Well, I think we’ve made good progress,” Max says to me and Skylar, the other copy writer working on this project. He looks over our list of potential slogan ideas for the new cocktail we’re offering in our club locations. “Let’s rest on it and come back to these tomorrow.”

I give a relieved sigh and push away from the table, stretching my aching back. Times like this I miss having a bathtub. Showers don’t quite give the same effect of relaxation. Still, I’m looking forward to relaxing at home tonight, kicking up my feet, and having a glass or two of wine.

Max and Skylar talk about various projects they’re also working on, involving twitter ad campaigns. Soon I’ll be doing more things too, not just the couple of projects I’ve been assigned to. It’s only been two weeks since I started working here, but I was plunged right into the deep end on the first day. Probably some sort of test—Max was a little skeptical about me being brought on, given that it was out of the blue and he wasn’t consulted on my hire.

But when I gave him a few solid ideas for the Facebook ad campaign they’re running next week, he was pleased with my work.

“Are you coming?” Skylar asks me. Both of them are looking at me, and I realize I missed part of the conversation.

“Sorry, what?” I say with an embarrassed laugh. “My brain is leaking, I think.”

Max chuckles. “We’re going out tonight. We try to do a group happy hour a couple of times a month. Good way for us to bond.”

“Team-building,” Skylar says, rolling her eyes but giving a good-natured smile. “Don’t ask about the retreat Max made us do last year where we had to do trust falls.”

He gives her the stink eye, and she smirks. “Hey, you guys loved the weekend at the cabin. And you even helped the others with their fishing skills.”

“Correction. I taught you how to bone a fish. And how to get the worm on the hook. Wimp.” Skylar is short, like me, but she packs a fiery punch. Her dark red hair is shaved on one side, and she’s brawny and butch, with tattoos covering her arms. The woman is all smiles and sass, and I loved her the instant I met her. She reminds me of my cousin. Bold, in your face, and a crapload of fun to be around.

“Anyway,” Max says, his cheeks flushing. He turns his attention back to me. “So. We’re gonna arrive at Sammy’s Bar at eight. It’s down the street a few blocks. You should come out and join us.”

I bite my lower lip as my heart thrills. “I’d love to.” Yeah, I’m tired, but the opportunity to get closer to my colleagues? And to possibly start making friends? I can’t miss that chance. I’ll just make a strong coffee at home to perk me up.

We head out of the conference room and back to our desks. I have a cubicle, but it isn’t a bad-sized space, and it’s clustered with the other copywriters. There are a half dozen of us in total.

As usual, per my pathetic self, I find myself looking around during the walk for any sign of Aston. Not that I’ve seen him at all since I started working here. I have to admit, part of me is sad.

Part of me is missing him.

It’s a foolish thing, I know. To miss someone who called sex with me a mistake. But I know why he did—because I’m his employee. He’s right; we should never have done that. I won’t regret it though. I don’t. Because the intensity, the magic of that night made my first time so perfect.

I’ll get used to this, to the distance. It’ll be fine.

I finish my tasks, check work email, wrap up for the day. Take the subway back to the nearest exit by my apartments. Trudge in the dark through the snowfall that fell yesterday. It’s dirty and slushy now, not pretty like it was last night.

When I get inside the apartment, I’m hit again with a wave of fatigue. It’s tempting to just put on my pajamas and curl up here for the night. But it’s Friday. I’m supposed to be out there living, right? Experiencing independent life. I can’t do that if I just hole up inside. If I’m nothing but work, work, work.

My roomies are probably already out—those two are rarely ever home. They have a rich social life. Dating and having fun. I should try dating, I suppose. Not living at home, not being under the pressure of finishing school or finding a solid job…I can do this.

I should do this. It isn’t like Aston would care. He’d probably throw a party over it.

God, I’m so sour. I really do need a drink.

I take a nice, hot shower. Choose something sexy to wear, a short black skirt and backless red shirt, paired with my cutest knee-high black boots. Screw it—I want to feel pretty and desired. The way Aston made me feel, but for more than one night. I deserve that.

My makeup is on point, my hair curled, and I’m ready to go. I head back toward the subway and hit the bar a few minutes before eight. When I step in, I immediately slip out of my coat due to the warmth from the press of people. Wow, this place is crowded.

How will I ever find anyone?

I linger near the doorway, trying to be out of everyone’s way as best as possible. Clusters of business professionals are dressed up and standing around the bar, laughing and talking over the loud music. I’m so out of place. Bars aren’t usually my thing—well, at least they haven’t been. My dad has always been quick to give me statistics on assaults that happen in bars and due to drunkenness.

I shove thoughts of his lectures aside and crane my neck in an attempt to see if I spot anyone else from work. I see two men from accounting I vaguely recognize, but I don’t know their names, so I stay put.

“Gemma!” a bright voice says from my right. It’s Jenny, one of the copy editors. She grabs my elbow and tugs me away from the door. “You made it. Max said he invited you. So glad you’re here! We’re over by this table. I got here early, because I wanted to make sure we’d have a spot to stand. What do you want to drink? Let’s get you something. No wait, we’ll put your coat on a stool at the table.”

I am both amused and overwhelmed by Jenny’s stream of consciousness conversation. The woman can talk a person’s ear off, but she’s sweet and means well. “Um, okay.”

Max is there already, having a mug of beer. He waves when he sees me. “Gemma, good to see you!” At his side is a slender black woman with bantu knots, wearing a bold yellow dress. She’s stunning. “Gemma, this is my wife, Holley. I finagled a babysitter for the kids and convinced her to join us.”

We shake hands. “Pleased to meet you,” I say.

She smiles and sips on her glass of red wine. “So, you’re new, right? Max said you’re doing a great job.”

I give him a smile of gratitude. “He’s a great boss.”

“That’s right,” Max says with a laugh. He squeezes Holley closer to his side and gives her an adoring look that makes my heart squeeze in jealousy. The two are clearly in love. “Keep telling her how amazing of a person I am.”

Holley rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “This guy’s head won’t fit through our front door tonight. Don’t give him any further ammunition.”

“You got it,” I tell her in mock seriousness. “I’m gonna get a drink from the bar. Anyone need a reload?”

They all wave me off, and I head to the crowded bar, trying to push my way in past tall men in business suits. When the bartender finally sees me and asks for my drink order, I don’t know why, but I get the bourbon I had with Aston. The second I order it, I go to take it back, but he’s already walked off and is pouring it. Oh, well.

It’s just a drink. It doesn’t mean anything, other than I’m expanding my palate. That’s all. I pay him, adding two bucks for a tip—it’s hella crazy in here, but he still didn’t make me wait long—and squeeze through the throng. When I arrive, Skylar is there with her wife, a woman with bright blue hair pulled into a messy bun and wearing a flowing block print dress.

“Gemma!” she says in glee. “You’re here!” We do more introductions.

A few more people show up, and soon it’s a crowd. We’re laughing and talking about failed brainstorming attempts for ad copy from a recent print campaign. I’m beginning to relax and though I’m not contributing much to the conversation, I’m sipping my drink and enjoying the environment.

“Whatcha having?” Jenny asks me, peering at the amber liquid in my glass.

“Bourbon.”

“Now I see why Mr. Chandler hired you,” Max teases. “That’s about the only thing he drinks at company parties.”

I’m glad it’s rather dim in here, because my entire face flames at the mention of him. God, if they only knew. What would they think? Would they assume I got the job because of sleeping with him? I could try to explain all I want that it wasn’t about that, but who would believe it?

Probably for the best he’s kept his distance from me.

“Remember when Caitlyn jumped up on her desk at the Christmas party?” Skylar says. “And then threw up all over the punch bowl?”

Everyone groans and laughs, and then rush into talking about how the woman from programming managed to put a big damper on the most recent holiday party. Skylar eyes me, giving me a studious look, only looking away when her wife tugs on her arm and says she’s going to get a refill on her beer.

Shit. Maybe my blush wasn’t as subtle as I hoped it was. I’m going to have to be extra careful.

“What did you think of Aston when you interviewed with him?” Skylar asks me, sidling to my right. Everyone else is talking about previous antics at holiday parties. “Sorry, Mr. Chandler.” She rolls her eyes, and I laugh. “We’re supposed to be all proper at the office.”

“Well, we’re not there right now,” I point out, and she gives a nod of appreciation. “Um, I haven’t seen him since then, so I don’t really know what to think.” It’s as close to the truth as I can get.

“He’s a decent guy, I guess,” she says, sipping her golden beer. “Good boss. Fair with raises and promotions.”

“That’s nice,” I say as I take a chug of my bourbon. “Does he ever come to happy hours with you guys?”

She laughs. “No, I doubt he’s seen the inside of a regular bar in years. Too classy for us plebeians.”

The lingering taste of the drink reminds me of that night. Of the way it felt having him kiss me. And more. My heart gives a painful kick. I’m going to get a different drink next time. No more bourbon for me. Though the alcohol is seeping into me and making me more relaxed…and stoking my curiosity about the man and the company. “How long have you worked here?”

“Five years,” she says, beaming proudly. “I can’t see me leaving the company to work anywhere else. It’s a dream job.” Her brow quirks as she looks at me. “You’re a little flushed. You okay?”

“Me? Oh-oh, I’m fine,” I sputter. Shit. “Just buzzed,” I say. “You know how it is.”

Her lips curl in a smile. “Hey, it’s Friday night. Drink up!” Thankfully, she lets it go.

I decide my curiosity isn’t worth the possibility of her asking questions. If I show too much interest, it’ll raise a flag.

This is just a job, Gemma, I remind myself. Nothing more. What happened between he and I is in the past. I’m not going to think about it anymore.

“It’s time for shots!” Max declares as he brings a tray of shot glasses filled with clear liquid, along with a bunch of lemon slices and sugar packets. He passes them out, and I decide that I’ll do just one. It can’t hurt. “To the copywriting team,” Max says as he holds his glass up high. We all do the same. “We’re kicking ass and taking names.”

“Cheers!” we say, then do the lemon drop shots. I wince and laugh at the burn. It feels good to let go and have fun. Screw everything else.

* * *

My head is throbbing and my mouth tastes like dust.

I groan as I creak an eye open. Not sure what time it is right now, but last night’s drinks probably weren’t my best idea. Hangovers suck so much.

“Hey,” Andi says in a quiet voice. She brings over a glass of water and two white pills. “You look busted. Here’s some Tylenol to help with the headache. I also made some food.”

I take the offering and sip the water. “You’re amazing,” I say in a low tone. “Thank you.”

“Figured you might be struggling today.” She grins. “You were so funny last night.”

“I was?” I sift through my memory. I remember getting home and plopping down on the couch beside her and Janine, who were watching TV. Oh God, I was singing along with whatever musical they were streaming through Netflix. I groan.

“You probably shouldn’t quit your job for theater,” she teases me.

“Sorry,” I say.

“No, it’s okay.” She rubs my back. “Actually, it was good to see you relax and have fun. You’re always so serious. Now I know you’re human.”

“Oh, I’m feeling very human right now,” I say drolly. I sip my water, but my stomach gives a sick lurch. At least I’m not working today. Though I do have to rally for dinner with my parents later tonight. Ugh. I lean forward to get my phone off the coffee table. It’s dead. “Crap. What time is it?”

“It’s two,” she says.

“In the afternoon?” Shit, shit. I slept so much of the day away. Mental note, go easier on the drinks at the next happy hour. Not that I ever want to drink again after this.

Janine enters the living room, a towel around her head. She has on jeans and a loose shirt. “Hey, sleeping beauty,” she says to me.

I groan.

That makes her laugh. “Come on, eat. It’ll help with the hangover, I promise.”

The next three hours are rough, but I manage to eat the panini and fries Andi made. That, plus coffee, and the Tylenol finally working, help me rally enough that my hangover becomes just a faint shadow.

By six-thirty, I’m on the train, headed toward my parents’ brownstone. It’ll be my first dinner with them since I got hired. I know they’re going to grill me with a thousand questions. My dad might have been the official cop, but my mom was just as good as him at getting me to spill the beans.

No way am I going to tell them about the interview.

I make it to their front door and knock. It flings open, and Mom is standing there, a huge smile on her face.

“Are you kidding me with that knocking? This is still your home, Gemma-bug. Come on in!” She squeezes me tight. “Ooh, I missed you! Come in, I have dinner in the oven.” She pulls back and looks at me. Her eyes narrow. “You’re tired. You look tired. You getting sleep?”

I laugh and step into the living room. “Mom, I’m fine. I hung out with some coworkers last night.”

“Oh, good! You’re making friends.” Poor Mom. I know she’s trying to be supportive, but it’s like she forgets I’m not five and she has to applaud me for the most basic things. “Here, I’ll take your coat.” She hangs it up on the rack near the door. “You want something to drink? Maybe a glass of wine with dinner?”

I fight back a groan. It’s the first time my mom has ever invited me to have wine, and I want to pretend alcohol doesn’t exist. “How about water?”

Her nod of approval makes me want to laugh. If only she knew why I was being so responsible today.

“I heard my pumpkin come in.” Dad’s voice comes from the bedroom, and he walks down the stairs, wrapping me in a big hug. “Good to see you, Gemma.” He too gives me a once-over. “You’re not eating enough. You’ve lost weight.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m fine, Dad. Trust me, I’m eating.” When I have time, anyway. During the day, I’m crazy busy at work. To distract him, I pat his flat belly. “You look great. Retirement is doing well for you.” Dad retired six months ago, but he hasn’t let that stop his disciplined routine. I’m sure he still gets up at five-thirty to work out in the nearby gym.

“Thanks. I’m thinking of getting a part-time job somewhere. Maybe doing security. Getting bored sitting at home all day. I’m sure your mom would like me to get out of the house and stop bugging her, too.”

“You got that right,” she teases from the kitchen at the top of the stairs.

I watch the easy relationship between my parents in a new way I hadn’t noticed before. How comfortable they are, yet still affectionate. Over two decades of being married, and they still are in love with each other.

I’d like to pretend ignorance about why I’m so aware of love and relationships lately. But I know why. My ego is still smashed up a bit from Aston’s dismissal of me post-sex. Even so, I can’t stop thinking about what happened. Wondering what it would be like to have a man like him love me.

Not that I’d love him. How could I? He’s arrogant. Distant. A user.

No, not a user, my brain chastises. I knew what I was getting into and I wanted it just as much as he did. To call him that is unfair and inaccurate. But the way he shut his emotions off like that, pushed me out? That won’t work for me.

Even if I can still remember the way he touched my cheek and said I was beautiful. There was a genuineness in his eyes.

I shake off thoughts of him. I’m not thinking about him anymore. He’s just my boss. My boss’s boss, even. Nothing else.

I help Mom prepare the table, and we dig into her chicken cordon bleu, asparagus, and rice. It’s a solid meal. God, I’ve missed her cooking. In between bites, I tell her so.

She smiles. “You know you can come over anytime.” A pause. “Though…if you want to stay the night, I’m going to need a bit of warning. We converted your bedroom into a den.”

I give a mock gasp. “What? I’m hurt.”

“So, pumpkin, how is work going? Tell us all about your new job,” Dad says, taking another bite of chicken.

I go into the rehearsed spiel I practiced on the train ride here. How I help come up with copy for various ads and strategies to promote the clubs and its features.

“Sounds fancy,” Mom says. “I bet the cocktails are expensive there.”

“It’s definitely not cheap,” I agree. “But I can see how people like to indulge in an environment like that once in a while. It’s really an experience.”

“So when are you planning to apply to law school?” Dad asks.

I suck in a breath. When I got this job and called them on the phone to share the news, Dad was surprised. My goal was to find a job at a legal firm and go back to school to get my law degree. “I’m…not sure,” I hedge. Truthfully, even though it’s only been two weeks, I’m loving what I’m doing. It challenges me creatively in a way I never would have guessed.

“So you’re not going to,” he says flatly. I can hear the disappointment in his voice. “All that work you did in college was to prepare for a career in law.”

“I know,” I tell him. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t change my mind.”

“Well, you know law school will always be there for you if you want to,” Mom says gently, trying to soothe things. She’s always the mediator between me and Dad when we get in the rare fight. It usually doesn’t get that far—because in general, I cave and listen to him.

Except about this.

“I’m just surprised, is all,” Dad says, not looking at me. “You’re not one to turn on a dime. Not sure what to think of this.”

Mom pats my hand. I don’t respond to him, just pick at my rice with my fork. It’s the same old thing. Dad is happy when I’m doing what he thinks is best for me. But when I veer off the path, suddenly things change. It’s frustrating. I can’t live my life for him—I have to do what I want to. It’s past time I stopped making decisions based on pleasing my father, or out of fear that he implanted in me with statistics and warnings.

Dinner ends on an awkward note. I give him a stilted hug, then Mom, and I leave, declining Dad’s offer to drive me. I don’t want to be trapped in a car with him and get more lecturing.

It’s dark outside. Thankfully the train station is only a couple of blocks away. I bundle up tighter in my coat. The chill in the air freezes my cheeks, but I’d rather be out here than back in there. Why does he still act like I’m a child? I’m living on my own now, making enough money to support myself. Is it the grandest living possible? No, but it’s mine, and I’m proud of it.

I just wish he was too.