Chapter 7
Blindly, I reach for the closest cup on the counter. If I’m lucky—ha—then maybe I can sneak into the office without Monica noticing. I don’t place my chances very high, but there’s always hope.
A rogue shoulder catches me in the back when I turn, knocking the cup I’m holding to the floor. Panic spears through me in a thousand tiny cuts as I prepare for the splash of scalding hot liquid, but then I feel it. Ice.
Something shockingly cold and sticky seeps into my ankle boots.
That wasn’t my coffee.
Shit.
To his credit, Lucky looks as shocked as I am. Okay, maybe not as shocked. More like stunned with a strong helping of amusement.
I assess the damage. My skirt has been spared, but my shoes are soaked, and my socks are damp. I can feel my toes squelching as I wiggle them.
Gross.
Lucky catches my gaze, ducking down to do it since I’m staring, unmoving, at the mess on the floor. “Just an accident. It’ll be okay.”
He’s wrong. I can’t show up to work like this.
“It won’t. My boss already hates me. Do you know how long I dreamed about working at The Observer?
Two years of being on my best behavior in hopes that they’ll finally give me a real shot at my dream job, and the first day I’m ever running late, this happens. ”
I’ll have to go home. I can’t spend the day in wet socks. I just can’t.
“You work at The Observer?”
Lucky isn’t smiling anymore.
“It’s the third-largest national publication,” I say because I don’t care what this guy thinks. I’m proud of working there. “But maybe current affairs are too much to expect from a man who woke up on the wrong side of a barstool.”
Lucky laughs, which is the opposite of the reaction I was going for. The man is relentless.
“Are you worried about where I’m sleeping at night, gorgeous?”
“Definitely not.”
“And if I was to acquaint myself with this prestigious and pretentious publication, where would I find you?”
I straighten, a little embarrassed. “In the Lifestyle section, and don’t you dare call it vapid.” Don’t get me wrong; I have issues with my assignment, but highlighting the best parts of this city isn’t one of them.
“I wouldn’t dare. I happen to love going out.”
I’m sure he does.
“And it’s not pretentious,” I add. “Sterling Ross is one of the most acclaimed journalists of our generation.”
Lucky's smile looks strained. It’s not a frown, but there’s definitely something complicated going on behind his eyes. “I’m sure he thinks so.”
My jaw drops, but between one blink and the next, his expression clears, hidden while he takes a stack of napkins and kneels, cleaning the floor at my feet.
I’ll take this as my cue to leave.
Immediately, I turn to face the guy behind me, whose drink I accidentally dumped on myself. “I’m so sorry.” I quickly hand over enough cash to cover it, too mortified to say anything else.
I can’t get out fast enough. I make my way to the door, ready to forget about sexy Englishmen with perfect hair and biceps that beg for love bites.
Before it closes, I hear his voice calling out, “Don’t worry; it’ll all work out.”
His life must be a wonderful dream.
I leave the luckily unharmed sandwich with Celine, then race back home.
It’s every nightmare I had during exams. Waking up in a cold sweat because I’d slept in or gotten everything mixed up. But I don’t get to wake up and realize this is all a horrible dream.
There’s no time to save my shoes, so I throw them and my socks into the sink, dry off the sticky feeling from my feet, and throw on my favorite sneakers. They’re scuffed, and the laces are frayed, but hopefully, Monica will be too distracted by how late I am to criticize my fashion choices.
It’s only when I lock my door that it hits me … I left my coffee behind.
Today really can’t get any worse.
* * *
The only thing left to do is …
get to work (go to 9)
go back (go to 2)