A/N: I am fairly confident that no one has done this yet. Which isn't surprising, because it's ridiculous. BUT THAT WILL NEVER STOP ME. I REGRET NOTHING.

And when he came to the place where the wild things are, they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws till Max said, "Be still" and tamed them with the magic trick of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once. And they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all and made him king of all wild things.
–Maurice Sendak, "Where the Wild Things Are"

"Get rid of them."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

"You toured the area for ten minutes, Mr. Grady."

"Yeah, and I only needed two." He'd thought the rumors were bullshit, but— "They're uncontrolled. Wild. Beyond rehabilitation. Clean house before they kill again."

Claire Dearling's smile could cut glass. "They did not kill Robert Muldoon, Mr. Grady," she corrected, shuffling paper on her more-expensive-than-Owen's-car desk with exaggerated patience. "He died of a stroke—"

"A stress-induced stroke."

"The cause was indeterminate."

"Uh-huh. Some people would call it murder." Claire shot him a look of utter disbelief, so Owen graciously amended: "Okay, manslaughter… unless you're in Texas. It would definitely be murder in Texas."

There were several things about this woman that had impressed Owen so far (and impressed is not the same thing as liked, you can be impressed by how a mongoose eats a cobra and still not want to take it home), but themost impressive thing about her was her eye-roll. She really made eye-rolling a work of art. "Mr. Grady," she said, "I have no interest in hyperbole — or, so far, in much of anything you've had to say—"

Ouch. "And here I thought you and I had a connection."

"—so if you're not interested in the job, then this interview has been a waste of our mutual time."

"Hey, just a reminder, but I never actually applied. You guys called me." Owen paused. "Why did you, anyway?"

"Because when we approached him for recommendations, Alan Grant seemed to think you would have the skills we need." Everything about her tone said that Grant had just earned an enemy for life. "He's usually very reliable, so it's a shame his insight has—" a judicious beat "—erred."

Okay, that was a low blow. "Grant knows what he's talking about," Owen snapped. "We used to work together. He taught me how to turn crappy places around. It's not like I can't do the job."

"No? That seemed to be the implication."

"All I'm saying is, in my professional opinion—"

Claire snorted delicately.

"—in my professional opinion," Owen continued through gritted teeth (just because he didn't wear a power suit and dominatrix bangs didn't mean he wasn't as good at his job at any bloodless viper in spotless heels), "the fastest way to solve your problem is to remove the problem. So get rid of them."

"Absolutely not. Mr. Masrani is very insistent."

"Why? Jeez, It's not like they have pictures of Masrani in bed with Donald Trump." He blinked. "Do they?"

Claire acted as though she hadn't heard him, but — and he could be wrong about this — he thought he caught the hint of a genuine smirk. "Mr. Masrani was hand-picked by John Hammond as his successor," she said, "and he is still very loyal to Mr. Hammond's memory."

Oh, great. With deep misgiving, Owen ventured, "Family?"

"Goddaughters."

He couldn't help it — he groaned. Loudly enough for the secretary outside to pop her head over the wall of her cubicle. "Hammond's been dead for, what, two years? I really don't think he'll care."

"Mr. Grady—"

"Call me Owen."

"Mr. Grady, however you or I may feel about it—" (which Owen interpreted as to mean she completely agreed with him but was way too uptight to say so) "—the current employees come with the job, and you would be expected to manage them."

"Train them, you mean."

"If that's what you want to call it." Claire smiled again, and again it didn't touch her eyes. He liked the smirk better. "To be perfectly frank, the café is only ours because it came with the building and Mr. Masrani has a philosophical objection to Starbucks franchises. All we need is someone to get the place open and closed every day without violating health codes. If a profit can be turned, that's great, but no one really cares. Nearly a thousand people work here. They need a place to get a cup of coffee. Are you capable of providing that, Mr. Grady?"

Owen thought about what he'd just seen downstairs: four college-age brats with shit attitudes, drunk on the power of controlling the only espresso machine in a two block radius. And they were unfireable.

'Thanks, but no thanks' was on the tip of his tongue…

…until he saw Claire Dearling's waiting, knowing little look.

She thought he wouldn't do it.

"Sure," Owen said, leaning back in the chair with a casual shrug. "Why not. I'll strap on my Kevlar and tame the wild things — but I want a signing bonus."

If she felt any surprise, Owen had to give it to her — she hid it well. "I'll pass it along to Mr. Masrani," she said. "Really, though, there's no need for the theatrics, Mr. Grady. You're not going to war, you're running a coffee shop. How hard can it be?"

He grinned. "You've obviously never worked in the food industry."

There it was again. That almost-smirk.

It brightened everything about her.

"And how do you take your coffee?" Owen heard himself ask. "Sweet?" Because flirting with his boss thirty seconds after being hired was fan-fuckin'-tastic idea. "Smooth?" But he couldn't help it. He liked the smirk. And even the dominatrix bangs, just a little bit. "Strong?"

Claire blinked once. Twice. (Owen just stared right back; good practice for downstairs.) Finally, she stood and extended her hand. "I'll send your paperwork over to HR," she said coolly. "Welcome to Masrani Global, Mr. Grady. I'm sure it will be an adventure."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"And I like all three."

"Huh?"

She sat back down and began to primly peck away at her tablet. "My coffee," she said, nonchalant. "I like it sweet and smooth and strong." That tiny smirk was playing around her lips again. "I'm very particular."

Damn. "Lucky you," he said. "All three is my specialty."

"I doubt that, Mr. Grady."

Yeah. He'd have her eating out of his hand within the month, or die trying.

But first, some wild things needed to learn there was a new boss in town.