Page 10 of Casita Casanova
“It was a joke, Mom.”
“Was it, though?” Danielle whispers. Narrowing her eyes, she shakes her head, then steps back to the door, resting her forearms on the top of the bottom half and leaning inside to peer into the living room. “A little advice, sugarsnap?”
“Yeah?” Ari asks, hesitation clear in her voice.
“Don’t open the box in the bedroom that says B.O.B.”
“Danielle!” I hiss.
“Those are your mom’sbattery-operated boyfriends.” Danielle’s roar of laughter can’t hide the disgusted groan my daughter gives in response to that bit of too-much-information.
“Thanks for that,” I grumble.
“Hey, she wants to fuck with us, we’ll fuck with her.” Danielle loops her arm through mine and leads me down the walkway toward the white picket gate. “What are aunties for?”
“Embarrassing everyone, apparently.”
“Yes. And also, stealing you away for margaritas.”
I grin. “This is true.”
We make our way down the street and turn before the cul-de-sac, then head out to the main road. Pacific Coast Highway is dotted with tiny little shops and cafes, but among them, larger places have started to pop up. One of which looms up before us, a massive building that, even with their attempt to blend into the quaint, beachy surroundings with an ocean-themed mural on one side, sticks out like a sore thumb. It’s so obviously new and modern compared to the grandfathered buildings surrounding it.
As we pass the massive brewery, Danielle pauses. When I notice she’s no longer keeping pace beside me, I stop and turn around. There’s a determined glint in her eyes.
“What?”
She points to a sign in the window. “They’re hiring.”
My eyebrows creep slowly up my forehead as I turn to peer inside. The crowd is varied, both old and young, but the employees buzzing around in their black and white polos and tiny denim shorts are all mid-twenties at best. “No way.”
“Why not?” She steps up beside me and looks inside. “You love beer.”
An employee hurries past us on the other side of the glass and I snort. “Her butt cheeks are hanging out.”
Danielletsks, scanning the other workers. “But hers aren’t. And that guy has jeans on.”
The male employee in question stops in front of the window, right in our line of sight. I look up at him and he grins, then tilts his head a bit as he holds my gaze. “Are you coming in?” he mouths.
I straighten, then shake my head.
Danielle points to the sign and yells, “She needs an application!”
“Oh my god.” I close my eyes and shake my head. When I open my eyes again, he’s gone. “See that? You scared him off. I’m too old to work here.”
“Stop it, MaRo, you’re not old.”
I scoff. “Danielle.”
“You’re not. You’re in the prime of your life.”
Snorting, I turn to the side as the door to the brewery swings open and the guy walks out, turning to make a beeline toward us. His smile is contagious, and before long, I’m smiling up at his handsome face.
“Here you go.” He hands me the application. “When can you start?”
I nearly choke on nothing. “What?”
“We’re hurting. We need you.” He gives a little shrug, then adds, “Not that we’re desperate or anything.” Smiling sheepishly, he runs his hand through his dark mop of curls.
