Page 19 of Not Safe for Work

I click away from our text thread and into the Official WMC Purcell Leadership Retreat app. An entire app seems a little excessive, but at least the schedule for the next three weeks is very conveniently laid at my fingertips. I can look forward to a mixture of rah-rah inspirational talks and workshops, team-building exercises, and the requisite “downtime” to prove WMC is all about that work-life balance.

I swipe through a few screens and discover that tonight is the welcome mixer at the Oceanside Bar.

Me: Fine. There’s a party tonight. I gotta get ready.

Molly: Message me tomorrow. I want every detail.

Me: Love you.

Molly: Love you, too.

With an hour to prepare before the party, I unpack my clothes, hang them in the closet, and attempt to smooth out the wrinkles in my dresses with my travel steamer.

A click of the suite’s front door catches my attention. I tiptoe over and peek my head out to discover Rafe has left. I breathe out a sigh of relief. We can do this. We’ll just stay away from each other. He wants to be as far from me as I want to be from him.

I shoot off an email to Belinda demanding she fix this mess. I’ve always suspected she hated me, and this only confirms my theory. The honeymoon suite.

Either Belinda has a better sense of humor than I’ve given her credit for, or she’s still mad about that time I accidentally spilled an entire glass of red wine on her during an office mixer. Someone knocked into me, and it wasn’t my fault, but she was wearing cream linen, and it was a massacre.

A short while later, I’m dressed in a sleeveless pink dress with a bordering-on-daring neckline and a ruffled skirt that stops mid-thigh, all paired with my shiny gold sandals. I untie my ponytail and let my black hair settle around my shoulders. The barely there waves have absorbed the humidity, turning my tresses into a waterfall of thick curls.

I massage the bridge of my nose as I feel the stirrings of a mild headache. Feels like a level 2 or 3. Sometimes, I can push through one of this intensity, but I don’t want anything ruining my evening. Digging into my tote, I take out my supply of painkillers and pop a couple into my mouth. After swallowing them with a gulp of water, I stuff my lipstick, phone, pill case, and key card into a little gold handbag and sling it across my body.

I head downstairs and back through the sprawling lobby to locate the Oceanside Bar.

The space is filled with pale wooden tables and chairs, with one wall entirely open to a swath of beach and the crashing sea beyond. The sun is setting over the water, painting the surface in glittering streaks of pink and orange. I inhale a deep breath of fresh, salty air.

This is pretty much heaven.

Rafe sits on a bench just beyond the entrance with his phone pressed to one ear. He runs a hand through his hair, rumpling it to annoying perfection. He’s changed into a pair of white shorts and a pale blue T-shirt that stretches over the bunched muscles of his shoulders and back like a second skin.

“Hannah,” I hear him say in a tone bleeding with exasperation.

I go still at the sound of her name.

“We’ve already talked about this,” Rafe sighs with obvious frustration, and I really should keep walking, but at this moment, it feels like it’s now my sworn duty to gather intelligence.

Molly and I were sure they’d broken up, but they’re clearly still talking. (Though he doesn’t sound that happy about it.)

What’s going on?

I don’t care. I just want to know.

He’s distracted and doesn’t notice as I pull out my phone, pretending to check something on the screen. I’m an espionage pro. He sits back and leans on the wall, his head falling against it. His eyes drift shut as if begging for strength.

“Look, I have to go. There’s a thing.” A pause. “Fine. Goodbye.”

He disconnects the call and stares at his screen for several long seconds, a muscle feathering in his jaw. He’s shaved since I last saw him, clearing away the day’s five o’clock shadow to leave behind smooth, lightly tanned skin.

“Trouble in paradise?” I ask, unable to help myself.

He looks over at me, his evil stare burning straight through the center of my soul.

“No,” he says, pushing up and disappearing through the crowd.

Okay, I deserved that. Obviously, he’s upset. I weave through the throng and spot him with his elbows propped on the bar. The bartender sets down a glass of scotch, which Rafe snatches up before taking a long sip.

“Sorry,” I say. “That was none of my business.”