I smile a smile that I have to work past nerves to reach as I cross the kitchen to offer a handshake. “You must be Zen.”
“Excellent guess. The boss—oh, puppy.”
Zen’s email signature line lists they/them pronouns, a marketing degree from UC Berkeley with a graduation date of almost two years ago, and also the last name Cartwright.
Just like the new boss, whom they referred to as Mr. Cartwright in every email.
Father? Brother? Lover?
I don’t know.
And I’m torn between wanting to know everything and knowing that the less I know, the better.
I am off gossip.
But I am all in with doing everything in my power to be Zen’s new favorite person.
Fighting won’t get me what I want.
Especially fighting before I have a chance to get off on the right foot with the new boss.
“This is Jitter,” I say. “He’ll go to doggy daycare soon, but it’s not open yet.”
Zen shoves their hands in their pockets like they have to or else they’ll drop to their knees and fling themself at my dog, who’s straining on his leash and wagging his tail like he’s spotted his next best friend.
And I draw a full, relieved breath.
Zen loves my dog, even if they don’t want me to know they love my dog.
I like them.
They have good taste. We’ll get along fabulously once they warm up to me as much as they’ve already warmed up to Jitter.
“I’m sure the health department will appreciate that,” Zen says with a stiffness that’s in direct contrast to the moon-eyes they’re making at my puppers. “The boss is waiting for you by the fireplace.”
That’s an ominous statement. Almost as bad as Emma’s you knew my brother went to jail for Chandler and you didn’t tell me? right before she fled her wedding and became the world’s most famous runaway bride.
Happy feelings all gone.
Dammit.
“Did I do something?” I ask in a hushed tone. “You said to carry on as normal. This is normal. Jitter’s with me here often, and the customers love him, and—”
“Aww, you are da cutessssst,” is the only response I get as Jitter nuzzles his body against Zen’s tall, lanky form and tries to push them over. “Who’s gonna need a lint brush? Yes, who’s gonna need a lint brush today?”
Definitely not the dog.
At least Zen doesn’t seem upset about it.
“I sincerely hope you don’t talk to customers that way,” a chill-inducing deep voice says from the front.
“Of course I will,” Zen tosses back over their shoulder. “People love to be talked at like they’re dogs. Oh, excuse me. No, sir, I would never. Ms. Sullivan, this way, please. And as for you, you adorable abominable monster of fluff, you can stay right here and help me find the schedule.”
“Jitter’s more likely to eat the schedule than read it if you don’t keep a firm hand on him,” I say quickly while I tug my dog toward his normal spot in the doggy house that Laney bought him for Christmas when he outgrew his old kennel. “But he’s excellent at sniffing out when it’s time to clean the mophead. And he knows to stay in his spot over here.”
“Do you eat mopheads?” Zen says to Jitter. “I’ll bet you eat them, you beautiful thing.”
I secure Jitter with his doggy door shut. He wags his tail so it audibly thumps against the walls inside and gives Zen puppy dog eyes over the half door like he knows they’ll be his friend if he could just get to them. And then I slip out of my coat and hang it on the rack in the alcove by the fridge next to the black jacket that I’m assuming is Zen’s, since it matches the rest of their outfit.
My grandpa bought this building almost seventy years ago, but it’s been around since the late eighteen-hundreds, and it truly was built into the rock wall at the edge of Main Street. So this alcove is framed on one side with actual boulders.
We have a lot of character in our building here.
We.
The anxiety gnawing at my insides has grown jaws bigger than Jitter’s.
I need to make such a good first impression.
“Are you gonna help me make Mr. Grumpy Pants his morning tea?” Zen says to Jitter. “Yes? Yes, you are? Ohh, who’s such a good puppy-wuppy?”
I am officially jealous of my dog. Bet he gets a delicious breakfast while I’m sweating in front of the new boss.
Logically, I know there’s no reason for me to be nervous.
I’m a good manager. My crew loves me. My customers love the crew. My customers love me. I keep us involved in the community, and in return, the community supports us. We turn a profit every month, which I know can’t be said for the two other locations Chandler expanded into over the past few years and that I expect the new owner will have to deal with sooner or later.