Page 10 of Not Safe for Work

“Good,” Molly says. “Then make sure you wear it.”

Once I’m finished packing, I call my Lyft, and Molly scoots off the bed and goes in search of her coat.

“Have so much fun,” she says. “I’ll miss you. Work is going to be so boring without you. Text me every day. I want to hear everything that happens.”

She wraps her arms around me and squeezes tight.

“I’ll send you a million pictures,” I promise. “It’ll be like I never left.”

After checking in at the ticket counter and handing off my luggage, I head towards the airport lounge, intent on taking advantage of all the freebies afforded by my first-class ticket.

I’m wearing a sleeveless black jumpsuit and a pair of gold sandals. I can already feel the warm breezes and hear the crash of the ocean. I don’t really like sand—I hate how it gets inside everything—and I don’t particularly care for swimming, but three weeks with ice-cold drinks sipped in my own private cabana suits me just fine.

The airport lounge stretches into miles of black leather seating arranged around pale wooden tables. I flash my phone at the friendly woman sitting at the front desk, and she waves me through.

My first stop is the bar, where I order a glass of Prosecco. Then, I grab a small plate with a few tiny desserts and find a chair facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. I love watching the planes take off to far-flung destinations. I imagine the passengers heading on adventures to witness their first waterfall or sample their first bite of some new dish they didn’t even know existed. I imagine them falling in love with their new favorite place or, best of all, sharing a kiss on top of a mountain at sunset.

I love the endless possibilities of airports and the way anything can happen.

A moment later, my phone buzzes with a text from my dad.

My parents nearly exploded with pride when I told them about the retreat. They have only some idea of how much I’ve floundered since college. I never told them about Leo because I knew they’d disapprove of our relationship. And it was easy enough to hide since he wasn’t around much. When things went off the rails, I couldn’t bear to tell them, so I lied and said I left Sustain because it wasn’t the right fit.

When I couldn’t find work, I was terrified that I’d have to move back home and be forced to explain what happened. They would have been horrified. I love them to death, but they’re big on milestones and achievements. They’re only impressed if my younger brother and I are accomplishing something. I couldn’t bear their disappointment if they ever found out what I’d done to myself.

During my job search, they worried endlessly, calling me every day and inviting me over for dinner to stuff me full of samosas and send me home laden with plastic containers filled with vindaloo and roti.

If they knew about all my missed promotions, their quiet pity would crush me.

Finally, having good news to share about my job was a sigh of relief for all of us.

I slide open my phone.

Dad: You got to the airport? All checked in?

Me: Yep. I’m just waiting to board.

Dad: Do you need anything?

Me: No, I’m good.

Dad: Call your mother when you land. I’m proud of you.

Me: Thanks. Love you.

I smile at my phone and then place it on the table.

After a few minutes of watching the planes, I pull a book from my monogrammed tote and settle back with a new romantasy series I recently started.

“Is this seat taken?” asks a deep male voice about fifteen minutes later. I scowl up at Rafe Gallagher, who stands with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. I can’t help but notice his hair is just the kind of messy that makes me want to leave him everything in my will.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, striving to look down my nose from a seated position.

“Going to Hawaii.” He pulls his bag over his head and sinks into the leather chair beside me.

“I know that. But what are you doing here?” I gesture to the room to encompass our surroundings. “Shouldn’t you be waiting out there?”

He shrugs his wide shoulders, and I also note how his burgundy button-up clings to the curve of his biceps. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and my attention briefly lingers on the flex of his forearms, the light dusting of dark hair, and the veins that pop against his tanned golden skin.