Chapter 3
Mary
“Hi, Mr. Kaplan,” I say, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face in half. “What can I help you with today?”
The eighty-four-year-old legend of Brightside National Bank hobbles forward with his usual two canes and a Ziplock bag of nickels, and I swear the sound of his approach is like nails on a chalkboard inside my skull.
My head feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it, then decided to use my brain as a pinata.
Ten minutes late to work because my phone died sometime during my…
whatever the hell happened last night. No alarm.
No memory of how I got to the room. Just me waking up in an unfamiliar bed with a mouth that tasted like I’d been gargling wine.
“Mary, you look like hell,” Mr. Kaplan says as he sits, eyeing me with the brutal honesty only octogenarians can get away with. “Have you been sleeping?”
No. I’ve been trying to piece together whether I dreamed up the hottest man alive or if he actually exists.
“Just a long week,” I reply, tapping into his account while my brain throbs in rhythm with the keyboard clicks.
The apartment was empty when I woke up.
Door locked.
No trace of anyone else being there except for a faint scent of something expensive and masculine clinging to the air. And the fact that I was wearing only Jasper’s hoodie and my underwear, with absolutely no memory of how I got to bed.
Did I imagine him? The man with the dangerous green eyes and the voice like whiskey smoke? Because my drunk brain has a history of creating elaborate fantasies, but this one felt… different. Real. Like I could still feel—
“I want to deposit these,” Mr. Kaplan says, placing his bag of nickels on my desk like a sacred offering. “And I need to ask you something.”
“Sure,” I say, starting to count the coins while trying not to wince at the metallic clanking.
“You ever have one of those nights where you’re not sure if something happened or if you dreamed it?”
I freeze, a nickel halfway to the pile. “That’s… specific.”
“My late wife used to say the best nights were the ones you couldn’t quite remember. Usually meant you were living instead of just existing.”
Or it meant you got blackout drunk and potentially molested a stranger.
“Right,” I say weakly.
From across the office, I hear Stephanie’s voice cutting through the morning chatter. “Mary was late again. Third time this month.”
I don’t look up, but I can feel her eyes on me like a sniper’s scope.
Stephanie Martinez—lead personal banking associate and professional mean girl who never quite left high school.
She’s got perfect, blown-out hair, designer clothes on a bank salary, and the kind of smile that makes you check your back for knife wounds.
“Must be another ‘family emergency,’” her desk neighbor, Jessica, adds with air quotes audible in her voice.
My face burns. The family emergency was two weeks ago when my grandmother fell. But they act like I’m some chronic liar instead of someone dealing with actual life.
“Don’t mind them,” Mr. Kaplan whispers. “Misery loves company, and those two look like they’re running a franchise.”
I snort-laugh, then immediately regret it as my head pounds harder.
“So,” he continues, “this dream-or-not-dream situation. Was there a man involved?”
I nearly drop the nickels. “I’m sorry?”
“In my experience, when a woman looks like she’s been hit by a truck but can’t stop touching her lips,” he gestures at my mouth, and I realize I’ve been unconsciously running my fingers over my bottom lip, “there’s usually a man involved.”
Jesus Christ, am I that obvious?
“Mr. Kaplan, I don’t think—”
“Mary.” The voice cuts through our conversation like a blade through butter.
I look up to see Regional Manager Dave Thornton standing beside my desk, his arms crossed and his face set in that expression that usually precedes someone getting fired.
“Dave. Hi.” I straighten in my chair, trying to look professional instead of like someone who spent the morning dry-heaving into Jasper’s toilet.
“Conference room. Five minutes.”
He walks away without another word, and I feel every eye in the office turn toward me.
“Shit,” I whisper.
“Language, dear,” Mr. Kaplan says mildly. “But yes; shit, indeed.”
I finish his transaction in record time, hands shaking slightly as I print his receipt.
“Don’t let them grind you down,” he says as he gathers his canes. “And about that man—real or not—if he made you feel something, that’s what matters.”
He hobbles away, leaving me alone with my racing heart and the distinct feeling that my day is about to get much worse.
I stand up, smoothing my skirt, and catch my reflection in the black computer screen. My makeup is doing its best to hide the damage, but there are still dark circles under my eyes, and my hair looks like I styled it with a tornado.
Professional. Confident. Not at all like someone who may or may not have sexually assaulted a stranger last night.
I make my way to the conference room, passing Stephanie’s desk.
“Good luck,” she says sweetly. “I heard they’re cracking down on tardiness.”
“Thanks for the support,” I mutter.
The conference room is sterile and cold, with motivational posters about “Excellence” and “Teamwork” that feel more like threats than inspiration. Dave is already seated, a manila folder open in front of him.
“Sit.”
I sit.
“Mary, we need to talk about your performance.”
Here we go.
“I know I was late today, but—”
“It’s not just today.” He flips through the folder. “Late Monday. Left early Tuesday for your ‘grandmother’s doctor appointment.’ Yesterday you seemed… distracted.”
“My grandmother really did—”
“Mary.” His voice is sharp. “I’m not questioning your grandmother’s health. I’m questioning your commitment to this job.”
My stomach drops. “Dave, I’m committed. I love working here.”
That’s a lie. I hate it here.
Because here’s the truth that Dave doesn’t care about:
I’ve been a Personal Banking Associate at this job for seven years.
Seven. No promotion. No raise worth mentioning.
I show up, I smile, I sell credit cards like candy to people who don’t need them, open accounts for customers who barely make eye contact, and lie every day that this is a career I’m proud of.
But I stay. Because I have to.
Because Sallie Mae still owns my ass from that business degree I barely use.
Because Grandma’s prescriptions cost more than my rent.
Because I’m 29, single, and one missed paycheck away from financial ruin while my stepsister Melissa flies to Ibiza to promote a teeth-whitening brand on Instagram.
Because when everything else in my life is cracked and bleeding and on fire, I still know how to balance a drawer, pitch a savings plan, and smile like I mean it.
Because this job, this paycheck, this predictable little cubicle… It’s safe.
And right now? Safe is the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
Dave keeps talking. “Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re phoning it in. Your numbers are down, your attitude has been… off, and frankly, customers have been asking for other associates.”
That last part hits like a physical blow. “What customers?”
“That’s not the point. The point is, we need to see improvement. Immediately.”
I nod, trying to look attentive while my brain screams fuck this place on repeat.
“I’m putting you on a performance improvement plan. Ninety days to show us you want to be here.”
A PIP. The corporate kiss of death.
“I understand.”
But as he drones on about expectations and metrics and professional development, my mind drifts back to last night. To green eyes and a voice that made my knees weak. To the feeling of being wanted by someone who looked at me like I was…
Oh God.
The memory hits me like a freight train.
My hand. On his… on his…
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
“—and we’ll check in weekly to assess your progress. Mary? Are you listening?”
I must make some sound—a yelp, maybe, or a whimper—because Dave’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Are you okay?”
I shake my head violently, trying to dislodge the image of my drunk self grabbing a stranger’s cock through his jeans.
“Sorry. Yes. Weekly check-ins. Got it.”
But I don’t got it. I can’t got anything right now because I’m pretty sure I sexually assaulted the hottest man I’ve ever seen, and now I’m sitting in a performance review trying not to have a complete mental breakdown.
Did I really…? Oh God, I did. I grabbed him. And he just stood there. Probably paralyzed with horror.
“Mary, you look green.”
“I’m fine. Just… processing the feedback.”
Dave closes the folder. “I hope so. Because I like you, Mary. But this is a business, and we can’t carry people who aren’t pulling their weight.”
I nod again, muttering something about understanding and improvement, but inside I’m spiraling.
Real or dream? Real or dream? Please let it be a dream.
But I can still feel the phantom weight of him under my palm. Still taste wine and something dangerous on my lips.
Definitely real. Definitely happened. Definitely ruined.
I walk back to my desk on unsteady legs, feeling like everyone can see my shame written across my forehead in permanent marker.
Stephanie smiles at me as I pass. “How’d it go?”
“Great,” I lie. “Really productive conversation.”
I sink into my chair and immediately want to crawl under my desk and hide until this whole day, this whole week, this whole year just… disappears.
My phone buzzes. For a split second, my heart leaps.
It’s Jasper.
I answer, and before I can even say hello, his voice is already shrieking through the speaker.
“MARY CATHERINE SULLIVAN, WHAT ON EARTH—?”
“Jas, please, my head is literally splitting—”
“Don’t you ‘Jas’ me, sugar tits! I just got a call from my subletter asking why there was a WOMAN in HIS apartment last night!”
My blood turns to ice water. “Your… what?”
“Subletter. As in, not you. He was supposed to stay two months, but after walking in and finding a pantsless stranger passed out on the couch… He sent me a photo. A photo, Mary. Of you. Then he canceled. And I quote, his exact words, ‘I don’t pay premium rent to walk into a mental breakdown.’”
My mouth opens, then closes, like a fish drowning in air.
And— Oh God!
It wasn’t a dream.
He’s real.
And I touched him.
My hand on his—
I bring my hands up and stare at them, horrified, like they’ve betrayed me. These traitorous fingers, which last night were busy stroking the hardest cock I’ve ever felt in my life.