Fired (Worked Up Book 1) Page 5

  He shook his head. “Not exactly. She headed up the finance department at some trendy Scottsdale resort, but she can handle staff, and she has marketing skills, too, both of which will come in handy.”

  Something about that sounded odd to me. “So she abandoned her prominent position to come down to the trenches and learn how to make pizza?”

  “No. She was fired.”

  Now I raised both eyebrows. “She was fired?”

  Gio grinned. “It’s a funny story. I’ll let her share the details with you, though.” He must have seen the doubt on my face because he sighed. “Look Dom, Melanie’s exactly what we need for the position. She’s sharp and she’s motivated, and she really seemed charmed by the idea of working for a family business.”

  “All right,” I said with a shrug. I’d been a little wary of entrusting some of the more delicate financial tasks to a brand-new employee, but I trusted my brother.

  “Be ready at two to go see Donna,” Gio said on his way to the door. “And don’t tease Tara about her brother.”

  “Why would I do that? I was the asshole as far as the whole Ryan debacle is concerned.”

  Gio turned around and looked at me thoughtfully. “You’re not an asshole, Dominic. Take it from your kid brother. I know everything there is to know about you.”

  I turned on the kitchen sink and started rinsing out the coffee mugs. He was wrong. He didn’t know everything. “Think I’ll make some scrambled eggs,” I said in an effort to change the subject.

  “Fine. See you in a little while.”

  After Gio closed the door, I turned the water off and just stood there in my kitchen for a few minutes, listening to the silence and remembering something Gio had said.

  “Best man I’ve ever known.”

  Sometimes I wished I had the courage to tell my brother about the things he didn’t know about me. But the time to come clean had ended a long time ago, and there was no point in bringing up such sore subjects now.

  No. The only thing to do was to hope that the past stayed in the past where it belonged.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MELANIE

  “So how does Mama look?” I asked, spinning around in a circle.

  Luke and Lando sat on the bed and blinked.

  “Thank you for your enthusiasm,” I said, patting each of them on their feline heads. Lando immediately started purring and trying to rub his orange body closer, but I had to brush him off because I didn’t want to arrive at my first day of work with cat hair all over my blazer.

  I had gotten ready too early, like I usually did, so I wandered around my apartment and wound up picking up a framed photo from the end table. It was my favorite image of my parents. My sister, Lucy, had hung a poster-sized wedding day picture of them in her apartment, but I preferred this one.

  Not a glossy professional shot, it had been taken on a weekend camping trip with friends somewhere up north around Prescott. My handsome, black-haired father had his right arm draped protectively around my petite mother as they beamed at the camera. They were so young here, so obviously in love. Years later my mother would tell me that less than twenty-four hours before they’d posed beside their small tent, they had received the news that they were expecting their first child, me.

  “Wish me luck today, Mom and Dad,” I whispered to the smiling faces behind the glass before I set the picture back on the table. My heart ached for a moment, as it always did when I thought about how I’d lost them far too soon. We’d been such a happy family. I was young and devastated beyond words after their death; I wound up stumbling into a hasty, unhappy marriage in search of some sort of sense of belonging. I didn’t find it then. And despite the fact that I’d learned to cope, I didn’t have it now.

  I took one final look in the mirror—confidence and class stared back. After being fired from my job, I hadn’t given myself the luxury of a few days to lick my wounds and moon over the unfairness of it all. No, what was done was done. I’d busted out of the unemployment gate swinging, scouring every job listing in the valley, utilizing every personal and professional contact, and firing off resumes for any position I was even vaguely qualified for. I followed up with phone calls and emails to get the message across that I was highly motivated.

  To my supreme horror, nothing happened.

  I remained stubbornly cheerful the first few weeks, but gradually my self-esteem plummeted. Would I ever find another job? Even though some interviews seemed to go well, I’d get the inevitable “We’re pursuing another candidate” phone call or email, and that was that.

  Maybe I was reaching too high.

  Maybe I was bending too low.

  Maybe for the rest of my life my name would be tied to the Kaylie Tidewater wedding debacle.

  Maybe I should just forget about doing anything in an office ever again and return to school to learn how to be a plumber or something. No one would care if you’d been fired for ruining the wedding of a semifamous person as long as you knew how to fix a toilet.

  One hundred and thirty-two resumes sent. I think. I stopped counting quite so carefully once I hit triple digits.

  Fourteen interviews. All polite and professional.

  And yet . . . nothing.

  I hadn’t felt so much self-doubt since right after my marriage to James ended. My ex-husband and I had met in college. We started dating because it seemed like we should. We stayed together because it was less trouble than breaking up. And we got married because he was trying to be noble while I was searching for a way to ease my grief following the sudden death of my parents.

  But James and I were in trouble from the beginning. It turned out that being polite grew thin after a while and eventually the fighting started. From there it was only a matter of time before the end came. The sad thing was he wasn’t a bad guy. He just wasn’t the right guy. Only Lucy ever knew how much I cried over my disastrous marriage, although I wasn’t pining over James. No, I cried because I’d failed. I cried because I’d wasted so much time on something that had never been right and I didn’t know if I’d ever find what I was searching for, what my parents had. Maybe not everyone got that.

  So there I was, newly fired, filled with insecurity and haplessly throwing resumes into the world like confetti when I received a Facebook message from a girl I’d gone to high school with. I almost missed seeing the message from Tara Lindell, who was now Tara Esposito, because lately I’d been trying to keep social media at arm’s length. Apparently word of the wedding from hell had gotten around alumni circles at my old Tucson high school. People I hadn’t communicated with in nearly a decade started reaching out in search of sordid details. For the most part I ignored them.

  Tara and I had vaguely known each other in high school. At the time, if someone had said to me, “You know Tara Lindell?” I would have been able to summon the image of a tall, lively girl with the lightest blonde hair I’d ever seen. She was a cheerleader and part of the perky crowd that was responsible for things like hanging streamers for homecoming and sponsoring brownie bake sales. I, on the other hand, had yet to discover my perky side. I was busy writing ghastly poetry, performing a minor role in our high school’s production of Sweeney Todd, and molding my leather-clad Gothic look. Regrettably, my fashion sense wouldn’t catch up for a few more years.

  After Tara’s family moved away from Tucson right before junior year, I didn’t think about her again until I read that cheerful message saying that she was in Phoenix, married, with a baby girl, and she wanted to have lunch. I thought about it for a few minutes and decided there was no harm in answering. Tara hadn’t even mentioned my unfortunate brush with tabloid fame. Plus I was rather lacking in friendly connections at the moment. My sister was in another state, and most of my other friends were loyal to my ex.

  My afternoons were wide open, so we met for lunch two days later, and while we were catching up, she suggested that I apply for a job at her husband’s restaurant. Evidently their manager had just quit with no notice, and they were
avidly hunting for a replacement since a second restaurant was going to be opening soon. It didn’t really sound ideal, but it was a job, and I needed one, so I told her I’d send a resume.

  “Awesome! I’ll put in a good word for you,” she said with a wink.

  Giovanni Esposito was Tara’s husband, and he owned Esposito’s, a pizzeria, along with his brother. During the interview he’d asked me point-blank why I was applying for a position that seemed beneath my qualifications. Instead of offering some bullshit answer about wanting to work hard for a small company, I looked the man right in the eye and told him the truth. I told him about the wedding. I told him I’d been fired. I told him I was a quick learner and eager to prove myself to any employer who would give me a chance.

  His polite words and civil handshake told me little, though; and I figured I’d never hear from him again. After all, he’d probably just granted me an interview as a favor to his wife. The job of bookkeeper and assistant manager of two pizzerias was a far cry from director of finance at an upscale resort, so perhaps it was just as well.

  When I received the offer call, I was eating chocolate icing out of the container with a wooden spoon. All of a sudden there was no place I’d rather work than Esposito’s Pizzeria. I celebrated by opening cans of tuna for Luke and Lando; and two days later, I was on my way to my first day of work.

  “Hey there, Melanie.” My new boss waved from behind the counter when I walked into Esposito’s.

  The interior looked the way a pizzeria ought to; cozy and laid-back, with menus written in chalk above the counter, and a dozen round tables with red-and-white checkered tablecloths. We were within a stone’s throw of the enormous state university, and the food here was semilegendary, although I’d never been inside. The new restaurant was located miles away in downtown Phoenix, but the grand opening wouldn’t happen for another month.

  Giovanni insisted that I call him Gio. After he gave me some time to complete my new-hire paperwork, he took me on a brief tour. For now I’d be occupying a rather cramped office in the back of the original store, but within the next week, the plan was to move all the administrative functions over to the new place, which was considerably larger.

  “My brother’s expecting you stop by Espo 2 this afternoon,” Gio said.

  “I’m sorry. Espo 2?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, that’s how Dom and I differentiate between the old place and the new one. Espo 1 and Espo 2. He spends most of his time overseeing the renovation, and I join him when I can. Our hours here are eleven a.m. until ten p.m., Monday through Saturday, closed on Sunday, for now at least. Espo 2 will have Sunday hours when it opens. You’ll have more of a nine-to-five schedule, although as we get closer to the Espo 2 opening, you’ll probably end up working overtime. And as assistant manager sometimes you’ll have to help fill in as the need arises in the dining room.”

  “Not a problem,” I told him. “Whatever it takes.”

  Gio talked rapidly, and I got the feeling his mind was always churning behind the scenes. He told me obvious things, like how processing payroll and taking care of day-to-day bookkeeping were the most immediate needs. In the coming weeks a number of new staff members would be added to fill positions at the new restaurant. As he talked, it was tough not to notice how good-looking he was; tall, with broad shoulders, and dreamy, dark Italian features. Of course I wasn’t having serious thoughts about him. He was my boss, and he was married to a friend from high school. Plus there just wasn’t that kind of chemistry between us. I could tell we would work well together, and that was all.

  Before Espo 1 opened for the day, I got to meet a few staff members. Two of them were college students, and one was a retired cop who immediately confided to me that he’d been off the job for only two weeks before he realized his wife was going to drive him crazy, so he took a job serving pizza as a way to stay out of the house.

  When I was treated to my first slice of Esposito’s pizza, I had to admit it was the best damn slice I’d ever eaten. When I said so out loud, Gio and the rest of the staff cheered my good taste.

  By the time I got into my car to drive over to Espo 2, I was feeling pretty good about my first day. So far I liked everyone I’d met. More than anything, my exhausting job search had forced me to eat a few bites of humble pie—now I was excited to be part of a small family-owned business. I would make the Esposito brothers glad they’d hired me. Who knows, maybe this really was a great opportunity. From what Gio told me, the brothers seemed highly ambitious, so perhaps someday Esposito’s would be a national chain.

  There was very little traffic heading into downtown Phoenix this time of day, and I made good time to Espo 2. It was in a quaint section of the city known as Heritage Square, populated by some of the oldest buildings in Phoenix. Gio’s brother, Dominic, would be waiting.

  The building was square and brick. Originally it had been a bank and then operated as a bar for years. Gio had hinted it was still in the middle of a much-needed makeover, and I could see he was right.

  There were a few tools propped up against the outside of the building, but I didn’t see a soul. When I pushed the door open, I noticed ladders, drop cloths, paint cans, and a whole lot of dust.

  “About fucking time you turned up,” roared a deep male voice. The furious sound of those words tempted me to back up and run right the hell out of there.

  “I’m, um, sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t realize I was late.”

  The sexiest man alive materialized out of the dusty air—all blazing eyes and black hair, muscles practically busting out of his dirty white T-shirt. He cocked his head and gazed down at me.

  “Sorry,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s just that my countertop installer is two hours late, and I thought you were him. Can I help you with something?”

  “I’m Melanie Cruz,” I said.

  He crossed his arms and seemed rather nonplussed by the sound of my name.

  “Your brother hired me,” I explained, feeling slightly annoyed and rather off balance.

  He just kept . . . staring.

  “You must be Dominic,” I prompted.

  I extended my hand. He kept his arms crossed.

  “Melanie,” he muttered and shook his head. “Right. Yeah, Gio mentioned something about you.”

  He still hadn’t shaken my hand. I was starting to feel ridiculous. Maybe he was trying to be tactful because his own hand was gross or something. It looked like he’d been knee-deep in sawdust before I walked in.

  Abruptly he shook his head once and reached out for a handshake. His large, strong hand closed around my fingers no longer than a heartbeat. But the effect was electrifying. I’d shaken hundreds of hands in my life, and some of them were attached to pretty fine male specimens, but this wasn’t just a handshake. This was the kind of visceral connection that changed planetary orbits.

  And it sure as hell wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to feel when meeting my boss for the first time.

  “Shock,” said Dominic as he pulled back.

  “What?”

  He gestured to the dusty, cavernous restaurant. “Too much static in here. Didn’t mean to give you a shock.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, but Dominic had already turned around and started walking back to the shadows he’d emerged from. He did indeed resemble his brother in a superficial way—strong build, black hair, similar features—but Dominic possessed an edgy, smoldering quality in his every move. He already had me feeling slightly nervous. And slightly infatuated.

  “I can give you a quick tour,” he said, “but frankly there’s not much to see at this point. The twin custom brick ovens will be here this week, and once that happens, we can start filling in the rest of the kitchen.”

  Dominic glanced back with a frown, like he was expecting that I wouldn’t be paying attention. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed straight ahead.

  “Over here you’ll have the takeout counter, once there’s an actual countertop; restrooms are back there
on the left, although the plumbing isn’t exactly functional. Down the corridor past the kitchen is where the office is going to be. You’ll be set up with everything you need in there, although there’s nothing I can do about it today.” He rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. “Not sure why Gio sent you down here just to breathe in dust and paint fumes.”

  As Dominic talked, I walked around slowly, taking in the view. The building was obviously old, but once the interior was all polished up, it could really turn into something. Espo 2 was considerably larger than Espo 1, and given its size and the prominence of the downtown location, this new venture seemed like a big step for the brothers.

  Dominic had stopped speaking, and when I looked over, I realized that he’d been watching me. His eyes flickered down over my legs before he let out a heavy breath that was somewhere between a sigh and a hiss. I didn’t know what his problem was. He was obviously bent out of shape over his missing contractor, but that wasn’t my fault.

  Anyway, I was determined to get off on the right foot with this guy, so I smiled pleasantly and put on my best voice of overcompensating cheer. “This is going to be quite a place when it’s all finished. You guys are going to be the toast of Phoenix.”

  Dominic said nothing. A finger tapped his lips like he was deep in thought as he stared past the proposed takeout counter and through a window in the wall that offered a view into the kitchen. I couldn’t be sure he’d even heard me.

  “You’re lucky,” I said, and this time he heard me. He looked at me with one eyebrow raised, so I explained. “I mean, you get to work with your brother. You guys must be pretty close.”

  “Must be,” he said and then began moving a stack of paint cans close to the wall.

  “I have a sister,” I babbled. Dominic Esposito was doing a fine job of heightening my anxiety. “She lives in San Francisco now. She works for an art museum. I really miss her, though. Did you grow up in Phoenix? Most people didn’t. It seems everyone comes here from somewhere else. I’m from Tucson.”

  “New York,” he said, cutting me off as he finished stacking paint cans. He grabbed a giant toolbox, set it on a nearby worktable, and rummaged around inside.