Finally, my chest shakes as a laugh slips from my throat, full of disbelief.
Well, fuck me.
She said yes.
Meadow Riley is coming with me to Costa Cay.
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 betweenhalter topsandstring bikinislike 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 fuzzysocks 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.
