Oh, yeah. He totally did.

There, nestled among crumpled food wrappers, empty cups, and a browning apple core is my sample box. My precious, perfect sample box—with the brochure buried right alongside them.

“No freaking way,” I vow. “Don’t worry, babies, I’m getting you out of there.”

Passersby give me a sidelong look, because, yes, I’m talking to trash right now, but I don’t care. I stick my entire arm into the opening and reach around to grab them, but my arm isn’t long enough.

This calls for drastic measures.

Holding my breath to block out the smell, I wedge my head and shoulders into the gap. The first item my fingers graze is wet and slimy. I shudder but force myself to keep searching. Finally, I grab the box and hoist myself out to find…

A line of customers staring at me like I’m day-old fish.

“Nothing to see here!” I call, holding up the box in victory. Something brown and slimy slides off and falls to the ground with a SPLAT.

Ah, the glamorous life of a budding entrepreneur!

I rinse off as best I can in the employee bathroom, then lay low for the rest of my shift, wondering if I’m ever going to find my break.

“Of course you will,” Lorelei says loyally. “Your products are amazing.”

“If that was the only thing that mattered, Rouge Blanc wouldn’t be our bestseller,” I reply, wryly naming the line with terrible quality, but superstar endorsements. Lorlelei grins.

“OK, maybe so. But good people succeed all the time. My old roommate’s cousin invented that dating app, Perfect Match? They just went public, it’s a massive hit. Although, her brother was a pop star, and she married the billionaire who invested in the company,” she adds. “Oh, but I did a glam squad for this amazing female founder last week. She’s killing it! But her dad did front her the money for the company,” she finishes, smile slipping.

“So, what you’re saying is, I need to marry a billionaire, or be related to one?” I ask lightly. “I’ll add it to the list.”

Lorelei grins. “If anyone can make it, you will. You’re the most stubborn person I know.”

She leans in for a hug—and then stops. “You know, I can cover if you want to leave early. Go home, shower, shower again.”

I take a whiff and wince. “Eau de trash,” I say with a groan. “It’s our hottest new fragrance for the season!”

I grab some things from my locker and head out, walking the two blocks to the subway as I try to think up a plan b for my dazzling future as a makeup maven. So, Gregory didn’t go for the lipsticks, it’s not the end of the world. The customer base at Fleishman’s is probably too snooty for my stuff anyways. I need to reach a younger, more adventurous crowd. Maybe I can try some of the new boutiques in Brooklyn, or reach out to some social media stars online, offering them free samples…