Southern Girl Series: Bohemain Girl, Neighbor Girl & Intern Girl

by Cates, Georgia

  Molly—our office manager, head of human resources, and second mom to all of us—leans around the doorway and pokes her head into my office. “Next… applicant… is… here.” Why does she sound like she’s singing a song? Is she that happy it’s the last one for the day?

  Frances is early. I like that.

  “I can see that you have things to do so I’m outta here,” Lucas says.

  Molly slides her arm around him. “Tell Lawrence I said hello and to stop being a stranger. We miss her face around this place.”

  “Don’t worry, mama. I’ll tell her.”

  “Are you ready for me to send her back?” Molly has this huge grin plastered across her face.

  Why is she so giddy? “Send her in.”

  I’m taking another glance at Miss Dawson’s application when she taps on the door. “Hey Beck.”

  Beck? Well, hell. There goes any hope I had for this one acting more professional than the three I saw ahead of her this morning.

  “It’s Beckman.” I lift my eyes to Frances Ameline Dawson at the same time I correct her.

  Loose long dark curls. Vivid ocean eyes. Flawless porcelain skin. White teeth behind a lovely smile.

  Fuck. Me.

  Gorgeous.

  “Come in and have a seat.”

  She and her four-inch fuck-me pumps cross my office, and she lowers herself into the chair across from me, placing her black portfolio by her feet. “It’s good to see you again. Been a while, right?”

  What. The. Hell?

  This girl knows me.

  And I have no idea who she is.

  Have I fucked her? No. I would remember being between that pair of legs. Unless I was shit-faced. But even then, I don’t think I could forget this one.

  Her eyes. Something about them seems familiar. But that body… I’ve never seen it before. And I’m certain I’ve never seen it naked. I would remember.

  “How long has it been?” Maybe I can put the pieces together if I have some kind of time frame.

  “Three years.” She earned her degree in three years. I think this girl is only twenty-one, which means that she’d have been eighteen three years ago. A kid. Barely legal. No way I fucked her… unless I had no idea how young she was.

  Dammit. I cannot recollect Frances Ameline Dawson. Not even a little. And I really, really, really want to.

  “You don’t recognize me?” Her voice is low. Childlike. Am I imagining a pang of hurt in it?

  I wish I could place her. But I won’t pretend I do and risk looking like a fool. “I’m sorry, Frances. I don’t.”

  “Frankie. Not Frances.”

  Frankie… Frankie… Frankie Dawson? Oh, Scott’s daughter. Kiddo. I’ve known this girl since her father came to work for us when we opened Iron City’s doors five years ago. “Kiddo.”

  A broad smile spreads across her face when I call her by the nickname I gave her years ago. “You remember.”

  “Took a minute but yeah I do. In my defense, you’ve… changed.” Changed? Huge understatement. Developed. Matured. Bloomed. Blossomed. All of those would be much better word choices.

  Short hair. No makeup. Baggy clothes. Straight, gangly body. Those are the things I remember about Frankie as a teenager. But no more. Kiddo is no longer a kid. She is a woman. A beautiful one.

  Seems like only yesterday when she was here sweeping the warehouse and doing odd jobs around Molly’s office. Until she’d find her way to the art and marketing department. My territory.

  She took an interest in what I was doing. Watched me. Asked questions. Doodled more than she swept. She was quite the little artist even back then.

  I once found a crumpled sketch of a beer label in the trash when I was digging for something I had lost. I had no idea who had drawn it until I looked at the name signed in the lower right-hand corner of the page. Frankie Beckman. Not Frankie Dawson.

  She was only sixteen, maybe seventeen but was apparently crushing on me since she was toying with the idea of being Mrs. Beckman. Typical behavior for a silly teenage girl. But Frankie was no typical teenage girl. She was a tomboy to the nth degree.

  But not anymore.

  “It’s okay that you couldn’t place me. I know I don’t look anything like I did the last time you saw me.”

  “Not at all.” My eyes are tempted to leave her face and roam her body, but I force them to stay on her eyes… and pouty full pink lips.

  Get on with the interview, Beckman. “You graduated from the University of Alabama in three years?”

  “I did.”

  Damn. That’s an accomplishment. “Impressive but why the rush?”

  “The twins graduated from high school this year and they’ll be going to Alabama in the fall. My parents were going to have three kids in college at the same time if I didn’t push to finish early. I couldn’t do that to them because I wanted to take it easy.”

  Selflessness. A quality you don’t find in many these days.

  “I’m sure Scott and Tara appreciated that.”

  “It was brutal at the time but completely worth it. I can say that now that it’s over.”

  It took five years for me to graduate but not because I was a slacker. Oliver and I were concentrating on brewing and how we were going to build a company from nothing. Classes took a back seat to that. And I haven’t spent a single day being sorry about it.

  “Let’s have a look at your portfolio.” I’m eager as fuck to see the designs of a Howard B. Jones award recipient.

  She leans forward to pick up her portfolio, giving me a clear view down her blouse. Damn. She’s wearing a black lace bra. And I can’t help but wonder if the panties beneath her skirt match.

  I quickly divert my eyes back to her application and remind myself that this is Frankie. Kiddo. My warehouse manager’s daughter. Having thoughts like that about her makes me a total dick.

  One. Hundred. Percent.

  She opens her portfolio case on the sofa and bends forward to take out her work, giving me the perfect view of her ass and legs in that skirt. So I do what men do. I look… despite knowing how dead I’d be if Scott saw me checking out his daughter.

  Is Kiddo aware of what she’s doing? Or is she still so innocent that she doesn’t realize she’s presenting more than just her designs?

  “This was my senior project. I consider it my best work.” I quickly avert my eyes and look back to hers when she turns around to present her work. I hope like hell she didn’t see me ogling her ass.

  “My assignment was to build a start-up business from scratch. I chose a hard cider company. My research showed that men and women are drinking cider equally so my design needed to appeal to both sexes. The typical cider drinker is between the ages of twenty-one and forty so I knew I needed to keep it modern and fresh.”

  She removes the poster cover and it isn’t possible not to instantly be sucked into her design. The font. The colors. The artwork. They’re… perfection.

  “For my advertising posters, I chose a different couple for each cider—each with a sexy, classic pinup-style girl and a devil-like man. The play on design concentrates on fruit from the Garden of Eden, depending upon the flavor of the featured cider. The design is reminiscent of sex and sin.” Her smile deepens. “And who doesn’t love that?”

  Fuck. Me.

  She goes through her posters, explaining them in great detail and then the product label itself. Everything about her design, her strategy… brilliant. “I would never have thought to take this route. My man brain doesn’t function this way, but every little detail about your campaign works.”

  “A sexy woman and a bad boy. No one hates that.”

  “These are really great.” I’m pretty sure Lucas and Lawry would pay big bucks to have these images on their cider products.

  “Got an A on this project.”

  “You should have gotten an A-plus-plus.” Her work is that good.

  She returns to her case and takes out several foam-core posters… while bending over in fro
nt of me again. “I have lots of other beer label designs if you want to see them.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Ales. Stouts. Porters. Lagers. Malts. There must be at least twenty-five labels here for all different styles of beer. And not one of them is less than superb. “I’m impressed, Kiddo. Not only with your designs but also the way you grasp the marketing side of this business.”

  “That means a lot to me. Thank you.”

  “Are you aware that this position is for a summer intern and not full-time employment?”

  “I am. I’m moving to Austin in September. There’s no point in finding a job in Birmingham only to turn around and quit three months later. A summer internship is perfect for me. I think the experience I’d gain here would look great on my résumé when I apply for jobs in the fall.”

  I need temporary help. Frankie needs experience. I think this could work out perfectly. “How many hours a week could you work?”

  “As many as you need.”

  Frankie is already Iron City family. And the perfect candidate for this summer job. This is a no-brainer. “It’s your position if you want it.”

  “Of course I want it.”

  “Can you start Monday if Molly can push the paperwork through in time?”

  “I sure can.”

  “Stop by and see her on your way out. She’ll take care of everything.”

  “Thank you for this opportunity. I really appreciate it.”

  She gathers her artwork and returns it to her portfolio. One last look at her ass and legs. After this, no more. I swear.

  “Dress code around the office?”

  She looks sexy as fuck in what she’s wearing. I’d love to see her in more short skirts, blouses with low necklines, and black lace bras, but that ain’t Iron City Brewery style.

  “We’re casual around here. Jeans or shorts and a T-shirt are fine unless we have a big client coming in. But you’d never be expected to dress up for them. That would fall on Lucas, Oliver, and me.”

  “Okay. Then I guess I’ll see you on Monday at…?”

  “I get here around eight.”

  “All right. Eight o’clock, Monday. I’ll be here.”

  She stops in the doorway and looks back at me. “Working together again will be like old times. I look forward to it.”

  “Me too.” I say the words but I already know that nothing about working side by side with Frankie is going to feel like old times. It isn’t possible with this grown-up, hotter-than-fuck version of her.

  It’s only for the summer. Twelve weeks.

  No big deal. I’ve got this.

  2

  Frankie Dawson

  “Sorry I’m late, girls.”

  “No worries. Both of us were late so we haven’t been waiting long.” I wasn’t worried. And I’m also not surprised. Brooke and Dillyn are habitually tardy.

  “Order drinks yet?”

  “Yeah. White wine for me. Red for her,” Brooke says.

  Wine is their typical drink choice but I’ve never been a fan. Too pungent for my taste. The one and only time I found a vino I enjoyed, my head pounded for two days after drinking it. The pain was different than a hangover, which makes me wonder if I have a wine allergy. I’ve heard that’s a real thing. “You know wine hates me.”

  “We know.” Dillyn pushes the drink menu across the table toward me. “Here are the specials if you want to take a look.”

  I’m thumbing through my choices when our server returns with their wine. “White for you annnd… red for you. Do you need another minute to look over the menu or are you ready to order?”

  At twenty-one, I’m not a seasoned drinker. I usually go for something sweet and fruity but I feel like trying my new employer’s product. My sort-of employer. “I think I’ll have the Iron City seasonal apricot ale.” Fruity. Seems like a good place to start.

  “Nice choice.”

  Dillyn takes a drink of her wine. “Well, I can’t imagine you ordering an Iron City beer if things didn’t go well at your interview with them today.”

  “Couldn’t have gone better. I got the internship.” I may be kidding myself but I don’t think my dad’s employment at Iron City had anything to do with Porter giving me the position. I think he really likes my designs.

  Brooke holds up her palm for a high five. “That’s great, Frankie. Congratulations.”

  Dillyn lifts her glass. “We have to make a toast.”

  I point to the empty space on the table. “No drink yet.”

  “We’ll toast to you making the big bucks after your drink arrives.”

  I think Brooke is confusing job and internship.

  “I’ll be earning a dollar above minimum wage. I’m afraid that doesn’t equate to big bucks.” I’m the summer intern. I’m lucky to be getting paid at all. Minimum wage plus an extra buck an hour… I suspect that part is Porter being generous because I’m his warehouse manager’s daughter.

  “How many hours do you think you’ll work every week?” Dillyn asks.

  “Porter said to expect forty.”

  She nods. “Nice. Forty hours over a twelve-week period will add up. You should have a nice chunk of change by the end of the summer.”

  “God knows I’ll need it.” This move to Austin isn’t going to be cheap.

  “We’ve already told you to stop worrying about money. Dillyn and I have things covered until you find a job and get on your feet.”

  Brooke and Dillyn both come from wealthy families. They had college funds. Luxury cars. Monthly allowances—big ones. I went to Alabama on a scholarship and worked as a waitress to make up for what my parents couldn’t afford.

  I couldn’t be more different than Brooke and Dillyn.

  I was never that kid who made friends easily. I didn’t click with the girls I went to high school with, but all of that changed when I met Brooke and Dillyn. They were a year ahead—and I’m still not sure what made them take an interest in me—but the three of us became fast friends during my freshman year at Alabama.

  I love them like sisters. More than sisters. I’d do anything for those two. That includes moving to Austin, Texas.

  We’re from three different states. That would make it nearly impossible to get together more than two or three times a year if we moved back to our hometowns after graduation. That isn’t going to work for us. And that’s why we’ve settled on one place where all three of us could relocate.

  We made that decision six months ago. The only thing holding us back are the final classes Brooke and Dillyn require for graduation. So close.

  “Oh my God,” Brooke squeals.

  “What?” I twist in my seat to see what has caught her attention at the bar. Chad Morris. Oh man.

  “I haven’t seen him in weeks. And now he’s here.” Brooke’s hand goes to her chest. “I’m freaking the hell out, y’all.”

  Chad is her brother’s teammate on the football team—starting quarterback for Alabama. Fifth-year senior. Her super crush for the last two years.

  I think he’s into her too, but the timing has always been off. When she’d be single, he’d be dating someone. And vice versa. But now they’re both single.

  Dillyn pats Brooke’s hand. “It’s okay, honey. Calm down.”

  “What do I do?”

  I’m no dating expert, but even I know what needs to happen here. “You’re going to slow your breathing, catch your breath, and then get up and go to the bathroom… to accidentally run into Chad at the bar.”

  “Okay. Good plan. I can do that.” Brooke stands and smooths her clothing. “Shit, this isn’t what I would have chosen to wear if I’d known I was going to run into him tonight. And I would have put on more makeup. And curled my hair. Do I look good enough to go over there, or should I just forget it?”

  Brooke has never looked less than perfect a day in her life. “You look fantastic. Don’t doubt that for a second.”

  “I’m only here a few more months. I don’t know when or if I’ll get the opportunity
to run into him again. I have to go over there and see what happens. Right?”

  It’s a no-brainer. “Of course you do.”

  Brooke looks back at us halfway to the bar and we both give her smiles and thumbs up. All of my fears for Brooke are pushed aside when Chad reaches out for her arm as she passes by him at the bar. “He looks happy to see her.”

  “I think so too.” Dillyn watches as Chad pulls out the stool next to him. “You know this means we’ve lost her.”

  “I hope so.” At least one of us will be getting lucky tonight.

  “We may be minus Brooke but tonight is still about celebrating your job at Iron City. I want to hear more about it.”

  That’s Dillyn. Always eager to hear about everything happening in my life.

  “Like what?”

  “Which one of the Iron City owners interviewed you?”

  I grin. “The hottest one. Porter.”

  Dillyn laughs. “I know you didn’t hate that.”

  “I sure didn’t.”

  “He’s not married?”

  “Not according to my dad or the empty ring finger on his left hand. I checked it out when he was looking at my designs.”

  “Still as good-looking as you remember?”

  “I didn’t think it was possible but I’m pretty sure he’s even hotter than he was three years ago.”

  His brown hair is shorter and a little spiky on top, sort of like he has a small faux-hawk. And his eyes… gosh… those eyes. The most unusual shade of light brown I’ve ever seen—like warm caramel instead of chocolate—with tons of golden flecks around the center. I’ve never seen eyes that color on anyone but him.

  He towers over me, probably close to a foot. And I believe he’s even more muscular today than he was three years ago. His arms are huge and covered in black tribal tattoos that peek out below the stretched sleeves of his Iron City T-shirt. I could only see the lower half, but I couldn’t resist studying them, memorizing their intricate designs.

  I was trying to be professional while I presented my artwork. That means I wasn’t able to get a good look, but I think I saw the edge of some ink at the neck of his shirt. Guys with arm tats like those don’t typically stop there. I bet he has all kinds of ink on his chest. God, I love that so much. Hot, hot, hot.