Literally.
If I stand in the center with my arms spread, I can almost touch both walls.
The "kitchen" is a hot plate and a mini-fridge that sounds like it's actively dying. The bathroom is so small I have to sit sideways on the toilet.
But it's mine.
In NewYork City.
Only a twenty minute subway ride from my dream job.
The dream job where my boss is the man I had the best sex of my life with four weeks ago.
“FUCK!” I scream to the empty apartment, then immediately feel bad because my upstairs neighbor is definitely going to hear everything I say through these paper-thin walls.
I drop my purse on the floor—there's no table, that arrives next week—and beeline for the one thing I unpacked immediately.
The wine rack Sasha gave me as a going-away present.
"For emergencies," she'd said.
This definitely qualifies.
I grab the corkscrew and a bottle of red that I know absolutely nothing about except that it cost more than I should have spent.
My hands are shaking so badly it takes three tries to get the cork out.
When it finally pops free, I don't even bother with a glass. Just take a swig straight from the bottle like the professional mess I am.
The wine tastes like regret and about three more screams of ‘fuck.”
I sink onto my air mattress—the actual bed also arrives next week—and stare at the ceiling, replaying the entire excruciating evening in my head.
The moment I saw him across that room, looking like he'd stepped out of a cologne ad in his perfectly tailored suit, I knew I was screwed.
And not in the fun Miami way.
In the "my entire career is about to implode" way.
Donovan.
Just my luck that Don wasn’t short for Donald or Donnie or any other normal name.
It was short for Donovan Titan Mitchell—CEO and founder of the company I'd just agreed to work for.
The universe has all the humor of a sadist.
I take another swig of wine and pull out my phone, immediately FaceTiming Sasha and Riley on our group chat.
They answer within seconds, and I can tell from their faces that they've been waiting for this call.
"Emergency wine deployment?" Riley asks, seeing the bottle in my hand.
"Oh, this is bad," Sasha agrees. "This is 'finished the entire bottle before nine PM' bad."
"It's worse," I say. "So much worse."
"Did you get fired on your first day?" Riley leans closer to her phone. "Did you accidentally insult someone important? Did you—"
