Page 34 of Rare Blend
“Seriously?” I practically shout.
I shouldn’t have read it, I know that. It was wrong of me. His reaction, though? Uncalled for.
I groan. Talk about flipping a switch.
I’m almost to my own door when he shouts out, “New rule. Stay out of my way and stay out of my vineyards!”
“Fine by me!” I yell, slamming my door.
CHAPTER 13
Marisa
A SWEET TREAT
Ithink I may be overdressed. I scrutinize my reflection in the mirror, taking in the black pencil skirt and tucked-in flouncy blouse. The skirt feels like too much; this whole outfit feels like too much. Somehow, I doubt my corporate attire is going to blend in very well around here.
I’ve never professionally worked as a journalist, despite it being my college major. I was a reporter for my college paper all four years of school, but unfortunately, my college writing experience didn’t translate into an actual job.
Post-graduate life was a harsh reality check. Countless rejections slowly but surely killed my romanticized dreams of working for a magazine and living in New York City. My hopes of success were met with disappointment. Eventually, I realized I needed stability, and I let go of the dream entirely, accepting the fact that some dreams needed to die. I grew up and put on my big girl pants and found a job in tech. I was content with my new outlook.
While I wouldn’t say working for a small town newspaper is a job I ever imagined for myself, there is something a little exciting about the prospect of getting to write more than technical specifications and work instructions.
“Ready for your first day?” my dad asks, descending the stairs. He’s wearing slacks and a polo, and I feel slightly less overdressed than I was anticipating.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I sigh.
“Coffee?” he offers as he works at making himself a cup.
I hold up my travel mug. “Already made one.”
I’m currently managing my caffeine addiction with a trusty jar of instant coffee, but I’m this close to caving and buying an actual coffee maker.
He raises his brows, excitement lighting his eyes. “I’ll tell you more when we get to the office, but I’ve got a special project for you.”
“Should I be worried?”
“All good things.” He chuckles.
Well, that isn’t suspicious at all. Now I’m even more nervous.
The drive is short and filled with classic eighties music, bringing me right back to all the times my dad would drop me off at school with Van Halen blasting from the car speakers. That feels like a lifetime ago. He used to say listening to Van Halen was the equivalent of a cup of coffee, and even now, there’s usually at least one Van Halen song on my driving playlists.
He parks in front of a brick building that looks like it may have been a factory or warehouse at some point in time. The parking spot he claims has a sign that saysReserved for the Editor. I would bet good money he put that sign there himself just to avoid having to drive around the block searching for a spot.
Once inside, my nose is violated by a distinct old building smell, reminding me of libraries and mildew.
“This is where the magic happens,” he says, a giant smile splitting his face.
The office is an open space with concrete floors and exposed brick walls. A cluster of desks sit in the middle. Off to the sideis a makeshift kitchen area with a fridge older than me and a couple of microwaves. Right off the entrance is a separate office with anEditorplaque on the door. The entire space is about five-hundred square feet, if that.
“Well, what do you think?”
“It’s…um… It’s something.”
“Come on, I’ll show you to your desk.”
We walk the five feet from the front door to a wooden desk that wobbles.
