Chapter 2
It’s a special kind of hell to have the sort of food poisoning that ravages your body from both ends, and leaves you praying to a god you don’t believe in from the cool bathroom floor.
The power of Christ compels you, I think as I peel my shaky sweat-soaked cheek off the mosaic tile and arch my back in what can only be described as an exorcism of the chicken taquitos that are somehow still lingering after last night’s antics.
Following my explosive sidewalk sideshow, the men fled indoors and the bouncer appeared to shoo us away. Thankfully, I managed to make it home before another bout of vomiting, but it’s been almost nonstop since. Fuck Spencer, and his free food; I am never eating a catered lunch again.
Kara’s soft knock interrupts the silent cursing of my boss and pulls a defeated groan as I wipe the saliva dripping from my lips.
“I really think you should stay home today.”
It’s the third time she’s said it since we stumbled in, and it’s only gotten more irritating.
Shutting my eyes against the throbbing in my skull and using the countertop as leverage, I pray once more the cheap formica stays secure as I hoist myself up to my feet.
I rinse my mouth and spit the water out, an uncomfortable chill running the length of my arms.
“You know I can’t,” I croak. “Not today. Besides, I think that was the last of it. I feel better already.”
The door swings open before I’ve fully uttered my lie and I meet Kara’s gaze in the mirror.
Her expression is one of pity as she holds out a glass of ice water.
Somehow, even hungover and sleep deprived, she looks fresh as a mother-fucking daisy, while my reflection is more along the lines of death warmed over.
My almost black curls, sweat soaked and sticking to my forehead, accentuate the pasty pallor of my skin, and the remnants of last night’s makeup highlights the bags under my bloodshot eyes.
I look like an undead Snow White.
“That’s what you said six hours ago. If you feel half as terrible as you look, you’re in no shape to do anything, let alone present for your new boss. No offense love, but you’re not exactly a walking advertisement for wellness right now.”
I roll my eyes, but immediately regret it when my stomach echoes the motion.
“I’ll be fine. What time is it?”
Kara chews her lip. “I was hoping if I waited long enough you’d realize how silly this is and that your wellbeing should come first.”
I spin past her, swallowing hard against the bile that rises with the jolt of adrenaline.
My phone sits on its charger by my bed and I lift it, the number blinking 6:45 in bright white.
I have fifteen minutes to leave or I’ll miss the morning meeting.
“Shit. Shit. Shit. I told you to peel me off the floor no later than six!”
Kara leans up against my doorframe, the glass of ice water still gripped firmly in her hand.
Her eyes track my agitated movements as I rummage through the clothes on my ‘not quite dirty enough to wash’ chair, looking for my lucky skirt.
If I can find it and get in the shower in the next two minutes, I might be able to pull this off. Kara continues her argument.
“The presentation isn’t worth all this. You were exploding out of both ends four minutes ago. Let someone else have the project.”
With a hair tie still gripped in my teeth, I frown at her and struggle through the explanation I’ve given too many times already.
“If I don’t land this promotion, then I don’t make enough to qualify for my quarterly bonus, which means Nan’s is up for grabs for another season. I have to try.”
There are a lot of things in my life that are as uncertain and messy as fucking strangers in bar bathrooms, but my plan to buy the deserted diner space and revamp it is one of the only solid things I have.
Nan’s Place was a home away from home when I needed it most and when its namesake—my neighbor turned surrogate grandma—had to retire and give up the vintage space, I finally had something to work towards.
My commitment to bringing life back into her legacy is what motivated me to go back to school and get my business degree.
It’s also what made working my way through bikini barista jobs and pick-up gigs for the community college catering team bearable.
And finally, after five years of saving and busting my ass through shitty jobs, it’s only one presentation and a three month stint of sucking up to the newly-transplanted CFO away.
I’ve done too much to let bad taquitos or too much tequila keep me down.
Kara, who knows all of this without my explaining it, sighs and pushes up from the door jamb. “Fine. Get dressed and I’ll take you to work. I’m not scheduled for wheel time until ten.”
Rushing towards her, but knowing I probably still reek of vomit or worse, I stop short of a hug and grip her shoulders instead. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Kara crinkles her nose. “You absolutely need a shower, though. Otherwise it won’t matter what you’re saying.”
Thankfully, a shower works wonders; the water melts my nausea with each hot stream.
I review my presentation in my head as I lather and rinse my hair, and by the time I shove my still damp thighs into a pair of black out tights and zip up my lucky skirt, I feel a little more human. Take that taquitos.
I keep my make-up light, just in case the cold sweat comes back, and pull on a long sleeved cardigan to hide the colored swirls of my ink covered arm.
Spencer says no one cares about my tattoos, but with a new superior to impress, it’s better to play it safe.
Unfortunately, my thick curls are still too wet to do anything other than a low bun at the nape of my neck, but in an effort to make it look more professional than my usual half-assed messy knot, I twist my would-be bangs into a soft, face framing french twist.
“I’ll be in the car. There’s some toast on the counter if you want it,” Kara chimes as the door swings shut behind her.
I gather my presentation materials and tuck them into my bag, smiling as I crunch down on the piece of buttered toast she left for me. I can do this.
The drive downtown is quick but before I know it, the toast I scarfed is rolling like a king tide at Cannon Beach and threatening a tsunami of a return. Kara eyes me warily from the driver’s seat.
“Are you sure you’re okay to go to work? You’re pale again.”
“Thank you for the overwhelming vote of confidence, but yes. I only have to make it through the morning meeting, lunch at the latest, and then Spencer will most likely let me work from home for the rest of the day. I can’t be the only one who’s feeling the effects of that god awful food.”
Remembering the meal, and how my body expelled it, brings a new edge to the throbbing headache still pounding behind my eyes. Kara sighs before unlocking the doors and I offer her a weak smile.
“I owe you at least a week of dishes for this.”
“Make it laundry and you’ve got a deal. You puked on my sweater last night.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
She shrugs and I push out into the cool morning.
The fresh air helps, and though my nausea doesn’t disappear, it does subside.
Stopping at the coffee stand in the lobby, I grab a bubbly water and silently run through the details of my presentation again.
The normalcy of my routine, now that I’m in the building, helps bring a wave of calm and my breath is coming in steady inhales as I push the elevator button. I can do this.
Flourish Inc. is a holistic wellness company based out of L.A.
county, with just one office in Portland.
While I’m fairly certain the original business model was brainstormed by drunk fraternity brothers over a game of beer pong at some ivy-league school, the growth over the past few years has been nothing short of explosive.
The collections of over-the-counter supplements, fresh pressed juices, and soon to be exclusive line of sleep aid products cater to both the average fitness influencer as well as the ever prevalent granola types found here in The Rose City.
Our products are found in every holistic grocery store in town, and if all goes well with our next phase of growth, we’ll soon have our very own storefront.
Or, Flourish will. My plans don’t include sticking around to see that pan out past the grand opening.
I joined the team as an accounts manager about a year ago, and while schmoozing store reps isn’t exactly my dream job, it’s given me a hell of a lot of needed experience with vendor contracts and deal negotiation—two things that will be pivotal in my success as my own business owner.
Three more months and I can call it quits, cash out the savings I have for Nan’s, and venture out on my own.
Three more months and everything I’ve been working for will be in my normally not, but currently very clammy palms. Today’s presentation is my chance to prove to the new CFO that I have what it takes to assist in launching the new space.
I try not to think about how it will also prove, or disprove, I have what it takes to run Nan’s.
When the elevator opens to the fourth floor, something’s wrong. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
I check my phone again, confirming the time, and frown as I weave through the rows of empty work stations.
Phones ring and click to voicemail as I pass and everything looks too much like it did when I left yesterday.
The frosted glass wall concealing the conference room and upper management offices is illuminated, but from my desk it is impossible to tell whether the room is occupied or not.
Where is everyone?
My mind ticks through the possibilities.
Was there a company-wide memo I missed? I didn’t check my email before I left, but Amy, acting as the self-appointed office socialite, usually makes an effort to send out a group text if there is something out of the ordinary happening.
Maybe they all went for coffee before the meeting.
Except, Spencer usually orders coffee to be delivered.
Surely they’re all in the conference room, waiting for the presentations to start.
Panic about being late sinks into my gut as I set my bag down and cross the floor towards the frosty glass wall. Stealing one last breath before breaking in, I clutch the water bottle in my fist and press the stack of presentation materials against my chest. Let’s do this.
The door swings open and my stomach drops, ready to fall right out of my ass. Wherever the rest of my team ended up, the conference room isn’t it. The quiet swells as I take in the unexpected emptiness, my mind spinning like a wobbly bike wheel.
Every seat is vacant, save for one.
Sitting with his hands folded on the table in front of him, with a look that could chill a crowd if there was one, is none other than the beautiful jerk from the bar last night.
Fuck.
I curl my fingertips into my palm, trying to shock myself back into my body—or back into this incredibly uncomfortable moment. Focusing on the pain, the way my nails are carving half moons into the skin, I fight a wave of panic. It’s not a dream. It can’t be a dream.
Or can it?
Maybe I passed out drunk on the pile of clothes on my bed still needing to be folded and never woke up.
What else could possibly explain the man from last night being here?
The cool sweat I feared when skipping my full face make-up breaks on my skin—the fever raging in my veins meeting the chill with an uncomfortable ache.
“Well, at least one member of my team isn’t a total loss,” he says, his words short and clipped.
Images flash like a fucked up montage of my worst nightmares come to life. The memo about the new to town CFO. Big presentation. Vomiting on the sidewalk in front of my boss’s boss. Kara calling him a dick. Me calling him an asshat.
Fuckity fuck, I’m fucked.
Oh, god, he saw me freshly fucked.
This cannot be happening.
He rolls his broad shoulders, his shirt pulling against the firm muscle. He’s just as beautiful in broad daylight. Maybe even more so. Focus, you horndog. Now is not the time.
Words form and shrivel on my dry tongue as I take in the room again, hoping desperately my illness has tricked me into an abnormal, temporary blindness. Any second everyone will appear, and I’ll laugh off my tardiness. Any second this awkwardness will dissipate.
Except it doesn’t. The man stands and steps forward, extending his hand, a careful glance of recognition flickering on his features. He remembers. Oh god, he remembers.
“We’ve not been properly introduced. Noah Graves.”
My hand is a dead, damp fish in his warm palm, my shock at being the only person to make it into work still sending my head spinning.
“Where is everyone?” My voice croaks out of my dry throat and my cheeks warm.
“Out sick,” he says with a quick quirk of his cheek. The image of my vomiting on the sidewalk flashes again, and I slip my hand from his as the cold sweat gathers into a thick streak along my hairline.
Kara was right. I should have stayed home.
I half turn and motion to the empty office behind me. “Should we postpone? I’m the only one here, and I don’t know if —”
He doesn’t let me finish; his tone is all business. “Are you prepared?”
“Yes. But what about everyone else?”
I’ve never cared about everyone else before, even bringing it up now is more an effort at escape than actual concern, but he doesn’t know that. He folds his arms across his chest, the shirt pulling deliciously across it again and I swallow the sudden rush of saliva as his voice breaks my attention.
Everything is fevered and warped, like I’m underwater.
“I asked them to email summaries of their presentations. I can’t exactly fault them for getting sick on food that apparently I paid for.”
My stomach rolls, remembering the seven times I saw that food after eating it, and I chide myself for not checking my email before leaving the house.
Two fucking minutes and I could have avoided this.