Diving In (Open Door Love Story) by Stacey Wallace Benefiel Page B

point to the space underneath the register.
    Gabe takes off his coat and then his shirt, stuffing them under the counter. I can’t help but stare at him in his white undershirt and think things that could definitely be called workplace sexual harassment. This may have been my worst idea ever. How am I going to concentrate on business when I’m spending my days next to my source of pleasure?
    “Hey, I know I look good, but at some point a customer is going to come in and you should probably show me how to do something.”
    “Probably.”
    We go through the rigmarole of getting the register started and the cash drawer in. There’s a bit of trouble regarding the safe, in that my office is tiny and it took him some maneuvering to even be in the office with me to see the counting in and safe procedure. But, I assure him this is something he won’t have to do that often, only in the event that I have to be somewhere else and I am never somewhere else, so he doesn’t even need to worry about it.
    Next, we get to the nitty gritty of his job. Customer service.
    “When you came in—”
    “And you womanhandeled my junk.”
    “Aaaaaafter that,” I drawl. “I looked up your account on the computer like this.” I show him our super easy account set up. “Now, if you hadn’t had an account, you can create a new one like this.” I have him set up his own account for practice. He catches on quick and it’s a breeze. “After you locate the customer, you find what kind of garment or whatever they’ve brought in on the form and you click on that…and then quantity, good, and then their starch and hanger preference.”
    “No kidding you’ve been doing this since you were a kid,” he jokes. “I’m embarrassed that I was so worried.”
    “Well, it will be busy very soon and when you get to clicking and trying to talk and listen to what the customer is saying about, ‘don’t forget to mark the stain on the collar’ for the fourth time since they walked up, things get a little hectic. You’ll still be fine, and with two of us working, we’ll speed through. Grandpa’s bringing me an additional register this afternoon.”
    “What you’re saying is if there was a contest for how awesomely people could get checked in at the cleaners, we’d win it?”
    “That would be the most boring contest ever, but yeah.”
    “Okay, so what’s next?”
    “The last thing you do is take this blue tape and put a bit of it next to every stain. And then, if they have big or fragile, like mother of pearl, buttons, you slip these button covers on them. If they’ve got a bunch of tiny buttons, we take those off and they get sewn back on by Junnuen’s sister when she comes in Thursday.”
    “Wow. Someone’s whole job is sewing buttons back onto things?”
    I laugh. “She also does all the hemming and other alterations. She’s a prime seamstress. And a stay-at-home mom who only wanted to work one day a week.”
    The bell on the door jingles and I have to keep myself from making a yuck face at Gabe. Randy Buterbaugh.
    “Good morning,” Gabe says, eyeing the dirty gray laundry bag Randy hoists up onto the counter.
    “Buterbaugh,” Randy says.
    “Come again?”
    “Name’s Buterbaugh.” He looks me up and down and then clicks his tongue at me. “What’s happenin’ Brynn?”
    “Hi Randy,” I say, watching Gabe for any indication he’s about to burst out laughing. Randy Buterbaugh is a forty-year-old divorced guy who thinks he’s God’s gift and is pretty sure that I want to do him. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
    “All right, Mr. Buterbaugh,” Gabe starts.
    “Call me Randy. My dad’s Mr. Buterbaugh.”
    “All right then, Randy. Forgive me, today is my first day, so I may be a bit slow. It looks like you bring in a bag once a week with five undergarments, light starch, folded, seven shirts, heavy starch, on a hanger, and four pair slacks, on a hanger. Correct?”
    “That’s what’s in there.”
    Gabe starts