Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Anna

This is the longest Monday in the history of Mondays.

I'm not usually one for dramatics, and most of the time I enjoy my job. Sure, my boss is sometimes a pompous blowhard, but generally speaking, he's not a bad boss. He's happy with the way I run the office, our clients like me, and I make sure everything runs smoothly. He gives me free rein to organize things how I like, even letting me overhaul how the front office was set up after I took over. His daughter was the office manager before me, but she wasn't the most organized person if what I inherited is anything to go by. It wasn't terrible, mind you. But I've definitely improved the efficiency of the office, and I've made binders that detail all the systems so if I'm out sick, on vacation, or eventually replaced, they'll be able to continue running smoothly with nothing more than a little hiccup.

Today, though, time seems to drag. From opening to lunch feels like a thousand years, though it's no more than the usual few hours. And it's not because I'm starving—I had my usual filling breakfast of overnight oats that I managed to toss together after Troy left. No, it's because I'm dying to see Troy again.

When it's finally lunchtime, I pull out my phone before my food, which isn't like me. I tend to read or listen to an audiobook or podcast on my lunch break while I eat. But this time, I'm checking my phone to see if he's texted me.

My heart leaps when I see his name and a text on my screen that came in shortly after I got to work.

Troy

Good morning! I hope you slept well. Can't wait to see you again. Do you have any plans tonight?

My thumbs hover over the keyboard as I debate how best to reply.

None yet. But there's this hot guy I've been spending time with lately. I'm hoping I might connect with him tonight.

As soon as I hit send, I wonder if that was a stupid response. I was going for playful and flirty, but maybe it'll come off as trying too hard? Oh god. It probably does. Shit shit shit. I don't think I can unsend it, though.

In the middle of typing out a response to backpedal the cringe of that text message, I get a response.

Troy

Oh yeah? He sounds pretty great. I bet he wants to hang out with you too

I think he's pretty great

Troy

Do you want to come over to the cabin after you're done with work? Or would you rather I meet you at your place? Oh, I should mention, that after Shelby heard we watched TV yesterday, she immediately extended an invitation for you to come over and watch Bluey, so if you come here, that's probably going to be on the agenda.

I'm grinning like a goofball as I read his messages, excitement coursing through me.

Can we do Bluey tomorrow? Because I'd really like to spend time with just you if that's okay.

Troy

That's more than okay. Shelby'll be thrilled there's a plan for Bluey watching, even if she has to wait an extra day. What time do you want me to come over?

How about 5?

Troy

Perfect. See you then

Giddy warmth fills me, and I can't stop smiling.

Troy's coming over. Again. For the second day in a row. The fourth day in a row we'll be spending together.

Which seems crazy, in a way. But I'm refusing to look too closely at that—or anything else that makes me feel less than thrilled about the situation. Do I think a hot, professional athlete has any business being with me? No, I do not. Do I think eventually he'll realize I'm actually kinda boring and not that much fun? Absolutely I do.

But I think that eventually will likely come after he goes back to his normal life. Maybe I seem interesting and fun because I'm new and different. I'm not his friend with kids or his friend who brought an obnoxious date on what was supposed to be a friend vacation. Maybe I'm just a convenient escape from a situation that isn't what he was hoping for.

Or maybe he genuinely likes you , whispers a voice in the back of my mind.

Well, sure. He likes me well enough, anyway. But painful experience has shown me that even people who start out liking you can end up treating you horribly.

The beautiful thing about this situation is that there are no real expectations. There are no promises beyond this, right here, right now. Spending this evening together, watching Bluey tomorrow at their cabin, and probably doing something the following evenings between now and whenever he's supposed to head home.

And even though I'm usually a planner, someone who likes having a checklist of what needs to be done and feels an immense amount of satisfaction after ticking everything off, I'm surprisingly okay with this go-with-the-flow attitude we seem to have between us. Even tonight, we have a plan for a meeting time, but no agenda for what we're doing—though I'd be lying if I said I didn't have some very specific ideas.

This all goes along quite well with my plan to be a different version of myself, though. Smiling and satisfied with how things are turning out, I finish my lunch and return to work.

The afternoon flies by now that I have a plan with Troy. None of the agonizing that seemed to slow time to a crawl like this morning. It's the wondering and waiting and hoping that makes time slow down. Anticipation makes it fly.

"Someone's in a cheerful mood," Heather, our hygienist comments after walking a patient out.

I smile. "What can I say? I'm having a good day."

"Good. Me too. Who do we have next?"

Once the last patient of the day arrives, time slows down again, and as much as I busy myself getting my end-of-day tasks wrapped up so I can leave as soon as the last appointment ends, I can't help glancing at the time every few seconds. Because it's after four, which means I'll see Troy in less than an hour. I'm desperate to get out of here so I can get home and get ready, but I can't leave until the patient does.

Finally Heather walks Sylvia out—an older lady who loves showing us all the latest pictures of her grandkids who live down in Arizona, but fortunately she showed me all her latest photos when she arrived. With my best smile fixed in place, I cajole her into booking her next cleaning, and I'm immediately gathering my things as she makes her way out the door.

Heather watches me, eyebrows raised. "Is there a fire somewhere and no one told me?"

"Oh. Ha ha," I return awkwardly, resisting the urge to tap my foot while I wait for my computer to finish shutting down. "No. I just have plans."

Her lips turn up in a knowing smirk as she retrieves her purse from the locked cabinet at the back of my space. "Good for you. I'll lock up for you. Have fun!"

"Thanks, Heather! Have a good night!" I all but sprint to my car, wanting to get home and change before Troy arrives—though I have no idea what I want to wear. I just know I don't want to look like the forty-something office drone Brit accused me of being last week. And I should maybe touch up my makeup. And definitely put on more deodorant. I can't smell myself, but it's summer, and it's hot, and it's better to be safe than sorry.

When I get home, I stare at my closet for a long time, trying and failing to figure out what to do with my wardrobe. "Waist definition, waist definition," I mutter to myself like some kind of magical fashion mantra that'll transform me from drab to fab.

Oh my god, I just thought that in my head for real .

Shaking that off, I consider calling Brit for advice again, but decide against it. I want to be able to dress myself without help. Why is this so hard? Did everyone else get some kind of handbook for how to look put together and I didn't? They're just clothes! How hard can it be?

Stupid hard, apparently, because ten minutes later I'm in my underwear, clothes are covering my bed and floor, and I'm still no closer to assembling an outfit. I want to look cute but casual, sexy but not like I'm trying too hard. Like … like … effortless and pretty instead of frumpy and boring.

Frumpy and boring is fine when you're hiding. But I'm not trying to hide from Troy. And if I'm being honest with myself, I don't really want to hide in general. Not anymore.

Surveying the clothes scattered around me, I have the urge to go shopping. That won't help me today, though. Troy will be here in twenty minutes, I still have to put clothes on, and then I have to clean up this mess. At least the rest of my house isn't a disaster!

Just me.

I'm the only disaster here.

Irritated, I dig through what's left in my closet and come across a wrap skirt I haven't worn in a long time because it tends to catch the wind and fly open. But we're just going to be in my apartment, so there's no wind to worry about. Seized by inspiration, I toss it on the only clean space on my bed, then scrabble through the clothes piled there until I find the tank top I'm looking for. I shimmy into it, then wrap the skirt around me, fussing with the ties for a minute before getting them situated and tied to my liking. Then I step into the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror, slumping when I catch a glimpse of myself. I still look frazzled, but when I straighten, turning this way and that to look at just the outfit, I think it'll do.

I spritz my brush with anti-frizz spray and run it through my hair, which helps me look more polished. Then I take a couple minutes to put on some eyeliner and reapply blush and mascara. When I reach for my usual everyday lipstick that's slightly darker than my natural lip color, I hesitate. Then, I pick up the bold red that I bought on a whim a few months ago but haven't worn in public. It's always felt too flashy. But maybe …

I swipe it on, blot, and examine my reflection. My hair is sleek and straight, lips bold and inviting, and the ribbed coral tank and tan wrap skirt the perfect cute and casual look I wanted. I think … I think I might just be able to pull this off.

My phone chimes from my bedroom, but I can't find it in the mass of clothes on the bed. When I finally locate it, there's a text from Troy.

Troy

On my way. Be there in a few

Shit! I spent more time than I realized picking out my clothes, and now I have less than ten minutes to put everything away. I try to get everything back on the hangers and put away nicely because I like having it that way, but I'm not quite done when he knocks on the door.

I grab the last few things in my arms, cringing as I toss them on the closet floor and hurriedly slide the door closed. I pause and take a deep breath before opening the door, hoping I don't look frazzled all over again.

But if I do, Troy doesn't seem to notice or care. "Hey," he says, his voice dripping with warmth, a giant smile spreading across his face at the sight of me.

My big, dopey grin matches his. "Hey! Come in. I'm glad you're here."

Stepping inside, he waits for me to close the door behind him, then wraps me in his arms and kisses me.

God, this man kisses like it's an Olympic sport and he's going for gold. I don't think I've ever been kissed so thoroughly or so well before in my life. And honestly, I can't get enough of it. If he kissed me like this every day for the rest of my life, I'd be thrilled.

That's not possible, though , I remind myself, trying not to let the thought disrupt what we're doing.

Troy must notice something, though, because he pulls away, his brows crimping together as he looks down at me.

But before he can ask whatever question is forming on his lips, I smile up at him. "Are you hungry? I'm starving."

And he seems to accept that, because he lets me move toward the kitchen, though he stays right with me, his hand still on my waist as we go. "I could eat. What'd you have in mind?"