"It’s not funny, Miley."
"It’s the funniest thing I've ever heard." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Maybe the funniest thing that’s ever happened to anyone. You accidentally kissed a germaphobe in a farmers market and he pulled out Purell like it was an EpiPen."
"I didn’t just kiss him. It was an accident. A collision."
"A collision of mouths." She was wheezing again. "That’s a kiss, babe. That’s literally what a kiss is."
"I hate you."
"You love me." She straightened up, still grinning. "Was he at least cute? Tell me the universe gave you something for your trouble."
I thought about his eyes first—storm clouds that had trailed me even after I'd turned away, their edge just as cutting behind the glasses as it was over them. Then the jaw, angled like it existed to win arguments before his mouth even opened. Dark hair that hadn't shifted a single millimeter through the entire collision, like even his follicles had been briefed on protocol. He'd been standing there drenched in my Americano and still somehow looked like I was the mess, not him. Furious, soaked from the chest down, and completely, offensively unforgettable.
"He was… objectively attractive. In a serial killer kind of way."
"Oh no." Miley pointed at me. "That’s your type."
"I don’t have a type."
"Cold, mean, and devastatingly handsome. That’s been your type since college."
"We’re not doing this." I started walking. "We’re going home. I smell like a coffee shop floor and I’m not discussing my type with you in a farmers market."
She threw her arm around my shoulder, still laughing. "Fine. But I’m probably bringing this up again. Multiple times. Actually forever. After all, this is a once-in-a-lifetime type of encounter."
I let out a long sigh and let her drag me toward the exit while she continued laughing at my humiliation the entire way home.
Back at the apartment, I showered and threw the ruined shirt in the washer with more force than a shirt deserved. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror afterward, hair dripping, towel wrapped tight, and just looked at myself for a minute.
Dark curls I’d given up fighting against Miami humidity. Olive skin that used to glow in golden-hour lighting, back when photography was still my life. Dark brown eyes that had once been bright, now dulled by a kind of exhaustion concealer could hide but nothing could heal.
This was what starting over looked like. Twenty-five, broke, borrowing a bathroom, and still flinching at raised voices. Not exactly the vision board I’d planned.
But I was here. I was standing. And on Monday, I was starting a real job with a real salary, and maybe, just maybe, things were going to start moving in a direction that didn’t feel like falling.
Monday arrived faster than I was ready for.
I put on my best blazer—charcoal, bought on sale three years ago, and holding up well enough if no one looked too closely at the cuffs where the stitching was starting to fray. Dark pants I'd ironed twice. Small gold earrings Miley had lent me becausemine all looked like they came from a boardwalk vendor. Hair pulled back tight, curls pinned into submission, because I wanted to look put-together even if my insides were a mess.
I checked myself in the mirror four times before Miley physically pushed me out the door.
"You look great. Go make money. Stop fidgeting," she said, clearly entertained by my spiraling.
Hunter Interactive's building sat in the heart of Miami's financial district, all glass and gleaming surfaces, every panel polished enough to throw my reflection back at me before I was ready for it. I caught a glimpse of myself in the lobby doors and glanced down—scuffs at the toes of my shoes, more obvious now against all that chrome. My fingers drifted to my cuff and found the fraying thread there, tugging once before I caught myself. I rode the elevator to the executive floor with my hands gripping my bag strap so hard my knuckles went pale.
The doors opened and Miles was right there, leaning against the reception desk with two coffees, grinning like he’d been waiting for a show.
"First day." He handed me a cup. "You survived the elevator. That’s step one."
"Is step two harder?"
"Step two is meeting my brother." He started walking, and I fell into step beside him. "But we’ll build up to that. Let me give you the tour first. Ease you in. Like a warm bath before the ice bucket."
"That’s not comforting, Miles."
"It wasn’t meant to be." He winked.
He walked me through the floor, pointing out departments, introducing me to people whose names I immediately forgot because my brain was too busy absorbing the sheer scale of the place.
