Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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MAX HAS SEEN THE NOTIFICATION. I know for a fact that he gets them because he asked me to turn them on, so I'm literally responsible for my own (social) demise.
I can't unfollow him now. That'd be the icing on this cake of regret and eternal humiliation.
The best thing I can do is set my profile to private, which I quickly do.
Where were these cat-like reflexes five minutes ago? I wouldn't be in this mess if I'd paid more attention . . . or if I'd just laid off the gins.
I'll have to own what I've done. Play it off somehow.
Sobering up at supersonic speed, I plant my elbow on the bar, prop my chin on my fist, and blow out an exasperated breath. While I'm busy racking my brain for inspiration, I hear Jacob's voice reverberate around the club as he introduces himself and asks if everyone's having a good night.
Not really, mate, I think to myself. Just drowning in a sea of inner turmoil and embarrassment over here. What's new.
The crowd erupts into cheers and whistles, but I'm still just staring down at my phone like an anti-social loser.
Jacob's set is about to start—something we've been looking forward to all night—and this is my cue to shove my phone back into my purse and rejoin my friends, but everything about this recent development makes it hard to switch off. I can't pretend this doesn't change things.
Because Max is awake.
And he knows I'm thinking about him.
It feels like the calm before the storm, like I've given him some of the power back without meaning to, and I can't help but wonder what he's going to do with it.
The irony is, I have Max's phone number—his personal cell—and I've never felt this tethered to him outside of work. Sitting in this club, knowing he's probably looking at my little profile picture, too, does unspeakable things to my insides. Thousands of caged butterflies have been set free in the pit of my stomach, and they won't stop swooping and dipping, beating their tiny wings against vital organs I'm suddenly very concerned about.
Because I don't fully understand what's happening here. I just know he's the only person who's ever made me feel this way.
As terrifying as this all is, I tend to thrive under pressure. I love running off adrenaline, stepping out of my comfort zone, and aspiring to be fearless—you can only think about doing something for so long before you must act—so this isn't scaring me as much as it should be. If anything, I'm intrigued. Enticed, even.
Of course, I've also been drinking for the last four hours, so everything seems better—easier—when you're drunk and a little too eager to throw reason and logic to the wind.
