LYDIA

I made it through the rest of the day, though I have no idea how I did not perish on the spot, except to say that death by mortification must not be a quick way to go.

I stood in the break room with my new boss while she clarified that Rhys is the general manager—of the entire resort.

That was bad.

It got worse.

The resort is owned by Sutton Travel Corporation, which I knew—of course I knew that. I was thrilled to get a job at a large company with excellent benefits and I did my research. Sutton is headquartered out of Britain and operates in over fifty countries. Hotels, tour groups, cruise lines and now a luxury resort on the Las Vegas Strip. They've been in business for decades. They're known for nurturing talent and promoting from within.

The company was founded by William Sutton.

Rhys's grandfather.

So.

So that makes him some kind of part-owner, doesn't it?

I'm getting fired. Totally getting fired. I'm in human resources and I propositioned my boss' boss' boss for sex. What is wrong with me? Seriously. I'm better than this. I'm not that kind of girl. I'm good! I dot the i's and I cross the t's! I pay my bills early. I recycle! I do not proposition my boss for sex. Ugh. I'm so gross.

I squeeze my eyes shut every time I remember the train wreck that was me attempting to flirt. My first week at my first job and I'm going to get fired. I spent the afternoon wondering if I should fire myself. Should I just go ahead and process the paperwork? We covered the company process for severing employment in training yesterday so I know how to do it.

I didn't know what to do. So instead I carried my mug of whatever latte down the hall to conference room 4C. I kept my eyes down as I sat through a meeting with my team about the training set to begin on Monday. With the resort opening soon, the front-of-house staff are scheduled to begin in waves over the next three weeks. Meaning endless paperwork. Endless W-4's and I-9's that need to be completed. Checklists a mile long multiplied by several thousand new hires who will all need to start at virtually the same time. Early enough to ensure they're trained to company standards, but not so early that we've employees on payroll before the doors open. Easy. I took notes on everything, my mind whirling with a legion of thoughts, not all of which were on state regulations and benefit meetings.

Then I slunk back to my desk, waiting for the ax to fall. I jumped every time anyone walked past my cube, expecting it to be Bethany with a sad smile on her face as she asked if she could have a word with me.

It didn't happen. I even stayed an extra half hour to give her every opportunity to fire me before the weekend. You know, in case she was running behind schedule? But eventually I noticed her office light was off, so I assumed she'd left and if I was getting fired it wasn't happening until Monday. I grabbed my handbag and left my dirty mug on my desk for the entire weekend because the thought of going back to the break room gave me post-traumatic stress. It caused me some stress to leave a dirty mug sitting on my desk too, but you gotta pick your battles.

Once I was safely locked in my car I texted Payton and told her I had errands to run and I'd be home in a few hours. I needed time in my happy place before I'd be ready to talk about this day.

Then I pulled up the Goodwill store finder for Greater Las Vegas from my phone. I realize it's not the usual happy place for a twenty-two-year-old, but I'm not the most usual of twenty-two-year-olds.

It only takes me a moment to realize I've moved to the holy land of Goodwill stores. There are so many of them! There were only a few near my parents' house back in Knoxville, but there's at least a dozen here! And what is this, a Goodwill outlet center? No way! Wait. Dang it. The outlet center is only open on weekdays during work hours. Well, at least I have something to look forward to when I get fired. I'll be able to shop at the Goodwill outlet center as much as I want.

There are two locations between work and my apartment. I plug in the address of the first and pull out of the parking garage onto Las Vegas Boulevard. My limited experience in this city is that traffic is always bad on the Strip, but luckily I've got less than a quarter-mile before I can cut over to Convention Center Drive and get out of this mess. Fifteen minutes later I'm pulling into a strip mall off of Maryland Parkway. I find a space near the door and survey the store from outside. It looks like a good one—sometimes you can just tell these things, you know?

I sigh as I turn off my car and lock it. It's so pretty here. I know most people don't think that about Vegas, but it is. Once you get off the Strip it's lovely, all palm trees and desert landscapes. I hope I get to stay. I haven't blown it. I hope I don't have to call my dads and tell them I'm moving back home.

I step through the automatic doors and breathe in the reassuring smell of mothballs and dust as I grab a cart. Of course I'll need a cart. I make note that the color of the week is blue, which means anything with a blue tag I get for fifty percent off. I tap my fingers on the cart handle as I survey the store before making my way to the first rack of adult clothing. The sizing doesn't really matter because I'm going to launder everything and tear it apart. I don't even particularly care if it's women's clothing. I've turned men's suits into all sorts of things. Scarves, handbags, a cape. Once I made a dress out of a suit jacket.

Sometimes I find a great piece, but mostly it's junk I have to wade through and rework. I enjoy it. I find it very satisfying to take something that's been discarded and rework it into something new.

My old Girl Trooper leader, Mrs. Barnes, taught me how to sew. It's not a skill most young women learn anymore. It hasn't been for some time, I suppose. I could use new fabric, but fabric is crazy expensive. Plus it's so much more fun to hunt for it, like a treasure. I exhale and start at the end of a row, quickly flipping through the hangers. The tiny screech they make as they slide against the metal bar calms me. Slide, slide, slide. Pause. Examine. Repeat. Three rows in, I'm in the zone. The stress of the day eases while I focus on nothing but checking labels and prices, eyeballing if an item will have enough usable fabric to do anything with.

I'm halfway through the women's clothing when I look up and spot the hanging rack of sheets. Old patterned sheets, folded and hanging from pants hangers. I abandon the clothing racks as an idea forms. Pajamas. I could cut up the flat sheets and make pajama bottoms. I could use the wide cuffs from the pillowcases and the top sheet on the hemline of the pants. I could make shorts with the smaller leftover. Heck, I bet I could get at least one pair of shorts, a pair of pants and even a spaghetti-strap tank top out of each sheet! I've got a pattern at home, and elastic and everything else I need. I can spend the entire weekend measuring and pinning and cutting and sewing.

And not thinking about Rhys. Not thinking about the way he made me feel when he kissed me last weekend. Not thinking about the reaction I had to him. A reaction I've never felt before, not like that. Not thinking about the fact that he's my boss' boss' boss. Not thinking about the way he just stared at me this afternoon when I practically threw myself at him.

Which will be impossible. I'm positive the words 'and whatever else you want' will still be replaying themselves in my mind when I'm eighty years old.

Payton texts while I'm checking out. She doesn't know about my Goodwill hobby, so I avoid her question about where I'm at and tell her I'm on my way home. I've managed to spend over two hours in this store so I won't have time to stop at another one before closing anyway. She tells me to meet her at the pool when I get home. Says the hot tub is filled with hot men.

I tell her I have laundry to do, which is not a lie. I've got sheets to wash before I can start cutting them up.

"You're not getting fired, relax."

This tidbit of wisdom comes from Payton. I've been home for a couple of hours, washing and drying sheets. Payton returned from the pool to find me ironing them and just about lost her shit. She attempted to institute a roommate rule banning the ironing of sheets on a Friday night. Or on any day that ends in -day. I explained that I needed to iron the sheets as the story of my terrible, awful, very bad day tumbled out of me.

"I'm so getting fired. I work in human resources and I propositioned the general manager." My cheeks still get hot when I say it out loud. Or think about it.

"You likely made his day." Payton has showered and changed into yoga pants and a tank. Her blonde hair is still wet as she sits on a barstool at our kitchen island and watches me work. I've taken over our dining table with my cutting mat and sewing supplies, neatly lined up beside me as I work. I don't look up as I slide the rotary cutter across a layer of fabric, making a perfect cut on what is soon to become a pair of pajama shorts.

"Made his day? I don't think sexually harassing him made his day." I remove the pattern from the material and stick the pins into my pincushion, ensuring none of them go rogue and end up on the floor.

"Simmer down. You did not sexually harass him. Also, I still don't understand what is happening here," she says, waving a hand at the table. "You're turning old sheets into pajamas?"

"Yes. You want a pair?"

"Err, not really." Her eyebrows come together and her expression is all doubt.

"You will when I'm done," I assure her.

"If you say so. Now let's get back to Rhys."

"There's nothing to get back to. I've told you everything and I'm getting fired on Monday. I should be packing, not making pajamas."

"First of all, you're not getting fired. Second of all, you're not moving even if you get fired."

"You just said I wasn't getting fired!" I screech.

"You're not. But I know you like to think about the worst-case scenario, so let's do that."

That's true. I do enjoy thinking about all possible options. "Okay," I agree, sinking into a kitchen chair. I fiddle with the pincushion to keep my hands busy and wait for Payton to start.

"Okay, so let's say you walk in on Monday and you get fired." She gets up as she talks and walks to our pantry, returning with a box of Cheez-Its.

"Yeah." I nod. I've already visualized at least four different ways it could happen.

"So you'll walk back to your car, drive home and cry. I'll pick up pizza after work and we'll cry some more. Then on Tuesday you'll get a new job." She pops a Cheez-It into her mouth and shrugs one shoulder as if this solves everything.

"Payton." I groan and roll my eyes. "It doesn't work like that."

"It works exactly like that. We're in Las Vegas. There are jobs everywhere," she says, flipping open the lid of her laptop. "There are three hundred and thirty-four job listings on this job site using the keyword 'human resources.' Let's assume that two hundred of them are relevant, and assume you're qualified for fifty of them. That's fifty jobs you could apply for tonight!"

Well. I shrug. "It doesn't mean I'd get any of them."

"No, it doesn't," Payton agrees, snapping her laptop shut. "But you could waitress. You're a hot twenty-two-year-old with a great body, you'd kill it in tips. You'd probably make double what they're paying you at the Windsor."

"You think so?"

"I just talked to some girl at the pool. She said she quit her job teaching because she makes twice as much as a cocktail waitress at the Wynn."

"Shut up."

"It's true."

"Are you sure she wasn't a hooker?"

"She wasn't a hooker. But that's always a backup option for you." Payton says this with complete sincerity and it makes me burst into giggles. "Are you okay now? I can't go to bed until I know you're not going to stay up all night making sheet pajamas."

"I'm still mortified, Payton." I groan and drop my head into my hands, my hair falling in a curtain around my spread fingers. "I just stood there babbling about how good the kissing thing was and then I offered—I don't even know what I offered. I think I offered him carte blanche, because what does the word 'whatever' even include? It sort of implies anything and everything, doesn't it? I might have offered spanking and anal for all I know."

"Oh, you definitely offered spanking and anal."

"Argggh," I groan from behind my hands.

"You made his day, young grasshopper. Trust me on this. Besides, I saw the guy, you cannot be the only woman who's ever propositioned him. He's hot as fuck."

"So perhaps he's so used to women coming onto him that he won't even remember today?"

"Totally." She nods seriously and pops another Cheez-It.

"Doubtful, but I appreciate you lying to me in order to talk me off the ledge."