And honestly? That was the entire point.
I moved here to be different. To feel different. To become every single thing my mother spent twenty-six years sighing about. And what better way to christen my new life than seducing a tattooed beach god without so much as a name?
"Boom. Next level unlocked." I wink at myself in the mirror. "Now go eat breakfast."
I step back into the suite the Bears hockey franchise is covering for my first thirty days in Beachside. A perk I did not argue with, because if I were footing this bill, I'd be sleeping in my car and showering at a gym.
Instead, I have room service.
And those little complimentary chocolates on the pillow.
The sun spills across the white sheets on the unmade king-sized bed, and on the counter by the suite's kitchenette, abreakfast spread that has arrived at exactly the same time every morning since I arrived, is laid out for me.
A silver carafe of coffee steams gently beside a little plate of berry tarts, glistening like jewels, the pastry so flaky I know I'll eat every last one. There's a bowl of fresh fruit, filled with strawberries the size of my fist, mango sliced into golden ribbons and to top it all off, a single white orchid sits in a glass vase, because of course.
I pour a coffee, wrap both hands around the warm cup, and step onto the balcony.
The ocean stretches out forever, the breeze carrying salty air and the distant scream of seagulls fighting over spilled fries. A surfer carves a wave and I let the warmth of the sun warm my bare shoulders.
Do I deserve this?
Hotel rooms like this. Jobs like this. A life where someone hands me a key card and says 'welcome to paradise' like I've earned it.
Except I haven't. Not yet.
"Today is the day," I tell the Pacific. "New job. New life. Prove them all wrong."
My phone buzzes against the table with a FaceTime call. The screen flashes with my sister's name:Meghan.
My middle sister. The one with the husband, the two perfect kids, the mortgaged house with the wraparound porch.
I almost don’t answer. But twenty-six years of conditioned response is a powerful thing.
I swipe accept.
“Hey, Meg.” I force a breezy smile.
“Hey!” Meghan’s smiling face fills the screen.
She’s in her kitchen, sunlight streaming in. I can see a little hand-painted magnet on the fridge behind her that says'World’s Best Mom!'
"Just checking in. You've been quiet for days. What are you up to?"
"Oh, you know." I sip my coffee, breezy as anything. "Just looking around."
Her eyes narrow slightly, scanning whatever part of my face and balcony she can see. "Have you found a place to live yet?"
I take a slow sip, buying time.
The truth is I've extended my hotel stay another two weeks, because I keep telling myself I'll find an apartment once the job settles down. The truth is I'm the new PR manager for a professional hockey team.
But I haven’t told them that.
My family’s version of 'support' was buying me gift cards to Ann Taylor when I asked for tickets to the Stanley Cup finals. My mother’s voice was endlessly sharp with disappointment:“Men don’t want a woman who knows more about sports than they do, Josie.”
So I stopped telling them.
This job, this move, this entire life I’ve built in secret… it’s mine.
