Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 29567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
I blink. “Is this company for sale?”
“No.” He looks amused. “Focus on the food, and try to be nice.”
Impressed, I scroll the menu. I select the squid ink tagliatelle with black truffle cream and lobster, a warm bread basket with rosemary sea salt butter, and a burrata and fig appetizer drizzled with aged balsamic. I add two glasses of whiskey for good measure.
“Prepare to be amazed by the best straws on the planet!” one of the presenters shouts. “Your mouth will never want to touch anything except our brand again!”
I hold back a groan and add two more glasses of whiskey to the order.
“Your lips will never be the same!”
Okay, fine. One bottle of wine, too.
I tap “Complete Order,” and a bright pop-up appears on the screen:
Success! Your driver IVY will deliver your order at exactly 7:00!
THE INTERN
IVY
This is exactly what I get for dropping out of college…
I can literally envision some screenwriter in Los Angeles penning a character sheet that mirrors my life at this very moment.
Fade In—New York City traffic jam: Foolish girl sits in banged-up Honda Civic with UberEats order in passenger seat. She’s dropped out of college to start her own business, but it was far too early; now she can’t afford to return to take the final courses.
Then again, the writer would probably scratch most of that out once he realized that no character deserves to be that dumb…
I’m not even sure the money I’m making from UberEats is worth it anymore, since a huge chunk of it goes to the maintenance on my poor excuse of a car.
“Come on!” I bang on the steering wheel. “What the hell is causing the delay now?”
I look over at the perfectly wrapped bag from Olivier’s Trattoria and hope the customer will give me a tip despite my lateness.
The food inside smells absolutely amazing…
I mean, if he can afford to order from a place that lets the customer keep an insulation bag, there has to be light at the end of the tunnel for me.
As I inch forward, my phone buzzes in my lap.
Customer (D.S.)
This order was scheduled for 7:00.
Is there a reason why you’re fifteen minutes late?
Seriously? I ignore it.
All he has to do is look at my location and see that I’m in traffic.
He could also look out his window and see that the entire city is suffering under a sudden rainstorm.
Rain is pounding against the windshield in sheets, and the wipers are squeaking across the glass with weariness.
Traffic continues to crawl, and I turn on the radio, but the app buzzes again.
Customer (D.S.)
Now you’re twenty minutes late.
Thank you so much for this obvious information.
I’m adjusting your tip for every minute you’re late.
I hold back a scream.
If I didn’t need the eighteen dollars from this drive, I would eat his food and go home.
By the time I make it to the light that’s around the corner from the destination address, there are more messages from the impatient bastard.
Customer (D.S.)
What’s the point of you agreeing to deliver on time when you know it won’t happen?
Should I assume you’ve eaten my food at this point?
Ignoring him, I double-park behind a tinted Escalade, grab the tote, and sprint the block and a half to the building entrance—hood up, shoes slipping, wine bag threatening to split down the middle.
I stop under the overhang, shaking rain off my sleeves as I mash out a reply:
Walking in now. Thank you for your PATIENCE.
This building is directly across from my job, and if I’d known that, I would’ve never accepted this order. I learned long ago not to accept any orders from the men on Wall Street.
They’re stingy with their tips, and they actually flirt with me as if I should be honored to deliver their food.
I push through the revolving doors, dripping all over the marble floor as I flash a weak smile at the security guard.
“Delivery for a D.S?” I’m just noticing there are only initials on the order. “Does that stand for Double Asshole?”
He gives a blank stare.
“Can you tell him to come downstairs and get his order, please?”
“You can take it to him yourself.” He waves me through the entrance. “Floor 61. The boardroom on the right.”
“Thanks.” I head to the elevator and catch a glance of myself in the glass doors.
Not one of my best days…
The ride up is deathly quiet, just me, the soft hum of the elevator, and the faint scent of pasta wafting through the bag.
The doors slide open to reveal a hallway of silence and black marble, and I head to my right where a matte black door waits.
I knock.
Nothing.
I knock again, even louder.
Still nothing.
Screw it.
I push the door open and step into a space that looks more like an art gallery than an office. Clean lines and glass walls peek out beneath huge silver-framed portraits on the far wall. Through the windows ahead, the Manhattan skyline stretches endlessly in the distance.