Chapter 4: Pretty Boy Problems

Autumn and my boss must have conspired to trap me.

Since I foolishly agreed to work at Maple Heights, a week crawled by.

This week, there’s been no real work—just busywork and errands.

Honestly, what technical talent does Maple Heights lack?

Back in college, our top student Ethan Shaw—full-ride grad spot—works here, and he’s just a junior supervisor.

Autumn put my desk right across from her office, blinds open so she could watch me like a hawk.

Damn, I racked my brain trying to remember that trust-fund guy’s name—was it Lucas?

Who would’ve guessed—he looked goofy, but his business was huge.

Turns out, Autumn isn’t just quirky in taste, she’s got a sharp eye for business.

If only the unlucky guy she dumped wasn’t me, I’d even give her credit.

Maple Heights’ employees were all curious about me.

Ethan came over, coffee mug in hand, asking what position I was hired for—did Autumn parachute me in as technical director?

I quickly waved my hands; my greatest skill is knowing my own worth.

He looked at me suspiciously: “So what’s your title?”

But I had no clue either, so I could only smile bitterly and shake my head.

A few days later, rumors started swirling: I was Autumn’s pretty boy, poached with a fat paycheck.

The reason I had no real work? My job was to keep her happy.

Autumn really acted that way.

Whenever there was a meeting, she never included me, and the tasks she gave me were all pointless errands.

Like today.

She called me into her office, open laptop humming, and handed me a flyer.

A famous Instagram dessert shop was having its grand opening, offering 49% off.

She said: “I want the strawberry cream croissant, and the chocolate lava cake.”

“Buy extra, for everyone working overtime.”

When I got there, the shop was mobbed—hundreds of people lined up, snapping photos for Instagram stories.

And the line moved at a snail’s pace. After a while, I was nearly frozen, checking my phone for Chicago weather updates.

Worst part: people queued in pairs, so they could take turns for bathroom and food. I was alone, feet numb, legs aching from standing.

Even if my legs could take it, my bladder couldn’t.

I said to a blond guy in front: “Hey man, I really gotta go—I’m right behind you. Can you save my spot?”

He grinned, thumbs-up: “No problem, bro. Go for it!”

When I came back, the woman behind blocked me.

“Where’d you come from? Tall guy, dressed sharp, trying to cut in?”

“No, miss, I was just behind this guy.” I quickly explained, patting the blond guy’s shoulder.

“What are you doing, touching me? I don’t know you.” To my shock, the blond guy changed his tune, brushing off my hand like I was contagious.

Before I could respond, the woman started shouting: “Shameless! Trying to scam your way in?”

“You probably paid someone to stand in line for you. In this weather, for a shop this popular, that’s the price.”

Her friend chimed in: “If you don’t want to pay for queueing, you can buy from us. Sweets are $100 extra each, cakes $500 more, minimum five items.”

She turned sideways, revealing a row of bags behind her.

So, I’d run into scalpers!

The whole scene felt like a twisted Chicago episode of Black Mirror. I glanced around, but nobody cared—everyone just wanted their pastries and a good show.