Derrick doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he picks up the envelope anyway. “I’ll make some calls tonight. See who’s available. No promises, but I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
I turn toward the door, then pause.
“Derrick.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He looks surprised. I don’t blame him. I’m not sure I’ve ever said those words to him before.
“You’re welcome, man.” He tucks the envelope into his desk drawer. “Now go home and try not to yell at anyone else today.”
I don’t make any promises.
4
IMANI
The parking lot at Shadow Suds is mostly empty when I pull in Thursday morning. Just Derrick’s car and a few others. Early shift, which means I might actually get an assignment today.
I grab my purse and head inside. The bell above the door chimes as I enter. The front office smells like lemon cleaner and fresh laundry, familiar scents that have started to feel like comfort over the past few weeks. I head straight for the employee area, stuffing my coat and hat into my locker, swapping my winter boots for the sensible work shoes I keep on the bottom shelf.
My uniform is simple. Black pants, gray polo with the Shadow Suds logo on the chest. Nothing fancy, but it’s clean and professional and mine.
I check my reflection in the small mirror on the inside of the locker door. My hair is doing its best to escape the bun I wrestled it into this morning. Thick curls straining against the elastic, a few rebellious strands already springing free around my temples. I tuck them back as best I can and close the locker.
Time to clock in.
Derrick’s office is just off the main hallway, a cramped space with a desk, a filing cabinet, and a time clock mounted on the wall. He’s there when I walk in, hunched over some paperwork, but his head snaps up the moment I appear in the doorway.
His eyes light up. That’s the only way to describe it. Like someone flipped a switch behind his face.
“Imani.” He straightens in his chair, a smile spreading across his features. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” I keep my voice warm but neutral, crossing to the time clock and punching in my number. The machine beeps, confirming my arrival. “Anything on the schedule for today?”
“Not yet. Assignments come in around nine. You know how it is.”
I do know. Thursdays are when we find out where we’re spending the weekend. The mountain cabins are the best gigs. Shifters who actually appreciate a clean home and tip accordingly. I’ve been lucky enough to land a few of those over the past month, and every extra dollar has gone straight into my shoebox savings.
“I’ll be in the laundry room if you need me,” I say, already backing toward the door.
“Imani, wait?—“
“Towels won’t fold themselves.” I flash him a smile and escape before he can finish whatever sentence was forming on his lips.
The laundry room is my sanctuary on slow mornings. Warm from the dryers, quiet except for the rhythmic tumble of fabric. I pull a load of clean towels from the machine and start folding, letting the repetitive motion settle my nerves.
Derrick is going to ask me out. I can feel it coming, theway you can feel a storm building on the horizon. The lingering looks. The reasons to call me into his office. The questions about my weekend plans that have nothing to do with work schedules.
He’s a nice guy. Genuinely nice, which makes it worse. Easy smile, kind eyes, the sort of steady presence that would have caught my attention a few years ago. He’s even my type, if I’m being honest. Tall. Put together. Responsible.
But I’m not doing this anymore.
I’ve spent too many years building up men. Pouring myself into relationships, giving more than I got back, watching them climb to wherever they wanted to be and then leave me behind for the woman they actually wanted. I’m tired of being the stepping stone. The practice girlfriend. The one who’s good enough until something better comes along.
