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But it’s no use. Someone is calling me, and they evidently don’t know I’ve decided to spend the rest of my life in bed. Well, not the rest of my life, but more like until I have to wake up and head to Wendy’s Bridal to meet my mom and Sadie and the rest of the bridesmaids for our final fittings.
Another stupid ring fills my ears, and I blink open my eyes and reach out from beneath my blankets to snag my phone from the nightstand.
Still under the covers, I squint to check the caller, but my vision is too damn blurry to make out what’s on the screen. From what I can see, it’s just a bunch of damn numbers.
I make a mental note to change my ring tone because it’s quite possibly the most annoying sound that’s ever existed and hit accept on the caller, fully expecting some asshole telemarketer to be on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” I grumble and shut my eyes again.
“Hi, is this Maybe Willis?”
“Yep. You got her.” And I guarantee I don’t want whatever shit you’re peddling.
“Oh hello, Maybe,” the man greets in a friendly voice. “This is Taylor McHough.”
That name has me sitting straight up in my bed.
“Taylor McHough?” I question and blink my eyes several times. “With Beacon House?”
“That’s me. Did I interrupt something?”
“Uh…no…no, not all,” I stammer.
“Well, I apologize for calling you on a Saturday, but I didn’t want to wait until Monday,” he continues. “I really enjoyed our chat yesterday, and after speaking with a few of the editors on my team, we’ve all come to the conclusion that you would be a fantastic asset at Beacon House.”
“I would?”
“You definitely would,” he responds, and I can hear a hint of a smile in his voice. “So, Maybe Willis, consider this an official job offer.”
“You’re offering me the job?”
“I am,” he answers.
“Holy sh—Oh God. I mean, wow. Okay. Wow.”
“I take it you’re a little surprised?”
“Uh…yeah, just a teensy bit.” An embarrassed laugh leaves my throat. “I thought you still had more candidates to interview and that I wouldn’t hear from you until next week…”
“After interviewing you, I decided it wasn’t necessary. I know you’ll be a perfect fit.”
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
“I don’t even know what to say.” I lift my hand to cover my mouth.
“Well, I’m hoping you’ll say you accept.”
“Of course, I accept!” I exclaim a little too loudly, and I cringe. “Ugh. Sorry. I’m a little excited, but I promise I’ll work on my volume control before my first day at the office.”
He chuckles softly. “I don’t consider that a bad thing, Ms. Willis. And let me be the first person to welcome you aboard. I have a feeling you’re going to do great things here.”
By the time we end the call, I know I’ll be starting with the next round of orientees next month, and that a woman by the name of Ruth in HR will be sending a whole packet of information to my apartment in the next week or so.
I also know that I got the fucking job. At Beacon House.
Oh. My. Gawd!
I toss my phone down onto my mattress, jump off my bed, and dance around my bedroom in my underwear. Booty-shaking. Twerking. The robot. I’m doing all of the moves.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” My voice bounces off the walls, and I throw myself back onto my bed and squeal. “I don’t have to work with Bruce anymore!”
I feel exhilarated and insane and, hell, I need to tell someone!
I snag my phone back off the bed, and without even thinking, I find Milo’s name in my text message inbox.
With one tap of my finger, I pull up our most recent conversation and, just as I start to type out a message to tell him the good news, the reality of our situation crashes down on my shoulders and ties a firm knot inside my chest.
Fuck.
I reread his message from earlier this morning, the one that asked me if he could come over and talk.
I reread my brush-off of a response.
And then, the memories of last night flood into my mind.
It was quite possibly the worst night of my life.
And, yeah, that’s one of those things people tend to use in dramatic generalizations.
Flat tire on the way home from work? Worst night of my life.
My DVR didn’t record the Project Runway Finale? Worst night of my life.
Those Taco Bell chalupas gave me the shits? Worst night of my life.
I can attest to experiencing at least two of the above.
But I can also guarantee that last night was, in fact, The. Worst. Night. Of. My. Life.
A girl doesn’t get naked, throw herself at the man she’s in love with, beg him to take her virginity, and then, have said man tell her he “can’t do it” without it actually being an experience she wishes a lobotomy could cure.
