the wall of another brick building. I’m starting to feel trapped, like Leia and the gang in the trash compactor.
Carlos tugs at his tie and suddenly stands up. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to weird you out. I’m going outside to get some air.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and exits the room before I can think of a response.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I blow out a long breath. Surviving a summer on the Death Star is going to be trickier than I thought.