And spiraling leads to crying in hotel bathrooms.
And crying leads to blotchy eyeliner that no amount of patting with damp paper towels can fix.
But yeah. That’s my curse. I’m the participation trophy of dating. The silver medal. I’m the woman guys rediscover after they’ve crashed and burned pursuing girls with smaller waists and fewer opinions.
“Ivy, you’re different.”
Translation: You don’t require effort.
“I should’ve noticed you sooner.”
Translation: You were invisible until my Plan A ghosted me.
“You’re exactly what I need right now.”
Translation: I’ve downgraded my expectations.
Never the one they choose first.
I whisper my mantra. “You’re bold, you’re brilliant, you belong in the driver’s seat.”
A stupidly attractive guy wanders into view, andhello. Tall, polished, with sultry dark eyes that land on me. On my mumbling lips. He flinches.
Great. Wonderful. I’m totally not standing here muttering affirmations to a potted palm, I swear.
I flash my brightest I-am-not-a-crazy-woman smile and lift my smoothie in a jaunty little wave. He bolts for the elevator, never looking back.
Ugh.“You’re bold, you’re brilliant, you belong in the driver’s seat.”
This weekend needs to be flawless. Not good. Not passable. Flawless.
Because when the Director of Strategic Campaigns position opens up next month, I need to be the obvious choice. Not the safe choice, not the backup plan—the first damn choice.
But thanks to theabominationhanging above the reception desk, that dream is circling the drain.
“Hey… easy,” a voice says behind me. “You’re gonna melt that sign with your rage glare.”
That voice. Laid-back. Criminally sure of itself. And deep enough to feel it somewhere inconvenient.
Cole Hartwell. My work nemesis.
I whip around, primed to unleash a scathing comeback, and immediately realize…
I’m holding things.
My cup launches from my hand. Thick green liquid arcs majestically through the air. My powder-blue suit takes the hit.
KERSPLOOSH.
Cold gooey sludge splashes across my chest. My sleeve. My stomach. Something gelatinous hits my collarbone and starts sliding south. I can feel a chia seed, stuck to my cheek, judging me.
My iPad slips out of my grip.
“No—wait—”
I lunge. My heel slips.
Suddenly I’m pitching forward, arms pinwheeling like a malfunctioning inflatable tube man.
