Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 20816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
JFK is a goddamn nightmare. The moment I step off the plane into the arrivals area, I get walloped right in the face with chaos. Everywhere I turn, there’s another person yelling into a Bluetooth or pushing their way through the craziness. Thank God, I only brought a carry-on bag, which means I can skip the luggage carousel and escape.
I take a cab into Manhattan, already sweating what’s coming. I barely notice the ride as I mentally prepare myself for the coming interview. The hotel Jacob’s people booked is nicer than anything I could afford without pawning a kidney. The lobby is all marble, chrome, and chilly luxury. Checking in is a breeze, and the elevator barely makes a sound as it ascends to the thirtieth floor. My room is high enough that I can barely hear the traffic, just a steady hush like the city is humming me to sleep. After laying out my clothes for the next day, I take two melatonin and snuggle up in the heavenly king-sized bed.
The next morning, I practice my pitch while showering and dressing. Once I’m ready, I barely have time for a quick protein bar before a black car picks me up at ten a.m. sharp. The driver—tall, black suit, expensive cologne—addresses me as “Ms. Quinn” and hands me a cold brew that’s the best I’ve ever had. My first sign that this is not amateur hour.
Velvet is in SoHo, tucked right between a ramen joint that always smells like heaven and a minimalist boutique with mannequins in thousand-dollar suits. The bar entrance is literally just a flat matte black door with zero markings. The driver buzzes me in, like I'm being admitted to a secret society or something.
I can’t help myself. I spin in a circle, taking it all in. Holy. Freaking. Shit. Velvet doesn't just live up to the name—it wallows in it. Black tufted booths curve around little marble-topped tables, screaming luxury. The back bar is a monster, stretching all the way to the ceiling, with every bottle arranged like a chess set. The light is so low and gold, drenching everything in this sexy shadow. I feel like Alice falling straight down the rabbit hole, no turning back, everything detailed and decadent and dizzying.
Upstairs, a guy in a plum blazer is waiting for me. He guides me through the door like he does this hundreds of times a day. The office is fucking massive, and the man behind the desk is much more intimidating than I’d expected. I researched Jacob Amon online and found out he’s a thirty-eight-year-old millionaire with a mysterious background. Literally. There’s nothing at all to be found about him beyond ten years ago when he opened his first club.
He stands to shake my hand, and it’s not your average handshake; the way he does it, careful and calculating, screams of his power.
"Dee. May I call you Dee?" he asks, smooth as glass.
"Of course." I squeeze back, just to let him know I'm not here to fold under pressure, and let him direct me toward a couch that I’m betting costs more than the balance of my entire stock portfolio.
Jacob sits across from me and launches right in. “Why do you want to leave Midnight Madness?”
Direct hit. I could bullshit about career goals, but I promised myself I’d be honest this time. “Because I’m tired of being an underdog. I’ve revamped and reinvented the menus of three bars and trained more bar staff than I can count, and I’m ready to move up. There isn’t room for advancement at Midnight Madness.”
He leans back in the chair, fingers steepled, eyes on me like he’s the one with all the cards. “So, what’s your approach to managing a bar?”
Every nerve lights up, but I hold steady and let the words pour out. “Not treating customers like morons. Craft without the attitude. Staff who don’t hate their jobs. Cocktails that aren’t just another Pinterest recipe with a clever name.” I pause when I realize my voice is the only one in the room, tumbling on and on, like I can’t stop. “I’m not a robot. Neither are my people. Bar patrons want a genuine experience.”
Jacob’s smile is sharp. “I like your thinking. Why don’t we take a look around?”
Excitement buzzes through me as he shows me the entire operation. We swing through every square inch of the place. No joke, the bar’s backroom is double the size of my apartment. Jacob points out inventory systems so slick I almost weep. There’s a walk-in fridge with LED lighting and fully stocked shelves. It reminds me a lot of Midnight Mischief, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I push the doubts aside and follow Jacob around.
He moves with this silent, smooth power, and I try not to stare at his hands every time he gestures to something. The man has CEO energy turned up to eleven. I take notes, literally and mentally, while he quizzes me on everything from siphoning kegs to staff retention. I ace every question, and he knows it. Not a brag. Just a fact.