I inhale as I realise there’s no sign of Jenny. Either Will never posted about her—and my recollection of Queen Bee Jenny Sharpe makes that unlikely—or he’s scrubbed her from his social media. A massively good sign. For the first time in my life, dating Will Sharpe might finally be on the table. The idea tickles the back of my mind. The centenary is in a month. Surely the staff would be able to run the place without me for a couple of nights?
I lean back in my desk chair, collecting a stack of papers with my elbow. Swearing, I bend to pick them up and discover a pale blue envelope. Tightness grasps my chest.The envelope’s colour and clear plastic window outs it as another letter from my landlord’s property management company.
If anxiety is my symptom, Pinnacle Property Investors is the cause. Ever since I inherited this, PPI has done nothing but make life hard for me. Endless requests for bank statements and inspection reports. Two-week delays if I want a repair for a leak in the roof or a cracked drainpipe.
I’ve got this, I chant inside my head.I’ve got this, I’ve got this, I’ve got this.
An obnoxious voice at the back of my brain laughs.
You haven’t got this.You’re terrible at this. And now you want to take a weekend off, as well?
“Shut up,” I say, my breath racing as I shove the voice back into the darkness of my subconsciousness. “Shut up. Shut up.”
A light knock on the doorframe. Davis is behind me, looking worried. “You good, boss?”
“Sure,” I squeak, sliding the offending envelope under a stack of bills.
I’ll panic about that later. In the shower, probably. Showers are great for panicking. It’s a trick I learnt in nursing—the sound muffles your moans, and people write off the red eyes and puffy cheeks because of the hot water.
Davis comes closer. “Really? Because you’re breathing all heavy. Do you want some water? Or I can—” He stops, eyes on my screen. “Never mind. I’ll just, uh, give you some privacy...”
My eyes dart to my laptop, where a full-sized picture of a shirtless Will Sharpe is currently filling the screen.
A shirtless man.
Heavy breathing.
Davis is staring at me like I’m the Bride of Chucky.
“Oh shit!” I yell, leaping up from my seat. “No! Not that!”
He backs away, horror painted on every line of his too-handsome face. “Not what?”
Jesus, he’s pretending he’s not thinking it. This could not get worse…
“Notthat.” I gesture futilely to my screen as I attempt to stoppanting like an anxious Saint Bernard. “I wasn’t doingthat. To that. I mean. That’s… That’s not something I do. Down here. At work.”
My cheeks are on fire. The only thing worse than traumatising my cute young bouncer with a panic attack is traumatising him by having him think he stumbled in on me masturbating to a dude’s selfie during a shift.
“It’s okay.” Davis’s cheeks go ruby red. “Everyone does it.”
“I don’t!”Well, that’s a lie. “Not atwork!”
“Sure.”
I cover my eyes. “I was just looking up someone from high school, I swear. The breathing was a whole other thing. A… meditation thing.”
I inwardly cross my fingers and hope Davis’s knowledge of meditation techniques is as limited as his wardrobe colour palette.
This shuffling retreat stops. “Meditation?”
“Yeah.” I uncover my eyes. “Two very distinct situations that might have looked like something else.”
“And your pants?” He gestures at my torso, eyes firmly on the ceiling.
Oh, for fuck’s sake… My jeans are still unbuttoned.
“Also a meditation thing. Comfort,” I babble, rebuttoning. “Helps me reach a higher state of relaxation.”
