Chapter 3
THREE
Meadow
I can’t believe I said yes.
What was I thinking?
No, really. What the actual hell was I thinking?
Two hours after escaping Stacy’s office and impulsively telling Owen I’m ‘in’, I’m cocooned on my couch in an oversized sweater and sweatpants, shopping for bikinis in the dead of winter.
The heater in my apartment is working overtime, fighting against the cold air leaking through the windows. I can see my breath if I sit too close to the glass.
Meanwhile, the search engine on my laptop is suggesting a variety of vacation looks. I jab at the trackpad and take another sip of my scalding tea, hoping the warmth will stop my teeth from chattering.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be revising the press release Stacy eviscerated me for this afternoon or updating my resume. Instead, I’m toggling between halter tops and string bikinis like it’s the most life-altering decision I’ll ever make.
God, that meeting.
Stacy blew a gasket over a single, stupid detail. I’d mentioned the wrong jersey color in a draft for an upcoming campaign, which really wasn't a big deal because the team hadn’t even finalized the design yet. You’d think I’d committed a felony offense by the way she scolded me.
This wasn’t the first time either. Every week, it feels like it’s something new with her. I can’t catch a damn break, no matter how hard I try. I’ve spent four years dealing with her tantrums, but today, Stacy finally pushed me past my limit.
As she picked apart my “lack of attention to detail,” all I could see was my PTO balance hovering over her head in bright, flashing lights. I have weeks of vacation saved up, and if I don’t use my hours by the end of Q2, I’ll lose my hard-earned accrued time.
Which is why I abandoned all professionalism, marched out of Stacy’s office while she was mid-sentence, and, without thinking it through, agreed to go on a week-long vacation with Owen.
Now I’m sitting here, shopping for swimsuits that I’m not even sure will fit, and questioning my life choices.
I scroll past a boring mix of beige one-pieces and barely there scraps of fabric before landing on one that stops me in my tracks and makes me zoom in.
The model on my screen grins under the bright sun, the teal water behind her looking like a postcard I want to live in.
The bikini is loud and happy, covered in pink and orange neon flowers.
The top is a classic triangle that’s simple, flirty, and a touch of sexy.
The bottoms are a high-cut V that would even make my petite legs look a mile long.
I add the bikini to my cart and glance at my reflection in the black edge of the screen.
My hair is in a lopsided bun, there’s a Diet Coke stain down the front of my sweater, and my fuzzy socks have sparkly unicorns printed all over them.
A single, twenty-seven-year-old woman searching for swimwear while bundled up like a sad burrito.
Hot girl summer meets hot mess winter.
I chuckle to myself at how ridiculous this all is. My laugh abruptly dies when I think about showing so much skin in front of Owen.
What will he think when he sees me in a swimsuit?
Owen has never seen me in anything remotely revealing. He’s seen me in office wear and my standard leggings-and-T-shirt combo, but definitely not in a bikini. We’ve shared offices, Ubers, overpriced coffee, and a single stale bagel when we had both forgotten to eat breakfast.
But showing off our bodies? On purpose? Never.
I swallow down the mortifying thought. I think about Owen’s ex—the blonde bombshell with legs for days, boobs that women pay good money to have, and a waist so snatched his fingers would probably meet if he wrapped his hands around her.
That’s his type, Meadow. Not you.
In another life, I imagine pulling off my swimsuit cover on the beach, my skin sun-kissed from the golden rays. I picture Owen lazily raking his eyes down my body— really looking at me —as a slow, sexy grin spreads across his face.
My heart rate skyrockets as heat crawls up my neck.
Oh God.
But when I imagine seeing him shirtless, my skin threatens to burn right through my sweater.
His dress shirts do a terrible job at hiding his broad shoulders, sculpted biceps, and defined pecs.
I know that when I see what lies beneath the thin layer of his clothes, I won’t be able to stifle my reaction.
I add two more suits to the cart before I can talk myself out of it. I hover over the checkout button while my bank account whimpers in the background.
Click.
A rush of adrenaline zips from my chest to my fingertips as I finalize the order.
Oh my God.
It’s happening.
I’m going on vacation with Owen freaking Brooks in a few weeks.
Three weeks feels like forever and no time at all.
My brain races with all the things I need to do before then: laundry, find my passport, shave every inch of my body, find a dress for the wedding, pack, learn to keep a neutral face when someone asks if Owen and I are together, and practice not passing away from embarrassment when he blatantly tells people we’re just friends .
Just as I’m coming down from my self-deprecating spiral, my phone buzzes on the coffee table. I lunge for my phone when I see Owen’s name flash on the screen.
Full name as it appears on your driver’s license? I already know your birthday. Updating the reservation right now.
Another text follows before I can even process that he knows my birthday by heart.
Also, window or aisle seat? Choose wisely. This says a lot about you as a person.
An involuntary smile stretches across my face.
Is that even a real question? Window all the way.
Makes sense. You seem like the type of person who gets emotionally invested in cloud shapes.
I roll my eyes.
It’s called imagination. You should try it sometime.
Can’t. Too busy booking your luxury flight experience.
I bite my lip, giddy that we’re even having this conversation. I know I agreed to go at the last minute, so it only makes sense that Owen’s covering everything. But still, he hasn’t asked me for a single dime. It shouldn't make me feel special, but it does.
At least let me buy you a drink on the flight.
The good kind?
Yes, the whiskey kind. Obviously.
Fine. Oh, and I’m calling dibs on the armrest.??
He adds a winky face emoji, letting me know he’s joking.
You’re insufferable.
And yet, you agreed to go on a seven-day trip with me.
If I were on a reality show, the world would be judging me as I sit here and giggle like a schoolgirl. Fawning over a man who has absolutely zero romantic feelings for me.
He sends another text, softer this time.
Seriously, Meadow. I’m glad you said yes.
I’m glad you said yes.
My thumb hovers above the screen. Multiple responses are running through my mind right now.
Me too.
I needed this.
Texting you might be better than sex.
Nope. Definitely not sending that last one.
Instead, I settle on the truth that won’t leave my heart in tatters.
Me too.
I set my phone down, lean back against the couch, and stare up at the ceiling.
Three weeks.
In less than twenty-one days, I’ll be heading to paradise with Owen Brooks. Sitting next to him on a flight, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath and feel the heat rolling off his skin.
Please, God…. please don’t let this trip ruin everything.
When I close my eyes, I can almost see the white sand, turquoise water, a frozen margarita in my hand, and Owen lounging next to me in nothing but a pair of slutty swim trunks. My core tingles at just the thought of laying eyes on his naked chest and abs.
Shit.
I remind myself to schedule a date with my vibrator tonight.
I blow a strand of hair out of my face and sigh.
I’m so freaking screwed.