Everything fits like it was made for her.
“Yeah, hey. Can you give me a minute? I need to finish something.” Before I can reopen my laptop, she spots the nametag I set out for her on the table and grins at it like it’s made of gold instead of plastic.
“I guess this makes me official, huh?” But as she goes to pin it on, she hesitates. “Is there maybe a lanyard? I’d rather not put a hole in my top.”
“No, but we do have polos,” I say, managing to keep a straight face even though the mental image of her trading that outfit forone of the McCleave’s uniforms is almost too much. “There should be extras in that storage closet.”
I lean back slightly and watch as she heads toward the door. Honestly, the polos are enough to make anyone reconsider their life choices, but she’s the one who wanted another option.
I let out a breath as she digs through the box, listening to the rustle of fabric and the soft, distressed sounds she makes.
It takes her forever to settle on one, and even then, she doesn’t put it on. She holds it up—shapeless navy blue and way too big for her—and looks at me.
“Rethinking putting a tiny hole in your own shirt?”
She looks genuinely conflicted. “Hey, how come you’re not wearing one?”
“I’m management.” Sort of.
“What about Tate?”
“Janitorial.” Then I add, “Bethany wears one, but if you’d rather help Tate clean bathrooms—”
“Nope, I’m good. I just want to wash this before I wear it,” she says, setting it aside on the couch. “Tomorrow, okay?”
We both know she’s not going to wear it, but maybe she’ll opt for something a little less distracting. If that’s even possible. “That’s fine. I need you back here today anyway.”
Her eyes brighten. “Because we’re researching Kezia?”
The hope in her voice is enough to make me wince. For a second, I feel bad about disappointing her.
“No.” I shake my head. “Inventory. I need you to go through all the gift shop merchandise on wooden shelves, mark down what’s running low and what we need to push. There’s a clipboard hanging by the door. Forms are self-explanatory.”
She sighs, but it’s more resigned than dramatic, like she saw it coming. Without arguing, she spins on her heel to grab the clipboard.
I wait until she’s fully distracted before reopening my laptop. The cursor on the blank document blinks at me, slow and accusatory.
Blink, blink, blink.
Shit, shit, shit.
The words won’t come.
In the background, Lili hums. It starts low, a soft undercurrent, but soon it grows into a murmur of lyrics. Then actual words.
It’s from a song I recognize, “Seaside” by the Kooks, and it pulls at the edges of my focus, dragging me back from the screen until I’m aware of nothing but the hum of her voice and the too-quiet room around us.
I put my glasses back on and force my attention back to the laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The nonsense script for Tate’s new “more engaging” tour isn’t going to write itself.
Finally, the rhythm of the keys drowns her out, and I manage a few paragraphs. It’s all crap, but at least it’s something.
“So, did you look through the photos I took yesterday?” she asks, breaking my fragile concentration. “I emailed them to you last night,” she persists, her voice closer now. “I’m particularly happy with the last one.”
Curiosity gets the better of me. Anything to avoid this awful script. I click over to my inbox and open her email.
The photos are... good. There are the requested shots of Tate, Eryn, and plenty of smiling tourists. But then I get to the last one, and I can’t help but laugh.
It’s a perfectly focused shot of her grass-scraped arm, hand, and one flipped-off finger.
