Chapter 3 Coffee Catastrophe

I rushed out of Margaret's office, my mind still ringing with her "feedback." Forty-five minutes of being told how I needed to be more detail-oriented, more proactive, more everything. The fact that I'd salvaged the Henderson presentation had only slightly dampened her lecture.

"Remember, Diana," she'd said as I was leaving, "this is the third time this month you've missed something critical. I can't keep covering for you. Next time—"

"There won't be a next time," I'd promised, just like I promised last time, and the time before that.

Now, as I headed toward the elevator, my phone buzzed with a text from Nathan.

Meeting running late. Push lunch to 1:30?

I texted back a quick Sure and sighed. An extra thirty minutes to stew in my embarrassment. Perfect.

The morning's adrenaline crash was hitting me hard. I needed caffeine, and lots of it, if I was going to survive the afternoon. The office coffee was basically brown water, so I decided to hit Jerry's again for a proper fix.

Outside, the September sun was bright enough to make me squint. The streets were crowded with the lunch rush – suits and skirts power-walking to their favorite delis and cafes, everyone with that same slightly harried New York expression.

My mind drifted as I walked, replaying moments from the disastrous morning. If only I'd gotten up when my first alarm went off. If only I'd double-checked the presentation notes last week. If only I was naturally organized like some people seemed to be, instead of perpetually scrambling to keep up.

I was so lost in self-recrimination that I barely registered the flow of pedestrian traffic changing around me. I rounded the corner to Jerry's shop at full speed, and that's when it happened.

The collision was spectacular – like something out of a romantic comedy, except there was nothing romantic about the scalding hot coffee that exploded between us. One second I was rushing forward, the next I was crashing directly into what felt like a wall in an expensive suit.

"Oh my GOD!" I yelped as hot coffee splashed across both of us.

I stumbled backward, mortified, as I took in the damage. The man I'd crashed into stood perfectly still, looking down at his once-immaculate suit. Dark coffee spread across the light gray fabric of what was clearly the most expensive piece of clothing I'd ever ruined.

"I am so, so sorry!" I gasped, frantically digging through my purse for tissues, napkins, anything. "I wasn't looking where—"

That's when I actually looked at him, and the words died in my throat.

He was tall – at least six feet – with dark hair cut in a precise style that probably cost more than my monthly rent. His features were sharp, almost severe: high cheekbones, straight nose, strong jawline. But it was his eyes that held me frozen – steel gray and intensely focused, studying me with an unreadable expression.

He didn't look angry, which somehow made it worse. He looked... curious. As if I were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

"I—I'll pay for the dry cleaning," I stammered, finally finding a pathetic wad of napkins in my bag. I thrust them toward him, well aware of how inadequate they were against the worry I'd created.

Instead of taking the napkins, he reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a pristine handkerchief. Who even carried those anymore? He dabbed at his suit with controlled precision.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice low and surprisingly calm. "The coffee was quite hot."

I blinked, thrown by his concern. I'd just ruined what had to be a thousand-dollar suit, and he was asking if I was okay?

"I'm fine," I said automatically, though my blouse now had coffee splatters that matched his suit. "But your clothes—I'm really so sorry. Please let me pay for the cleaning."

Around us, New Yorkers flowed by, some shooting annoyed glances at the obstacle we created in the middle of the sidewalk. A few of his papers had blown against a nearby building, and I hurried to retrieve them, grateful for something to do.

As I gathered the papers, I noticed they contained complex financial projections and what looked like acquisition strategies. The letterhead caught my eye: Morris Industries. I'd seen that name in business magazines – they were a major player in tech development and corporate acquisitions. Way, way above the level of clients Apex usually handled.

The man was watching me as I collected his documents, his gaze so intent that I felt the back of my neck flush. There was something unnervingly analytical about the way he looked at me, as if he was calculating something in his head.

"Here," I said, handing him the slightly coffee-stained papers. "Again, I'm so sorry."

He took the papers, his fingers brushing mine briefly. His hands were unexpectedly warm.

"Thank you," he said, tucking them back into his leather portfolio case. "Accidents happen, Ms...?"

"Peters," I supplied. "Diana Peters."

Something flickered across his face – so quickly I might have imagined it. Recognition? No, that was impossible. Why would someone like him know someone like me?

"Bernard Jones," he said, extending his hand. "Chief Strategy Officer at Morris Industries."

I shook his hand, acutely aware of my clammy palm against his dry one. Chief Strategy Officer. Great. I hadn't just ruined any suit; I'd ruined the suit of an executive at one of the largest corporations in the city.

"Nice to meet you," I said weakly. "Though I wish it had been under less... soggy circumstances."

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly – not quite a smile, but close. "Indeed." He withdrew a business card from his pocket – somehow still pristine – and handed it to me. "Rather than worry about the dry cleaning, perhaps you might consider another option."

I took the card cautiously. "What option?"

"My team is currently looking for a marketing specialist for a new project. Your quick thinking in gathering these papers suggests you might be suitable." He gestured to the coffee stains. "Consider this an unconventional interview."

I stared at him, certain I'd misheard. "You're... offering me a job? Because I spilled coffee on you?"

"I'm offering you an interview," he corrected. "Not the same thing. And not because you spilled coffee on me, but because of how you handled the situation afterward."

My brain struggled to catch up. Was this actually happening? People didn't get job offers from random sidewalk collisions. That wasn't real life.

"How do you know I have marketing experience?" I asked suspiciously. "I could be an accountant or a dog walker or something."

That almost-smile appeared again. "Your tote bag has the Apex Marketing logo. And you're carrying what appears to be a presentation portfolio with their branding as well."

I glanced down at my bag, where indeed our company logo was clearly visible.

"Email me if you're interested," he said, turning to leave. "I have another meeting to attend. I need to change my cloth."

"Wait!" I called, suddenly remembering something crucial. "You don't even know if I'm any good at marketing."

Bernard Jones paused, looking back at me. "That's what interviews are for, Ms. Peters."