Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(8)

“Let me go grab you an application.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Oh, what’s the manager’s name?”

I smirked and offered my hand. “Greg Brandon. Nice to meet you.”

Her big eyes widened in surprise as she took my hand. “Annie Daschle. Nice to meet you, too.”

Her hand was warm in mine, her fingers long for such a small girl, just a wisp. I wondered absently how old she was before letting her go.

“Be right back. Can I get you anything to drink?”

She unwound her pink scarf. “Water would be fine, if it’s no trouble.”

“None at all. Coming right up.”

I turned and walked away, grinning like a fool as I made my way behind the bar, first pouring her a glass of water, then fishing around under the bar register for the folder of applications.

Technically, I was a manager, just not a hiring manager. I ran the bar, not the store itself. That was Cam’s job—on top of running me. But I had a feeling I’d be able to secure her a spot doing pretty much whatever she wanted. I found myself already rearranging the schedule and concocting a plan to convince Cam.

I stopped for a moment to consider what had gotten into me. I’d never taken an interest in new hires before, but for some unknown reason, I felt compelled to help her.

I wasn’t quite sure what it was that had struck me. She was just a girl, probably younger than I figured, maybe even as young as twenty. But there was something about her, something small and vulnerable, like finding a stray puppy or a floppy-eared, big-eyed bunny that needed a home. Something that made me feel the urge to protect her, to button up her coat and make sure she didn’t lose a mitten or her hat. At the same time, she seemed perfectly self-sufficient with a sunny, optimistic look to her that spoke of a girl who would walk home in the rain or dip her hands into a bag of grain to feel every seed.

Living in New York my whole life, the concept was as foreign as it was fascinating.

I brushed my thoughts aside and took her the application and water, setting it on a coaster. She caught a glimpse of it as I set the glass on top, immediately moving it to read the coaster aloud.

“No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call— / All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.” She beamed. “Shakespeare, Sonnet 40.” She recited the rest from memory, “Then if for my love thou my love receivest, / I cannot blame thee for thou love usest; But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. I love the sonnets.”

“I can see that.” I chuckled. “They barely read like English, but hearing it…I think I actually understood it that time.”

She blushed, just the slightest tinge of dusky rose in her cheeks. “It’s always better spoken. All mine was thine before thou hadst this more,” she said with depth and passion. “She loved him before he took her love, and she’s begging him not to hurt her for the sacrifice. It’s about the power one holds over another who gives their love. It’s beautiful. Are all the coasters the same?”

“Cam, one of my bosses, loves finding quotes for these things.” I grabbed a stack off the back of an adjacent booth and tossed them on the table.

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. —Jane Austen

Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine. —Lord Byron

And your very flesh shall be a great poem. —Walt Whitman

Annie looked them over with her big eyes and wide, smiling lips. “Would it be pathetic to beg for a job?”

“You wouldn’t be the first. Let’s start with you filling that out for me.” I nodded to the application.

She straightened up seriously, a little embarrassed. “Yes, of course.”

“Just come get me when you’re through, and we’ll chat.”

She nodded, but I caught a glimpse of her nerves; she was an open book, her pages fluttering from one emotion to the next with an easy whisper.

I walked over to the empty crates, still sprawled across the entry, and picked them up. I carried them out to the sidewalk where my beer delivery guy was waiting, nose in his clipboard. We exchanged a few words, but I wasn’t really paying attention; my mind was turned back to the girl sitting in the booth with pink mittens in her lap.

Her head was down, attention on her application. The tip of her tongue poked comically out of the corner of her lips. And I kept on walking until I was behind the bar, busying myself with anything I could think of, which wasn’t much. We hadn’t been open for long enough that morning to actually have anything to do.

I was in the middle of pretending to do inventory when she set her pen down. I was so aware of her, I sensed the motion rather than saw it.

I smiled and made my way back over, sliding into the bench across from her.

She beamed and pushed the paper in my direction. “Here you go. All done.”

I glanced down the sheet, taking in the details. Her name and address—

Surprise jolted through me that she lived on Fifth and 94th, the Upper East—the Upper Crust. That surprise turned to downright shock when I noted her birthday.

She was eighteen.

Fresh out of high school.

With no job experience.

I looked up at her then, her face full of hope, laced with fear and longing, touched by a shadow of desperation. And there were only two things to do.