The apartment was empty when I woke up.
Door locked.
No trace of anyone else being there except for a faint scent of something expensive and masculine clinging to the air. And the fact that I was wearing only Jasper’s hoodie and my underwear, with absolutely no memory of how I got to bed.
Did I imagine him? The man with the dangerous green eyes and the voice like whiskey smoke? Because my drunk brain has a history of creating elaborate fantasies, but this one felt… different. Real. Like I could still feel—
“I want to deposit these,” Mr. Kaplan says, placing his bag of nickels on my desk like a sacred offering. “And I need to ask you something.”
“Sure,” I say, starting to count the coins while trying not to wince at the metallic clanking.
“You ever have one of those nights where you’re not sure if something happened or if you dreamed it?”
I freeze, a nickel halfway to the pile. “That’s… specific.”
“My late wife used to say the best nights were the ones you couldn’t quite remember. Usually meant you were living instead of just existing.”
Or it meant you got blackout drunk and potentially molested a stranger.
“Right,” I say weakly.
From across the office, I hear Stephanie’s voice cutting through the morning chatter. “Mary was late again. Third time this month.”
I don’t look up, but I can feel her eyes on me like a sniper’s scope. Stephanie Martinez—lead personal banking associate and professional mean girl who never quite left high school. She’s got perfect, blown-out hair, designer clothes on a bank salary, and the kind of smile that makes you check your back for knife wounds.
“Must be another ‘family emergency,’” her desk neighbor, Jessica, adds with air quotes audible in her voice.
My face burns. The family emergency was two weeks ago when my grandmother fell. But they act like I’m some chronic liar instead of someone dealing with actual life.
“Don’t mind them,” Mr. Kaplan whispers. “Misery loves company, and those two look like they’re running a franchise.”
I snort-laugh, then immediately regret it as my head pounds harder.
“So,” he continues, “this dream-or-not-dream situation. Was there a man involved?”
I nearly drop the nickels. “I’m sorry?”
“In my experience, when a woman looks like she’s been hit by a truck but can’t stop touching her lips,” he gestures at my mouth, and I realize I’ve been unconsciously running my fingers over my bottom lip, “there’s usually a man involved.”
Jesus Christ, am I that obvious?
“Mr. Kaplan, I don’t think—”
“Mary.” The voice cuts through our conversation like a blade through butter.
I look up to see Regional Manager Dave Thornton standing beside my desk, his arms crossed and his face set in that expression that usually precedes someone getting fired.
“Dave. Hi.” I straighten in my chair, trying to look professional instead of like someone who spent the morning dry-heaving into Jasper’s toilet.
“Conference room. Five minutes.”
He walks away without another word, and I feel every eye in the office turn toward me.
“Shit,” I whisper.
“Language, dear,” Mr. Kaplan says mildly. “But yes; shit, indeed.”
I finish his transaction in record time, hands shaking slightly as I print his receipt.
