2. Lemon #3
Carrying my food into my bedroom, I sink down onto my bed and turn on my TV while I eat. Picking the latest series of the spicy period drama I’m currently obsessed with, I settle happily into my pillows and eat cheesy, gooey pasta while I lose myself to forbidden love and the epic soundtrack.
Once I’m full, I carry my Tupperware and fork into the kitchen, rinse them, then place them into the dishwasher, hitting the start button even though it’s only half full because Avery will lose her shit at five in the morning if she has to wake up to a dishwasher full of dirty plates.
Spraying some more bleach onto the sides, I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and take it back to my room, climbing back into bed, and falling asleep while the on-screen characters fuck against a wall in the recesses of a beautiful garden.
The sound of my alarm drags me away from an epic dream, where a gorgeous stranger kidnaps me and I fall in love with him while he tries to convince me he’s not a monster by filling my cage with roses and fucking me to a dozen screaming orgasms on the petals.
Yawning, I rub my eyes and stretch my legs beneath the comforter. Forcing myself out of bed, I use the bathroom, then open my closet and smile as I peruse my outfits for something to wear.
The majority of my closet is pink, but I do have the odd outfit that deviates from my favorite color.
Pulling out a pale blue and white sailor dress, I hold it in front of me and smile widely.
The dress has a halter neck with a traditional sailor collar with white striped binding and a pale blue bow that hangs just below the V of my cleavage.
The waist is super cinched, but then flows out into a full skirt that ends at my shins.
Grabbing a white strapless bra and matching French knicker-style panties, I slip the dress over my head and smooth down the skirt.
Sliding my feet into pale blue shoes with huge bows on the front, I unfasten my heatless curler rod and slip it free, tipping my head upside down to shake the curls into loose, bouncy tendrils.
Despite my obsession with clothes, I rarely wear much makeup, so it doesn’t take me long to slick on a little gloss and some blush.
Grabbing a matching purse, I spritz myself with perfume, then leave my room and pretend I haven’t seen Avery, who is muttering angrily to herself as she cleans the counters in the kitchen.
Holding my breath, I sneak past her and out of the front door, sucking in a relieved breath the moment I’m in the corridor.
When I push outside and onto the sidewalk, I exhale, then shake off the morning’s stress, forcing myself to smile, and flooding my body with all the feel-good dopamine, serotonin, and endorphins.
To celebrate having survived another night with my insane roommate, I stop in at the patisserie and squeal excitedly the moment I reach the counter, trying to decide which delicious treat I’m going to order today.
“Hey, Lemon. How are you this morning?” Tori, the owner of the shop, asks as she slides a tray of something that looks like chocolatey heaven into the glass display case.
“I’m amazing. Thanks,” I tell her, trying not to be rude as I struggle to drag my eyes from the rows of delicious-looking treats.
“What can I get for you today?”
Sucking in a breath, I clasp my hands together as I try to pick.
“Not to toot my own horn or anything, but the croquants are delicious,” she suggests with a little laugh.
“Which ones are they?”
“These ones,” she says, pointing to the chocolate creation I’d just been admiring.
“I’ll have one of those then, and a flat white, please.”
Carefully sliding the cake into a box, Tori hums happily to herself as she makes my coffee, smiling widely as she passes it to me, then tells me the cost.
“Thank you,” I say once I’ve paid.
“Have a great day,” she calls.
“You too,” I call back.
With my box of cake in one hand and my coffee in the other, I walk the rest of the way to work, smiling and greeting everyone I pass on the way.
Rockhead Point is a friendly town, so much friendlier than Bozeman.
If I’d have said good morning to a stranger on the street there, they’d have probably told me to go fuck myself, but here, people make eye contact and smile as they respond to my greeting.
My steps stutter when I spot Wes’s car parked outside the retreat.
I don’t dislike my boss—well, not really—but his being here means it’s unlikely I’ll get to actually do my job this morning.
I’m sure he already has a list of errands he’s just too busy to do himself that he’ll expect me to do for him because he thinks that’s more important than me greeting guests and helping with inquiries.
“You’re late,” Wes chides the moment I step through the door.
“Am I?” I question, glancing at the clock on the wall that shows the time at eight twenty a.m. “I’m not scheduled to start until eight thirty a.m.”
“I expect you to be here and ready to work at that time, not just strolling through the door.”
Trying not to show how absurd I’m finding this conversation to be, I glance at the clock again. “Is that clock showing the wrong time?” I question.
“No,” he says, glancing up at the clock before scowling at me.
Parting my lips, I consider telling him that I’m early and here with more than enough time to get set up and ready to start working, but honestly, what would be the point? He’s being an asshole, but telling him this will only make him angry.
“I wrote you a list of all the things I need you to do today,” he says, thrusting a piece of paper toward me, then wiggling it at me when I don’t immediately reach out and take it from him.
Reluctantly taking the list, I glance down at it. I should have known better than to expect it to only be one or two things. The sheet of paper is full from top to bottom with errands he needs me to take care of.
“You should be able to get all of that finished by lunch.”
“Lunch,” I splutter. “The plant nursery you want me to collect the palms from is over an hour away in a car. On the bus, it’s a three-hour round-trip journey.”
“The bus? Why would you take the bus? How are you going to carry two six-foot palms back on the bus?”
For some reason, even though I’ve been working for Wes for almost two years, he never seems to remember that I don’t drive or own a car. “I don’t drive,” I remind him again.
Sighing, like I’ve chosen not to learn to drive purely to inconvenience him rather than because I had some epilepsy incidents when I was a kid, he snatches the list back from me and crosses a thick black line through the plant nursery item before handing it back to me.
“Shouldn’t I be taking care of guest check-out this morning and the new arrivals this afternoon?”
“Yes, you should,” he says, with a sneer stretched across his lips. “So I suggest you hurry and make sure you’re not late again.”
“I wasn’t late,” I say under my breath as I slide my cake into the small staff refrigerator in the break room, then carry my coffee and list back out of the door again.