“Thanks, Lyns,” he groans and steps back, silently welcoming us inside.
Dean’s townhouse is identical in design to mine and Lynsey’s, but he’s got the minimalist bachelor pad thing going for him. Which is weird because he’s rich. Maybe he spends all his money on clothes because the only furniture here is bean bag chairs and uncomfortable barstools. There’s no dining room table in sight even though there’s a light fixture where one should be.
I stride past him, head straight to his fridge, and help myself to a beer. I grab one for each of them and say, “You’re so obvious.”
“How’d you know it was me?” Dean asks, rubbing his stomach and still wincing in pain as I hand him a beer that he passes to Lynsey.
I hand him another, and the idiot actually untucks his button-down to apply the cold glass to his chiseled abs. He looks up at me and waggles his brows suggestively.
I ignore his lame move and reply, “The letterhead was too perfect, and I know you know how to use Photoshop. You should try to suck more.”
He half-smiles and adjusts his black-rimmed glasses. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
I roll my eyes and hoist myself up on the counter. “You’re such a pig.”
“You’re such a weirdo,” he retorts and twists the cap off his bottle. “I saw your Instagram story today. How do you think you can keep going back to Tire Depot if you post daily about it on social media?”
“Because my social media posts are my saving grace. It helps me feel less guilty about going there without being an actual customer.”
He leans against the nearby wall that leads into the spare bedroom and takes a sip of his beer before replying. “So you think if you get busted and they see all the Facebook posts, they’ll roll out the red carpet?”
“God, I can only dream!” I bellow dramatically and take a swig.
Lynsey giggles from her place on the barstool next to me. “You should have seen her, Dean. I thought she was going to start crying when she saw that bill.”
I nod seriously. “No shit! That thing almost sent me into a state of depression. I was considering moving to a different city that has a Tire Depot because I know it’s a franchise.”
“You are so basic.” He shakes his head and takes another swig. “I tried to get you to come check out my co-working space. We have great coffee there too without fear of being caught red-handed with stolen lattes.”
“That place is for wannabe business moguls. Those aren’t my people.”
He crosses his arms over his chest while still fisting his beer. “And the patrons in a tire shop waiting area are? How great can they really be?”
“You need to see it to believe it, man,” I state and look over at Lynsey. “But it might not have the same effect on you guys as it does on me. It’s all about the vibe and if it comforts your inner chi. Tell Dean about the hospital cafeteria the other day, Lynsey.”
Her face heats, and she shakes her head at me, her brown hair covering her face as she does. “That was a one-time thing.”
“A one-time thing you should be repeating if you want to get your damn thesis finished,” I state with a serious lift of the brows. “I’m telling you guys. The three of us have the best life. We can work from anywhere we want. All we need is a laptop, Wi-Fi, and an outlet, and we’re golden. But our productivity is closely linked to our state of mind. If you find the vibe somewhere, you gotta fight for it. A cool vibe is like a modern-day muse. Tire Depot is to me what Fanny Brawne was to John Keats! That’s poetry in motion that you cannot walk away from! They’ll probably write about this in history after I croak.”
“You sound like a lunatic!” Dean bellows, shoving a hand through his dark hair that’s always flopping into his eyes. “I bought this place out here to make the days I work from home peaceful and quiet. If you want to subject yourself to the noise of the general public, go ahead. Knock yourself out.”
“It’s not noise, it’s a vibe,” I argue and kick my flip-flop off at his chest. He bends over to pick it up, and instead of handing it back to me, he tosses it out the kitchen back door. Dick. “What if you could work even better elsewhere? What if you found a place where you finished your workload in half the time? You’d have more time to hike, screw chicks, prank your friends, buy more plaid trousers.”
This forces a lazy grin to spread across his face. “Have you been noticing my slacks, Kate?”
“No,” I scoff defensively. “And don’t change the subject. There’s something to be said for waiting areas. Places where people are waiting aimlessly are mental gold mines. I feel like a fucking champion when I’m blasting out words and sitting next to a gal wasting her life away on Facebook. It’s a great morale boost for Mercedes Lee Loveletter!”
Lynsey giggles. “I still can’t believe you hit a bestseller list with that pen name.”
I chortle knowingly. “My readers get me.”
“They’d have to,” Dean mumbles but shoots me a proud smile.
“I just like to keep it real.” I sit back casually, relaxing into my spot on the counter. “But I will say, if there’s free coffee where you find your vibe, you do sort of feel like you’ve pulled one over on society. We live in a world that charges for damn near everything. Parking. Cups of ice. Office space. So when you get to enjoy the little things in life, like complimentary coffee, it restores your faith in humanity. And free frickin’ tastes better, that’s just a fact.”
“So you’re going back there tomorrow,” Dean states, his demeanor clearly not as euphoric as mine.
“Hells yeah! This smut won’t write itself.” I raise my beer to them and decide to make an impromptu toast. “Wait with me, my friends. It’s the revolution of the modern day millennials. You’ll see.”
Here’s one thing I’ve learned after three weeks at Tire Depot: Confidence is everything. If you walk in like you own the place, no one will bat an eye. The Customer Comfort Center is mainly full of customers anyway, and those are new every day, hell, every hour. These guys are quick with a lube job.
However, there are employees who frequent the CCC. They usually come in to steal a cookie or refill their cups from the fountain pop machine. Yeah, I know! A Coke Fountain Machine! The only way the CCC could be more perfect is if they had Gilmore Girls playing on a loop on the television instead of cheesy soap operas. But honestly, I couldn’t withstand that level of distraction, so shitty soaps are definitely for the best.
But since I catch sight of familiar employees on a regular basis, I carry a costume to protect my identity—my trusty baseball cap. I know I have noticeable red hair, but most people won’t confront you on something so ridiculous as frequenting their waiting room without a car. At least, that’s my hope.
Today, I’m deep in the word zone, baseball cap tucked down low, noise canceling earbuds in tight with some groovy synth beats that are great for anal scenes when the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand.
My fingers pause on the keyboard, and I look up from my spot in the armchairs that surround the TV. Everybody is looking around curiously, accusingly even. Frowning, I glance around the room, and my blood runs cold when I see a pizza delivery guy standing in the enormous waiting room shouting something to the thirty-five-odd people here today.
With trembling hands, I pop out my earbuds and hear clear as day, “Mercedes Lee Loveletter, I have two large pizzas, parmesan breadsticks, and a pound of boneless chicken wings. With…” He pauses to look at the receipt. “Three dipping sauces.”
Why is he bellowing the delivery receipt out loud? Is that a thing? I don’t think that’s a thing.
He adds, “Claim it now, or it’s going in the trash.”
My inner frugal girl roars to life, and my face turns red fucking hot as I croak, “I’m Mercedes.”
The eighteen-year-old with greasy hair and acne scars looks at me with dead eyes. “I’ve been calling your name for like five minutes.”
Is he seriously scolding me in front of all these people? And OMG…five minutes?