Damn. You Perfect.
You look as edible as that recipe.
Recipe looks yum. You look DELICIOUS.
Can I kiss your belly button?
That bikini is everything.
The rest are just fire or heart emojis. I text Sienna back.
Me:What the hell?
Sienna:Again, you’re welcome.
Shaking my head, I collapse back on the bed, not sure I should be thanking her for comments like,Can I kiss your belly button?Dragging my laptop across the comforter, I pull up an episode ofThe Baking Challenge, rest the side of my head against the pillow, and try to focus. Exhausted from the sun, sea, and verbal sparring match with Landon, I make it about five minutes before falling into a dreamless sleep.
TWELVE
I wake up slowly, eyes squinting, mind sluggish and confused. I’m immediately aware that something’s different. Something’s missing.
It takes only a second for me to realize what it is. Sound. It’s the absence of sound. Of an alarm.
Rarely do I wake up organically, and I jerk to a seated position, staring horrified at the sunlight streaming through the blinds I usually shut at night. My hands fumble over the unrumpled sheets until they latch onto my phone, which I snap up to my face to read the time. I have to dismiss the millions of texts from Brit asking where the hell I am because it’s half-past nine and I’m late asfuck.
“Shit.” Realizing that I fell asleep without setting my alarm last night, I scramble out of bed and rush to the bathroom. My shift started at nine. I was supposed to be there at eight. “Shit shit shit shit shit shitshit.”
I curse as I splash my face with water, speed brush my teeth, and throw my hair into a messy ponytail. I curse as I drag on the wrinkled clothes from my last shift, sprint down the stairs two at a time, and scurry around the kitchen like a madwoman, searching for my keys.
And when I emerge from the house and approach my car, I let out the loudest curse imaginable because it’s clear the universe is punishing me for something. My damn tire is flat.
Saturday mornings at Golden Palm are awful, it’s their nature, and guilt overtakes me. Not only that, but one of the part-time servers is filling in for Jake today, and she isslow. I can imagine Brit’s eyes glazing over as she fights some sort of internal battle to not bitch the poor girl out and send her home in tears.
I weigh my options. One, I could change the flat, but I’ve never done it myself, and I don’t really have time right now to figure it out. Two, I could swallow my pride and beg for a ride from Dr. Dickbrain, but I have no idea if he’s here or what his schedule is on Saturdays. Three, I could call someone else. I yank out my phone and open my messages to text…no one. There’s no one. Everyone I know is working. Which leaves me with option number four—waste my hard-earned money on a rideshare.
I aim a useless—and stupid,ouch—kick at my car’s flat tire, then sigh, glancing back at the screen. I don’t even have any of the rideshare apps installed, so I’ll have to go back inside to download one, and set up an account, and input my credit card, and jump through a million different hoops.
I’m about to turn back toward the door when an unfamiliar car glides to a stop on the road in front of me. Expensive cars are no stranger to this neighborhood—Mel’s convertible is Exhibit A—but I don’t recognize this Rolls-Royce, and trust me, I’d recognize this car anywhere. I try to squint through the tinted glass, but I don’t have to. Before long, the driver’s side window rolls down, revealing the familiar face of Nathan Blair staring back at me.
“Car trouble?” he asks.
I blink at him, trying to decide if this is a trick question. “Um, yes?”
“Do I know you from somewhere?” He squints at me, dark eyes drifting over my outfit. I open my mouth to come up with some explanation, but recognition registers on his face. “You’re a waitress at the club, aren’t you?”
I nod, and then because I have no idea what else to do or say and the situation is extremely weird and uncomfortable, I start blabbing. “Yeah, that’s where I’m supposed to be right now, actually, but of course, I overslept and got a flat and so now I have to figure out how to work the stupid Uber app and today is just not my day.”
“Nonsense,” Nathan says with zero hesitation. “We can give you a ride. We’re heading to the club now.”
I stare at Landon’s dad in complete shock, not quite processing his words. “We?”
“Dad.” The deep, unwelcoming voice comes from behind me, and I whirl, not having heard him approach. “What are you doing here?” Landon asks his father, looking the opposite of thrilled. “I told you I’d meet you.”
“And I told you I’d pick you up, son,” Nathan answers. “Otherwise, I wasn’t sure you’d make it for our ten o’clock tee time.”
Landon turns to me and asks, “What areyoudoing here?” His dark eyes do a quick inventory of all my current flaws—messy hair, wrinkled shirt, shiny forehead—and one of his eyebrows twitches up.
I point to the flat tire. More word vomit ensues. “I’m supposed to be at work right now, but of course, I overslept and then I got a flat and I was about to call an Uber to come pick me up because everyone I know is working even though it’s a Saturday and I hate my life.”
