Page 65 of Forgotten Path
“Right. You live in those townhouses near the lighthouse.”
Brianna raised her head and blinked at the older woman as if she might be a stalker. Craig bit back a laugh.
Steffi explained, “Clara’s the Oyster Point mail carrier, Bri. She knows where everyone lives.”
“Oh.”
Craig didn’t know Brianna Allen well, but he was glad to see she was even more sullen than he was. And that was saying something. Maybe they were soulmates.
“Hey,” he jerked his head in greeting. “You two could add the beans and the crackers to these bags.”
“Great idea,” Clara declared before drifting away to check on the juice and bread station.
The women joined him at the table. They worked in silence for a while as they shuffled back and forth to tuck cans of red beans and boxes of saltines into the bags while he added jars of peanut butter.
After a few minutes, Steffi elbowed her friend in the ribs.
“Ow, what?”
“You could work for me.”
“What?” Brianna’s eyes went wide.
“At the Juice Joint. Just until you find something.”
“Mmm, maybe,” Brianna made a noncommittal noise.
Yep, this chick was definitely his soulmate. Craig could practically read her thoughts. She was probably imagining the hairnet and the stickiness that the job would entail.
He cleared his throat. “Are you looking for a job?”
At the interruption, both women turned toward him in unison, each with one raised eyebrow. They couldn’t possibly be peeved that he’d eavesdropped. They were standing two feet away from him. What was he supposed to do, stick his fingers in his ears?
After an icy moment, Brianna said, “Yeah, I am. Why? Do you know a company with an open executive-level position for a sustainability officer?”
“Uh, no. But I do know a guy who’s looking for consultants.”
“Consultants, huh? What kind of consultants?” Steffi inserted herself into the conversation.
Craig ignored her, keeping his attention locked on her friend. “More like independent contractors, I guess. It’s project-based work.”
“And how much do you earn for these projects?” Brianna wanted to know.
“Depends on how complicated they are. I’m getting a minimum of a hundred dollars for each … report. Cash.”
“Cash,” Brianna repeated skeptically.
“Yeah.”
“You know you have to report that, right?”
“Sure,” he bluffed. “Anyway, I could put in a word with Fred for you—if you want.”
“Fred?”
“Glazier.”
Brianna reared her head back. “Uh, thanks, but no thanks.”
