Page 17 of Mr. Aster
“Mm-hmm,” she answered with some strange look of accomplishment while sweeping her auburn curls over her shoulder.
Jesus, is she even wearing a bra?
“So, am I to assume your eligible status is why you’re so inappropriately dressed?”
Her cheeks turned bright red, and I didn’t care. The way she was approaching me, her outfit, and the fact that she seemed to know nothing more than where the espresso machine would be located, pissed me off.
“I find that offensive,” she nearly shouted.
“I apologize; however, you are part of the face of this winery as the sommelier. You might even be the most important person here, and yet you look as though you are dressed to go clubbing. This place should ooze with sophistication, and a sommelier who dresses like this and hits on the owner when she first meets him is anything but sophisticated.”
“They all said you would be an asshole,” she snarled, her brown eyes wicked with sudden hatred for me. “I didn’t believe them, but I was wrong. I’ve never met a man I instantly disliked more than you.”
Get in line, I thought, knowing that Darcy would be here in no time to give me hell for this and make me believe that I was out of line.
“Why don’t we spare ourselves any further conversation about your dislike of me? I will accept your resignation.”
She smiled as if I offered her a challenge, “Oh, I’m not resigning. I love my job here.”
“Then you’ll be given termination papers.”
“On what grounds?” she snapped.
“On the grounds that your appearance is an insult to this winery, and your immature behavior is unacceptable. You will be replaced with someone who respects their position and employers.”
She covered her heart, and her eyes pooled with tears. “Please, don’t do this. I love this job,” she pleaded.
I sighed in irritation. “I must ask you to pull yourself together, Miss Parsons,” I offered.
“When they said?—”
“Forgive me for interrupting your recitation of what others have said about me. I truly do not care or wish to hear it. You have until noon to turn in your resignation, or you will be handed termination papers.”
“Mr. Aster?” Mr. Burke said from behind where I stood, watching this woman melt into a puddle of tears. “May I ask what is going on?” He looked at Miss Parsons and then rushed to hug her.
She sobbed into his embrace as I sighed in irritation and looked away. All I knew was that the wine from this fucking place had better taste phenomenal, or I was going to lose my goddamn mind. The lack of professionalism in this place was killing me, and if this woman thought she could cry on Burke’s shoulder and keep her job, she had another thing coming.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” I said in a low voice of frustration, “but I need a word with you, Mr. Burke.”
He stepped back from the upset woman and looked at me. “Give me a moment,” he looked at Miss Parsons. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry. What is upsetting you, dear?”
Miss Parsons shot glossy-eyed daggers my way before looking back at Mr. Burke. “It seems I’m not fit to work here anymore,” she sniffed.
Mr. Burke looked back at me, and for the first time since meeting the man, I saw an angry expression cross his features.
“Why is she not fit to work here?” he asked.
“She is dressed offensively, especially to the clientele we will be drawing in with the new business model, and she has expressed her dislike for me. I do not wish to have employees with anything less than the utmost professionalism?—”
“Hold up, Mr. Aster,” he said, holding both hands up as if declaring his innocence. “Before you start firing everyone before you know them, perhaps I can introduce you to them, and you will understand why?—”
My jaw clamped together so tightly that I nearly broke a molar. “Perhaps you will join me in a more private setting before defendingyouremployees.” I looked at the woman glaring at me, “If you’ll excuse us.”
I dismissed myself and the man wearing the ridiculous Hawaiian-style floral shirt.
“Where is your office?” I questioned.
“Right this way,” he answered, shuffling ahead of me in his flip-flops and Bermuda shorts.
