Thicker Than Tsokolate

ii. Meng

Looking back, there was absolutely no way I could've seen this coming. This kind of thing just doesn't happen in real life; it's the stuff of sitcoms and screwball comedies.

My day started off ordinarily enough. I had volunteered to take a 12-hour opening shift, so I woke up at 4:30AM and got a simple breakfast of sinangag, sunny side up eggs, and tuyo ready for my family before taking a quick, freezing shower and getting ready for work. I dressed neatly as usual, and—because I was in a good mood, remembering how Luis, my manager, had laughed at a joke I made yesterday—I sprayed an extra spritz of cologne on my wrists and dabbed some behind my ears. I glanced at the clock on our unpainted kitchen wall before hurriedly packing my baon and rushing off to catch a jeep to my place of employment—Lumeng's Tsokolate Café at Greenbelt in Makati.

I've always loved the opening shift. There's just something soothing and therapeutic about being the first person in the store, getting it ready for the rush of early customers coming in for their tsokolate or coffee fix and a quick bite before going off to work. Besides, mornings are almost always beautiful—even the rainy ones—so full of hope and promise.

Luis arrived about five minutes after I did, and he gave me a small smile before unlocking the doors and letting me in. We had around thirty minutes to ourselves before another opener was scheduled to come in, and I lowkey hoped he would stay outside in the bar and dining area with me for a while to help set up and maybe chat for a bit instead of heading for the back office right away, but no such luck.

Instead, he did something better. He sniffed the air just before disappearing into the kitchen, one hand on the heavy swinging door, and said, "Hey, you smell nice."

That was enough to send me to Cloud 9. I can be very easy to please sometimes.

Fifteen minutes later, as I was refilling the tiny pots of sugar on each table, Luis called me into the office. My heartbeat quickened, and for a brief second, I wondered if he was going to tell me that I've finally been promoted to manager. I've been working so hard towards that this past year.

Then I remembered that our operations manager, Sir Hans, usually makes those kinds of big announcements himself, in person. Luis probably just wanted to ask if he should order more coffee stirrers, or to let me know that I'd won Employee of the Month. Again. For the fifth time in a row.

He didn't do either of those things. Instead, he informed me that there would be a new addition to our team starting Monday. Richard Faulkerson, Sr., in an apparent fit of madness, had decided that his notorious, party boy son would work as a server at our branch for the next six months. He needed someone to train him—to show him the ropes—and really, to keep an eye on him, and for some reason, Luis thought that I was the perfect person for the job.

I couldn't disagree more.

I know about Jay Faulkerson; who doesn't? He is constantly in the news, and in all the popular gossip columns and websites. I've heard plenty of rumors and wild stories about him, enough to know that he is absolutely the last person on earth whom I want to spend the next six months training. He is spoiled, shallow, selfish, immature, irresponsible, entitled, and—UGH. Just about everything that I can't stand in a person.

I pleaded with Luis to ask someone else, but after he hinted heavily that this assignment just might be my golden ticket to a promotion, I glumly agreed to do it. At least I had three more days to prepare before the rich brat was supposed to show up for work.

Which is why I was so surprised to find him standing uncertainly next to the chiller in the empty kitchen when I got back from my first break.

It's 10:15AM now, and we're having our typical mid-morning, pre-lunch lull when hardly any customers come in. Luis is outside, receiving a delivery of pastries, and everyone else is either taking their break or slacking off at the bar, and I was just about to get my apron and put it back on when Jay Faulkerson himself showed up.

"Oh, my God, you scared me," I gasp, putting my hand over my heart. "How did you get in here? Does Luis know you're here?"

His eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Luis—?"

"My manager," I explain, trying to sound polite. Why is he looking so...spaced out and vacant? Ugh, has he been drinking already? It isn't even noon yet!

Puzzled expression and suspected alcoholism aside, I can see why so many women fall for him. I hate to admit it, but he really is extremely good-looking. Tall, fair, and lean, with a milky complexion and deceptively innocent, round brown eyes, and that infamous dimple in his left cheek. Oddly enough, he's dressed somewhat formally in a vintage-looking brown suit and a stiff white button-down tucked neatly into his trousers. That's weird. Whenever I've seen him on TV, he's always seemed to favor plain black t-shirts, dark jeans and expensive sneakers. A suit isn't at all in keeping with his usual style. Well, I think, shrugging to myself, maybe he just wants to make a good impression.

I force myself to be friendly.

"Actually, I guess I should say he's our manager, since you'll be working here soon. But weren't you supposed to start on Monday? You're a little early," I say with a little laugh.

The confusion on his face clears, and he starts to look apologetic.

"Oh, no," he says, shaking his head vehemently. "No, no, no. You're confusing me with my grandson, Jay. People always say we look so much alike. But my name is Ricardo, and I'm here to ask for your help."

Okay, now I'm starting to think that he isn't just drunk. Maybe he's high...or maybe he's simply batshit insane. Who goes around dressing up and pretending to be their grandfather?? Crazy rich boys like Jay Faulkerson, that's who.

I cross my arms and glare at him. I'll babysit this sucker if that's what it takes to get promoted, but there's no way in hell I'm going to put up with his childish antics.

"Listen, Mr. Faulkerson," I say in my bossiest tone. "I don't know what you're trying to pull, but everyone knows Ricardo Faulkerson passed away like, twenty years ago, so you're only making a fool of yourself with that charade."

"No, really," he insists, beginning to sound desperate. "Young lady, you have to believe me. I really am Ricardo Faulkerson, and I need your help. You have to make sure my grandson doesn't screw this up. I worked so hard to put up this business, and I'll be damned if I let it pass out of our family's hands simply because the poor child can't get his act together. He's a smart boy—he really is—he just needs some motivation."

I roll my eyes so hard I may have damaged my optic nerve. Is "motivation" some kind of weird sexual innuendo or pickup line that I've never heard before? I seriously cannot deal with this guy right now. He seems determined to keep up his act; I didn't detect even a hint that he was joking during his whole speech. What. A. Psycho.

I let out a loud sigh and decide to let Luis figure out what to do with him.

"Come on, I'll introduce you to Luis," I say, reaching out to take his arm and lead him out of the kitchen, when MY FINGERS GO RIGHT THROUGH HIS ELBOW AS IF IT ISN'T THERE.

And the last thing I remember before passing out is my own voice raised high in a piercing, ear-splitting, terrified shriek.