“I’ll see her Sunday,” she says, and then she hangs up.
This day can't get any worse.
Chapter 3
Carly
My phone buzzesin my jacket pocket as I shut my car door behind me in the parking garage beneath work.
Probably just my mother, again, asking if I’m seeing anyone new yet or if I’ve considered dating apps.
She was furious withmewhen Aaron dropped me like a boring sack of potatoes, and hasn’t seemed to calm down since, like I owe her a life she deems appropriate: a husband, two kids, and a house with a white picket fence.
But at least I have my job.
To some people, it might sound pathetic, but my job at Sparkks Sports is the one thing in my life that is stillmine.
I worked hard to get where I’m at, far harder than anyone knows. I’d started as an intern directly out of CU’s design program, dragging myself by my teeth up through assistant positions with late nights and more coffee runs than a person should be able to handle.
And now, by some miracle, I’m a junior designer on the athleisure team.
And I’mgood. I know I’m good. My ideas are solid, my sketches creative, and last week, my concept for a women’s tennis line got singled out by the creative director during a meeting with the board.
That moment, sitting in that conference room and hearing my work praised, was the first time in two months that I’d felt like myself again.
I take the stairs two at a time up into the lobby of Sparkks Sports.
For all my positives, there’s one thing I’m absolutely terrible at for the last two months.
Being on time.
But it’s hard when I can only access a bathroom at seven-thirty in the morning when I have to be here by eight-thirty.
My feet carry me quickly through the lobby, my coffee clutched to my chest with one hand and my other gripping my work bag to keep it from flying. My phone buzzes again in my pocket, and for some reason, my brain thinks right now is the best possible time to finally check that message from Mom.
Which means I’m not watching where I’m going.
It means I don’t see the men stepping off the elevator.
It means I don’t have the spatial awareness to stop myself from slamming directly into what feels like a concrete wall, my cappuccino exploding from its cup.
But it’s not a wall.
Of course it’s not.
I watch in complete and utter horror as the combination of milk and espresso coats the pristine white of a dress shirt that probably costs more than my monthly rent used to be. Crisp fabric turns instantly soaked, streaking down and onto dark leather shoes that were probably made in fucking Italy.
I barely hear him curse.
No, no, no, no, no?—
“I-I’msosorry—” I stumble back, clutching the cup in my hand and wrestling to keep the lid from falling to the floor, coffee dripping from my fingers, my work bag sliding off my shoulder.
The man that I’ve practically just assaulted stands there like a statue, completely still as if he’s mentally cataloging the damage with the kind of controlled calm that makes my stomach drop.
My eyes track up from the stain slowly, terrified I’ll find a look of scorn on his face.
And what I find instead makes me want to crawl into a hole forever.
