Chapter 19
Bubble Trouble
Tessa
"Damn it!" I watched in semi-drunk horror as Maisie's fancy bubble bath tipped off the tub's edge and splashed into the water. It bobbed once, then sank like a busted ship, spewing its lavender bloom in every direction.
I was still fully clothed, but I dove forward anyway, splashing halfway into the tub like a lifeguard who couldn't even swim. I slipped, cursed, and came up soaking wet, clutching the bottle like it might still be salvageable.
It wasn't.
The tub was practically frothing now, and I groaned out loud as I eyed the mess. It wasn't a bath. It was lavender soup.
A month ago, I might've laughed. But now?
I didn't even smile.
It had been a full hour since my mom had dropped that lovely bombshell about the eviction notice.
Drunk on Moscato, I'd spent most of that hour dealing with jazzy hold music, robotic apologies, and the slow-motion nightmare of trying to convince the credit card rep that I hadn't reported my own card stolen.
But apparently, someone had.
And without my original cellphone for two-factor authentication, I got to enjoy the full paranoid thrill ride – security questions, manager transfers, even a "brief" identity check that included my first car and favorite food.
Supposedly, the company would be sending me a new card with a brand new number. That was the good news. And the bad news? They would be sending it to my Chicago apartment instead of here, where I actually was.
The reasons for this were two-fold.
Reason one – nothing screams fraud like asking a financial institution to send a replacement card to an entirely new address, not even in the same state.
Reason two – and this was the biggie – the last thing I needed now was a digital trail leading to Maisie's place.
So now, if I wanted to use the card at all, I would have to sneak down to Chicago and nab it without being seen.
Or, maybe I could…what?
Come up with a better plan?
Maybe one that involved my mom?
No. Forget that. The thought of letting Mom anywhere near my credit card – and in Chicago, no less – was enough to make me swear off cards entirely.
But how on Earth was I going to pay my rent?
Still soaked, I leaned over the tub and stared at the lavender foam like it owed me answers.
It didn't. I knew this.
I was so screwed.
Now, even the bath felt like a mistake. With my luck, I'd end up drowning in twelve inches of lavender soup. Would using a whole bottle of bubble bath give me some sort of rash?
Reluctantly, I drained most of the water and filled the tub again, feeling wasteful and stupid even as the water rose.
By the time it reached the right level, the water was running barely lukewarm.
Great.
A warmish bath.
The night just kept getting better and better.
I undressed and got in, anyway, soaking and sulking until the water turned cool, which wasn't long even if I smelled like I'd been soaking for hours.
Now, on top of everything else, I would need to replace Maisie's bubble bath – and quickly, too.
There was literally none left. And don't get me started on the Moscato.
By now, I was sober enough to regret that scene at the fridge. If I had needed booze so bad, I should've raided my own suitcase. It's not like there was any shortage there.
After standing and toweling off, I reached for the white robe that I'd left hanging on the nearby hook.
That stupid robe. I should have loved it. It was thick, white, and fluffy, with Goldenrose Spa and Retreat stitched in gold embroidery across the left side. It was a real place, too – super high-end and beyond exclusive.
This put it well beyond my budget, even before my flameout. The only reason I knew of the place at all was because it was a potential client of Thatcher-Hale.
I had received the robe at the office. With matching slippers, it was part of a set – a dozen sets, actually – sent to the whole team as part of a swag package in the lead-up to the big pitch.
"A little pampering for inspiration," the note in the package had read. And yeah, I had been inspired. I'd worked my ass off, too.
But for what? By now, one of my colleagues had surely given the presentation – probably mine, using my laptop and notes.
Now I hated the robe and the slippers. But they were the only ones in my suitcase when I'd bolted from Chicago.
So here we were.
Or rather here I was, flushed from stress but not from the bath, and wishing for a friend – preferably someone not from Chicago or even from that world.
But then, as if I'd conjured that companion myself, I heard the sound of keys rattling at the front door.
My heart quickened. Maisie.
She was home. And yes, she was my sister's friend, not mine. But hey, maybe I should give it a shot. After all, she and I couldn't tiptoe around each other forever.
Could we?