Chapter 5
FIVE
I wake up in an unfamiliar bed, something heavy lying over my chest. Blinking at the white ceiling, I attempt to remember where I am and how I got here. When I shift, the weight on my chest tightens, pulling me back into a hard chest.
Looking down my body, I note I’m in a T-shirt that is not mine, and when I look over my shoulder, I realize the chest I’m being pulled into is bare, and the face is that of Graham Hawthorne, the man I met in a convenience store and then on the boardwalk.
The man I went home with last night, and who fucked me twice before we both passed out.
I had a one-night stand with a man I barely knew, something so wildly out of character for me, it’s almost comical. Strangely enough, I don’t feel the panic I might expect in this situation. Instead, I feel at ease.
Warmth and calm and—
My eyes meet the clock on his bedside table.
6:30
Six-thirty. On Monday morning.
Oh, fuck.
No, no, no.
My body jolts up—or tries to, at least, but his arm turns into an iron vise. Last night, I was enamored as his muscles flexed while he brought me more pleasure than I could imagine, but right now, his strength is a bad thing. I slap at his arm frantically.
“I gotta go. Shit, shit, shit.” Relief moves through me as his arm releases me.
Graham wakes slowly, blinking as I roll out of the bed, nearly falling in my haste, but I catch myself before I hit my head on the bedside table.
I do not have time to cover up a giant bruise.
At this rate, I barely have time to get home, take the world’s fastest shower, and get ready for my first day of work.
“What’s going on?” he asks, blinking.
“I have to go. I have to go to work. It’s my first day!” I look around for my shoe. “Shit! Where the hell are my shoes!”
“I set them against the wall,” he murmurs, sleep coating the words, and my god, in another world, I would love to see how long it takes for that tone to wear off, to find out if he’s less grumpy and domineering this early in the morning.
Instead, I give him an appreciative wave and run in that direction, grabbing my shoes as I go.
My shorts are beside them, and I sigh in relief, sliding them on, followed by my sandals before moving back to Graham.
I bend to where he’s now sitting up in the bed, hair a mess, face creased with sleep, and I press my lips to his, hard and fast. One last moment to remember this magical night by. “Last night was great, really. But I have to go,” I say, then stand.
“You’re leaving?” he asks, still groggy, and I shake my head, sliding my top, bra, and underwear into the bag, deciding I will be stealing his white tee as a souvenir.
“I have to. Thanks for a great night. Later, Graham,” I say, then I’m making my way through his place until I’m out the door and nearly running down the hall.
When I’m safely closed into the elevator, I let out a girly squeal, a happy, giddy sound, before pulling out my phone.
There are a dozen texts from Claire and Lainey, asking me what happened, each one getting more ridiculous.
Instead of reading them, I decide to call Claire to tell her I’m alive and well.
She picks up as I’m walking out the front door of the hotel.
My apartment is about half a mile away; if I book it, I can make it there in about five minutes while I give her the fastest rundown of my night possible.
I make it to my apartment in record time, and forty-five minutes later, I’ve showered, fixed my hair, and done my makeup with fifteen minutes before I need to be out the door and on my way.
I’d planned to pick out my clothes last night before bed, but now I’m staring into my closet with utter panic.
Unfortunately, my wardrobe very much screams fifth-grade teacher who loves color, not executive assistant at a luxury beach resort.
As my anxiety stacks within me, my phone rings from my dresser, and I let out a breath of relief before answering Lainey’s call.
“Thank god you called, I’m freaking out,” I say, hearing the frantic tone of my voice despite trying to push it down.
“Well, hello to you, too,” she laugh. I’m surprised she’s awake, since she works late as a bartender at her dad’s bar, but knowing Lainey, she set an alarm to call me before work.
“Is this freakout because you had your first one-night stand or because it’s your first day?
” I brush off the first half and focus on what’s important.
“What does someone wear to be an executive assistant to a hotel project manager?” I ask in a whine.
“Okay, a new job freak out,” she says, and I can almost hear her little nod, locking in to help me out.
“Wear something simple, but still you. You’re not going to work at a Fortune 500 corporate headquarters.
You’re going to work at a beach club in Seaside Point that hasn’t even opened yet.
” I take a deep breath and let her words slide through me, relieving some of the tension.
My eyes drift over my options in my small closet before I form an opinion.
“Cardigan, a white tee, and a skirt?” I ask, biting my lip.
“Perfect. The pink cardigan with red hearts. It’s—”
“It’s lucky,” I say with a breath, tugging it off the hanger and tossing it on my bed. I set her up on speaker while I get the tee and a loose, black knee-length skirt, then start getting dressed.
“So now that we’ve conquered the outfit, how was last night?”
“It was amazing, spectacular, and I promise to tell you all about it later, but right now, I need to get ready. I have ten minutes until I have to leave.”
“Fine,” Lainey says, but there’s no irritation in the word.
“Then, how do we feel about your first day at your new job?” she asks.
Her voice is smooth and calming. I take in another deep breath, letting it reach the bottom of my lungs before letting it out.
In the classroom, I would tell the kids to picture all their bad feelings coming out with the exhale.
I take my own advice, and as I inhale again, I feel marginally better.
“I… don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never had a job that wasn’t working with kids, so I’m not sure what to expect,” I say, having realized this fully just yesterday.
“You’re working for a man, so you’re basically still working with children.
” I let out a small laugh, the action easing me further.
“But also, not working with kids is exactly why this is the perfect choice for you,” she says.
“You started working with kids while you were still a kid yourself. You kept it up because everyone told you it was what you were meant to do. You never gave yourself any room to try anything else.” Her words hit right on the spot that I’ve been contemplating for months myself.
I started babysitting at age twelve, around the same time I realized Grant wasn’t going to college.
It wasn’t because he wasn’t crazy-smart.
It wasn’t because he hadn’t earned any scholarships that would have more than covered the tuition.
It was because he didn’t want to leave me behind in Seaside Point with only our quickly aging grandparents to care for me.
His sacrifice required one of my own. Instead of joining clubs and hanging with friends after school, I started working to earn my keep.
By fourteen, I had people telling me how good I was with kids. A natural.
At sixteen, I started tutoring on the side, helping elementary and middle school kids with math and reading for extra money, and had parents and teachers alike telling me I had to be a teacher.
By eighteen, I had chosen education as my major.
By twenty-four, I had my master’s in education. I was offered a fifth-grade teaching position in my small hometown and began settling into the life everyone had always imagined I’d have.
I liked it well enough.
But I never loved it. It didn’t feel like the one thing I was meant to be doing. More and more often, just thinking about doing it forever made me feel suffocated.
“You never gave yourself the freedom to be anything but what everyone told you you should be. This is the complete opposite, so it’s perfect.
Who knows? You might love it, and if you do, that’s amazing.
If you hate it and you realize you desperately miss working with kids, perfect: you’ve got a job waiting for you.
But we all know that you went into teaching because it was the obvious, safe choice. ”
“No, it wasn’t,” I lie.
“June, I’ve known you since kindergarten.
You can’t give me stupid lies like that and expect me not to question them.
” My face pinches as I pick out a pair of socks, slipping on a pair with cute little ruffles at the top.
Sneakers should be okay—I only have dressier shoes for going out, not for work—but Sutton wore sneakers on Friday, which reassures me.
“All that to say, I hope you have a great time, but I hope you give this a real shot. I know it’s scary, but trying something new is good for you. ”
I almost bring up how she’s always worked at the family bar she grew up in, but I rein myself in. That’s an unnecessary low blow, stemming from my own insecurities. Instead, I move to my jewelry box, searching for earrings that might fit a corporate environment.
“I appreciate you, and I told you guys I would try to be braver. But I can only handle so many new things at one time,” I say.
“I know,” she says as I pull out a pair of earrings with a pearl stud and a dangling gold bow. Cute, but discreet, I think. “And I’m so proud of you, really. You’re going to have the best first day ever.” I let out a little laugh and shake my head.
“I haven’t even met my new boss yet. I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
“It’s your lucky girl summer, right?” I roll my eyes, regretting agreeing to their scheme. “Part of being lucky is recognizing luck for what it is and accepting what the universe brings you.”
“Since when are you the queen of manifesting?”
“Since I’ve been friends with you, allowing you to force your woo-woo stuff down all of our throats.” I let out a laugh, shaking my head as she continues. “Now, go, get to work and have the best day ever, okay? Call me after work?”
“Okay, Lainey. Thanks for talking me off a ledge,” I say. My chest does feel a bit lighter after chatting with her.
“Anytime. Love you!”
“Love you more,” I say, then click off and finish getting ready.