I slammed my laptop shut so fast the sound woke a stranger three seats away. It wasn't the smoothest move for someone trying to be inconspicuous.

My department store suit and nonchalant slouch gave the impression that I was an average businessman waiting for his friend among bleary-eyed job seekers on butt-numbing pleather chairs. Our entire assignment hinged upon my ability to blend in and slip away unnoticed. Still, it was better to startle my neighbors with the sudden snap of a latch than have the wrong person read the stolen data on my screen.

I wasn't worried about the dead-eyed receptionists behind sheets of plexiglass. Like most of the factory's full-time staff, they treated the flood of temp workers no differently than the chocolate on the assembly line. I could apply for a position, change my shirt, and reapply through a different employment agency, and the receptionist would hand me the paperwork without question.

But not him. He remembered everyone. To him, we weren't chocolate. We were pieces of equipment, each cataloged in his memory by name, skillset, and job experience for perfect placement on his factory floor. As a businessman, he was superhuman. More than worthy of his world-famous reputation. As a human, he was significantly less super.

I recognized the click of his hard leather shoes before he rounded the corner from the sterile hall into the waiting room, with its purple plastic lollipops and gummy bear wallpaper. All the public-facing spaces, especially those visible in the factory tour, had brightly colored theme park décor that complimented the sugary scents (all artificial) pumped through the ever-blasting AC.

On my first day at the factory, I requested placement in one of those decorated spaces. I was excited to take in all the sights and smells. By the end of my contract period, I lived for legally-mandated breaks and escape from the sensory overload. Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory wasn't the candy-themed wonderland of my childhood dreams. Up close, it was as fake as a fancy casino, all glitter and paint over yellowed fiberglass.

I spotted the candy colors of his cartoonish suit jacket in my peripheral vision as he strode into the room, but I resisted the urge to gawk like the others around me. Instead, I tilted my head downward to escape detection—or at least give the impression that I hadn't noticed his entrance. Perhaps, if he was in a hurry, he would do the same.

The backpack resting between my feet was a perfect prop for my act of willful distraction. I slipped my laptop into a quilted sleeve and wedged it inside the bag, careful not to detach the antenna plugged into the USB port. Even while shut, the computer would receive and upload transmissions from a device my partner plugged into a factory network printer. I had hoped to read those transmissions first, but for now, I'd have to trust the software.

"Charles Bucket!"

I looked up, simultaneously startled to hear my name shouted across the waiting room, and unsurprised that he was able to pick me out of the crowd with my head lowered and my uniform swapped for a button-down and slacks. He could tell us apart on the factory floor with matching hairnets and purple overalls, after all. Why would plainclothes and messy curls make a difference?

"Charles Bucket," he repeated as he approached my chair—to the shock of everyone who wasn't a repeat contractor. Few outsiders understood just how hands-on he was as a business owner. "You're the self-taught engineer who sorted the taffy puller rotation problem and halved product waste on the candy carver with a pattern path change. You're a legend, Charles! However, you're too early. Our policy requires all contractors to work elsewhere for six months before reapplying. Perhaps your agency made a mistake?"

"Oh!" I struggled with my response, though I'd prepared for this possibility in advance. It was hard to find the right words while staring into eyes as golden as the foil on candy coins, shadowed by cocoa-colored hair with gobstopper streaks. "I'm...I'm not here for a job. I drove a friend. They're interviewing right now."

I gestured toward the fluorescent hallway as if to corroborate my story, which was technically accurate. My partner had gone in for an interview, from which they had not yet returned. And I was waiting to drive them back to our office. It was the perfect cover for our assignment. An assignment that, if discovered, could land us in prison for corporate espionage—if we were lucky.

But my mind wasn't on the danger anymore. It was on Wonka's airbrushed pores. His baby-smooth cheeks with a sprinkle of gray stubble like a teenager's first beard. Plastic surgery, my colleagues had said. The man was loaded. He had enough money to buy a whole new face if he was so inclined. I wasn't convinced. Plenty of celebrities had plastic surgery. Few managed to look twenty in their supposed late forties.

He clapped his hands once in excitement, eyes sparkling as if sun-struck. "You're taking advantage of the employee referral program! Fantastic! I always knew you were a good egg, Mr. Bucket!"

"Uh. Thank you, sir."

"Well." He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat as if he required an excuse to end the conversation, which was comical since we both knew my time was worth a fraction of a fraction of his. "I have an exciting tour to give in twenty minutes, and I must prepare. It was wonderful catching up, Mr. Bucket! Looking forward to your return in two months!"

"Actually, sir..."

I shut my mouth so hard my teeth dug into my lip. Why did I say that? He was ready to leave! I could continue my assignment in peace. Why did his mere presence compel me to overshare, even now, when my safety depended upon secrecy?

To my horror, he turned and raised a perfectly-painted brow.

"I, uh..." Damnit. Damnit. Damnit. Oh well. Too late now. "I've already accepted a full-time position elsewhere." There. At least I'd managed to withhold the most damning information of all: where I was employed.

His flawless face twisted into an expression of genuine hurt. Was it even possible for a person to be business-hurt? Broken-business-hearted? I suppose, if anyone could be, it would be him.

"But, weren't you told in your exit interview? You're top of my list for temp-to-hire. Just one or two more rounds of contract work to be sure, and—"

"I know, sir. I do understand. But I need the full-time pay and benefits now, not next year. My mother quit her job to care for my grandparents last month, and my father can't support them all on his own."

God. Why did I tell him that? Wonka didn't care about my problems. He was a stone-cold CEO with a heart as hard as a jawbreaker. He wouldn't waste a stray thought for my family unless I told him Grandpa Joe was composed entirely of mutated cocoa beans from the land of Oz.

And yet, he frowned. "I see. That makes sense."

Again, I had my doubts. A billionaire who rotated 2000 contract workers a year through a cycle of temporary labor with little promise of full-time employment did not, for even a second, "see" my point of view.

Nonetheless, after a moment of thought, he turned to the first plexiglass window and said, "Thomas. Please print an extra ticket to this morning's tour."

It was the first time I'd seen one of the receptionists show emotion. Presumably-Thomas' eyes bulged as he spat, "Sir!?"

"I'm serious. Mr. Bucket will be my fifth guest."

Thomas apparently knew better than to argue because he left his plastic station in a hurry. In less time than it could possibly take to print a ticket, he returned with a sealed white envelope and slid it through the slit in the plexi where he would normally exchange reams of paperwork with applicants.

Wonka danced—quite literally—to the window and presented the envelope to me with a flourish. He must have seen the confusion in my eyes because he chuckled when he pressed it into my hand.

"This isn't just a tour of the factory floor, Mr. Bucket. It's a tour of the special projects department. I'm offering you an exclusive preview of this company's future. And I'm hoping you'll see a place for yourself there."

I stared at the envelope, too stunned to respond as I unsealed the flap and slid the piece of metallic paper—with my full name printed on it—from inside. Was this a PR stunt? Had I embarrassed Wonka in front of the temp workers by confessing I'd found a job elsewhere? Had I just become the human carrot on their career-seeking stick? Living proof that Wonka did, on occasion, promote employees who showed enough promise?

"And on that note," he said, having materialized his pocket watch once again. "I really must be off. I'll see you soon, Mr. Bucket!"

The "But..." I muttered as he departed was drowned in a sea of murmurs and the tick-tick-tick of fingernails on cellphones.

But, my assignment. My partner. My brand-new job with a dreamy salary and benefits.

But...

But...

But I had a golden ticket.