“His connections?”
“His dad’s,” Levi corrects himself. “But without his dad’s connections, I never would’ve gotten the internship.”
I purse my lips and bag up a chocolate croissant––his favorite. “Like I said, I call bullshit. You have no idea how much of an asset you are, Levi. Give yourself a little more credit.”
“I am,” he replies passionately. “Seriously, Charlie. You wouldn’t believe how competitive it is. They demand perfection.”
“Which is perfect for an OCD guy like you,” I quip.
“Still…they haven’t told us how many positions they’ll be offering at the end of the quarter. I might not make the cut.”
The guy in front of me was made for a giant corporation like Montague Enterprises. Being raised by a single mom, he had no choice but to step up and become the hardest worker I’ve ever met. The guy eats, sleeps, and breathes his job. Well, when he isn’t hooking up with Tinder girls, anyway.
“You’re going to make it,” I tell him before handing over a little pink box with his pastry.
“We’ll see.”
Knowing he isn’t going to budge on his pessimistic stance, I change the subject. “So, how’s your mom?”
“She’s doing okay. Keeps asking when I’m going to bring a good girl home.”
I laugh. “Does she know you at all? You’re not attracted to the good ones.”
“That’s not true,” he argues before setting down the box and pulling out his credit card. I wave him off.
“Dude. You already know the rules. My boss is cool with it. She knows you.”
“Just because her husband is one of Montague’s clients doesn’t mean I should get special treatment. Come on. Let me buy my own damn breakfast.”
“Fiiine.” I drag out the word as I swipe his card before handing it back to him.
“How did her appointment go?” I press, knowing he probably doesn’t want to talk about his mom’s health issues but needing to hear she’s okay, regardless. A couple of weeks ago, she found a lump in her breast, and we’ve all been sitting on pins and needles ever since.
Sobering, Levi’s eyes drop down to the pink box that looks so fragile in his giant hands. His thumb brushes across the top as he murmurs, “Not great. They’re thinking of doing an MRI, and they want her to get a biopsy done too. I don’t really know, though. My mom doesn’t like to talk about it. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“An MRI?” I ask. “And a biopsy? That sounds expensive.”
“I don’t even want to know how much it’s going to set us back. Cleaning houses and nannying little kids in the neighborhood”—he winks, because I was that little kid—“didn’t provide great healthcare. We’ll figure it out, though.”
He doesn’t sound very convinced, and my heart aches for him and my second mom. After all, when yours dies before you tu
rn three, it’s easy to turn to the next best thing––your nanny and next-door neighbor.
“That’s ridiculous. If they’re worried it’s cancerous and will probably take it out anyway, why would they make you pay for an MRI and a biopsy too?”
He sighs. “I don’t know the details, but I gotta get this job.”
Sucking my lips into my mouth, I grab a second chocolate croissant then shove it toward him. “This one’s for your mom. She needs a sweet treat.”
The jerky movement is enough to break the morose spell that had been cast on the bakery, and I’m grateful when he takes it without arguing.
“Thanks. You should come visit her one of these days.”
“I know, but I don’t want to bug her—”
“How could you say that?” he interrupts. “She practically raised you.”
“I know that, but—”