There's someone in my bed.

I stare at the head of dark hair beside me, trying to recall

his face. Trying to recall anything really. I have vague

memories of sitting at a bar, an empty shot glass in front of me

and the weight of warm hands on my hips. But everything else

is a blur.

That, of course, can be explained by the mounting ache

behind my eyes and the fact that my mouth feels like I

coughed up a furball.

I lie back against the pillows, annoyed with myself. On a

work night as well. I'm usually more disciplined than this.

There's a sharp buzz beside me and I reach for my phone

on the nightstand. Seven a.m. A calendar notification reminds

me what I'm supposed to be doing right now and I text Claire,

my roommate, my reason to cancel.

I can hear her outside my door, moving around the kitchen

before she suddenly goes quiet. Her response comes a moment

later.

Why do you always sleep with someone when you're

supposed to go for a run with me?

I can't help nighttime Sarah, I message back. She hates

daytime Sarah.

Claire doesn't answer, so I ease myself into a sitting

position and pull the charger from my phone, letting the cable drop noisily to the floor.

The man beside me doesn't so much as flinch.

I hate the heavy sleepers.

"Hey there." I poke his bare shoulder as I swing my feet to

the floorboards. His skin is warm under my touch, the only

indication he's even alive. I clear my throat.

Nothing.

Fine.

Butt-naked, I dart the few steps to my bedroom door and

grab my robe, wrapping it around me. I need a shower. My

hair sticks to the back of my neck, sweaty from a hot

summer's night and whatever else I did. We did. I don't need

to look in a mirror to know my makeup is probably smeared

all over my face.

I pry the door open and then, with a warning glance at

Claire who's waiting curiously in the hall, slam it shut again.

The man wakes with a start, almost falling to the floor as

he jerks upright.

"I'm so sorry," I croon, approaching the bed. I don't touch

it. That would imply I'm getting back in. "Did I wake you?"

"No," he lies, his voice gruff with sleep. He twists to look

at me and the sheet falls, revealing his chest. I keep my eyes

on his face. His bleary, handsome face. Blue eyes peer out

beneath thick eyebrows, now drawn together in confusion. My

friend Soraya would say he has a superhero jaw. I think I may

have licked it.

"I'm sorry it's so early," I say. "But I've got to get to

work." I smile my usual smile, polite and encouraging, a little

apologetic.

He blinks at me. It's like I'm watching his mind wake up

in real time. "You're kicking me out?" His Irish accent grows

stronger as he speaks, the same one that had me melting last

night.

"I'm going to work. Don't you have to go to work?"

"Not really, no."

I force back a sigh. Usually, they're halfway around the

block by now. "Okay. I do. So… up." I grab his T-shirt from

the floor, which feels less personal than the boxer shorts next

to it and toss it to him. It lands somewhere where I think his

knees are.

He makes no move to put it on.

"Do you want to get some breakfast?" he asks.

Breakfast? My headache intensifies.

"I'm sorry if you misunderstood. But I need you to leave

so I can leave."

"Why can't I stay?"

"Because you might steal something if I leave you by

yourself."

"Why can't you stay with me?"

"Because I—" I break off at the smile on his face. He's

teasing me. I relax a bit. I can take teasing. I'm chill. "Because

I have to go to work," I finish.

He grabs the T-shirt and pulls it on over his head. Finally. I

tie my robe tighter around me and try to remember what I need

to do today. Pack. Dry cleaning. Pedicure.

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Tonight?" I'm momentarily distracted by the muscles in

his arms. "I'm busy."

"Tomorrow?"

"I'm busy all nights," I say, trying to communicate the

obvious thing that is happening between us. This time at least

he seems to get it.

He scratches the side of his face and the hint of stubble

there. He almost looks surprised. "I don't usually sleep with

someone an hour after I meet them."

"Well…" I spread my hands out, losing patience. "I do."

There's a beat as he stares at me. Then he grins. "Fair

enough." And with that he flips the sheet off his body and

stands, naked from the waist down.

Okaaay.

I mutter something about giving him privacy and slip out

of my bedroom.

Claire waits in the kitchen, dressed in her expensive

running clothes.

"Did he go?" she asks, confused.

"He's getting dressed." I smooth the crow's nest that is my

hair. "Then he's going. I promise."

"Hey, I'm not complaining. This is the closest thing I get

to sex these days."

"Funny." But true. With her fancy, long-hours job Claire

often says she needs to live through me.

"You got mail by the way. I left it out for you last night

but, obviously, you were distracted." She passes me an

envelope from the counter. "I think it's your passport. Cutting

it a bit close, aren't you?"

I rip it open, ignoring her. I am cutting it close. But that's

because with all my planning for my upcoming trip, I

completely forgot about the most obvious thing I would need.

Thankfully, it is indeed my passport, a leathery blue booklet

that looks very official in my hands.

"That's not a bad photo," she says, peering over my

shoulder.

"I should have worn my hair down. I look like an alien."

"I look like a serial killer in mine."

We both fall silent as the bedroom door opens. My onenight stand enters the room, thankfully fully dressed.

"Good morning," Claire calls sweetly, twirling one of her

braids over her shoulder. "Coffee?"

The man smiles gratefully. "Coffee would be great."

"No," I say. "He can't have coffee. He's leaving."

Claire stares unabashedly as I shepherd him out, pushing

him with two fingers toward the door.

"Are you this pushy with all your conquests?" he asks. He

doesn't sound annoyed. Only amused.

"I don't usually have to be."

I feel his silent laughter under my hand. I stop touching

him and open the door.

He steps out into the hall, turning to face me. God, he's

good-looking. I'm shallow, I know. But a part of me is very

pleased I managed to snag him.

"I had a great time last night," he says.

"I'm glad. Me too."

"A lot of chemistry."

"A lot of tequila," I correct.

He nods, looking serious. "Also, true. Now, it might just be

me, but it feels like you're trying to stop whatever's happening

here."

"Nothing's happening. I'm kicking you out of my

apartment."

"I get that. Or you could—"

"Goodbye," I say firmly and shut the door in his face.

Done.

I turn triumphantly back to the room but Claire only

frowns. "I have never been more disappointed in you."

"What?"

"What?" she mimics. "Did you see him? Better yet, did

you hear him?"

"I saw him. I heard him. And now I'm taking a shower."

"For someone so smart, you can be extremely dumb

sometimes," she calls after me. "And you owe me a run!"

It's a beautiful summer's morning in New York. Blue-skies,

green-trees, glittering-skyscrapers beautiful. The weather app

on my phone says it's sixty-five degrees and I barely last five

minutes outside before I'm shrugging off my jacket. In a few

hours the temperature and humidity will creep up but for now

it's perfect and I hurry through the city, the soothing tones of

an NPR podcast murmuring in my ears as I join the throngs of

people on their way to work.

It's a twenty-minute walk from my apartment in the East

Village to the offices of Baxter & Sons Architects, located just

off Union Square. Offices might be the wrong word. We take

up half a floor of a midsized, glass-walled building that sits

above a Chipotle and a nail salon that never seems to be open.

And it's not so much Baxter & Sons as it is just Baxter.

Harvey's kids left years ago to start their own firms but he

kept the name so he wouldn't have to change all our branding.

Despite the delay to my morning, I arrive a good thirty

minutes before I'm supposed to, only slightly out of breath.

The place is mostly empty but my cubicle buddy, Will, is

already there, halfway through a fruit cup. Not a morning

person, he barely gives me a grunt as I sweep in. Normally, I

wouldn't say a word to him for at least another hour, but as I

tug out my earphones, I spy a large takeout coffee next to my

keyboard.

"What's this?"

"A latte," Will says, spearing a strawberry with a small

plastic fork.

"Why?"

"Do I need a reason to get my co-worker a coffee in the

morning?"

I dump my purse on my desk. "What do you want?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Harvey came by."

Ah. So that's what the coffee is for. Not a bribe but a

commiseration.

I pick up the tall cardboard cup and take a sip.

"Maybe because he picked the wrong person," I say

lightly.

"Glad to hear you're over that."

I make a face.

It's been three weeks since I lost out on a promotion. Three

weeks since Harvey gave the job to Matthias. Hard-working,

good-looking Matthias who always brings in snacks and

always says hello. He organized the office to get flowers for

my birthday and has twice loaned me his large man umbrella

when it was raining because I'd forgotten mine.

That's how annoying this whole thing is. He's not even my

enemy, so I can't even hate him. I'm happy for him.

And miserable for me.

All the articles online say that when something like this

happens you should start looking for a new job. But getting a

new job is stressful. It means secrets and sneaking off to

interviews and evenings lost to prep work.

It's making an effort when I don't particularly want to.

Unless I'm forced to.

I turn on my computer, dread settling in.

"Aren't you going to go see Harvey?" Will asks, a little too

innocently.

"I'm going to wait until after your ten o'clock with Yasmin

so you two have nothing to talk about."

He scowls, finally looking at me. "Spoilsport."

"Gossip."

"If he fires you, I'm taking your desk."

He dodges the pencil I throw at him and goes back to his

breakfast.

But he's right. I should go see Harvey, bite the bullet

before the rest of the office gets in. But my thoughts instantly

change track when I log in and see an email from Annie.

Annie's been my best friend for over ten years since we

shared a room at NYU. I was studying architecture. She

hopped around before settling on art history but then got a job

in HR straight after graduation and, in her words, never looked

at a painting again. She's great at trivia nights though.

Last year, she and her fiancé Paul moved to London for his

job, completely disregarding the drunken promise we made at

nineteen to always be there for each other. It broke my heart to

see her go but they're coming back to New York this winter

and we've spent the last few months making plans for all the

things we would do.

But first comes the wedding.

And not just any wedding. An Irish wedding.

Paul is from a small village on the east coast of Ireland and

it didn't take much persuasion to get Annie to agree to a

summer ceremony in the Irish countryside. It took even less

persuasion to get me to come too.

I am the maid of honor and have never been more excited

about anything in my life.

What better reason to splash a good chunk of your savings

than for the happiest day of your best friend's existence?

And judging by the high-priority-marked email she's sent

me, the happiest day of mine too.