It's 4:23 when I'm able to lock the doors at the Dream Bean. Closing early is against Hank's rules, but if he knew why I'm in such a hurry, I'm sure he'd be okay with it. Crossing Howe Street, I grab my phone from my bag and check to see what time the newspaper office closes— 4:30 on Fridays. The Southport Anchor is only five blocks from here. It's almost riverfront, so I'll make it with a minute or two to spare.

I pause to check my reflection in the dark window of the toy shop on the corner of Howe and Moore. My hair is still in braids from my shift, and I look like a little kid. Pulling my hair ties from the ends of my hair, I run my fingers through the braids to brush them out. Sniffing my shirt for freshness, I get a whiff of dark-roasted coffee beans— not an awful smell, but for a first impression, I'd hoped for better. As is, I'll be the girl who wreaks of coffee. Digging in my bag, I search for an extra T-shirt or tank that I might have shoved in here from last week's girl's night with Brooke. Any other random Friday, I could probably find something suitable. But the only piece of clothing I feel is the Boxley Brothers shirt I'd acquired last night. And while I guess there are worse ways a person can smell, showing up wearing a T-shirt three sizes too big won't be flattering either.

Passing the chocolate shop, I think back to what John had said in his voicemail. Was he really sorry? I can't remember whether he'd spoken the actual words, I’m sorry, but he at least sounded it. Anyone would have been spooked at the idea of their girlfriend being pregnant, right? Isn't that a typical reason for someone to peace out?

In my disheveled mind, I decide to call him back. Not right now, that'd make me too eager. Maybe sometime next week— make him sweat a little. My palms begin to grow hot even thinking about it. Brooke will despise the idea, that's for sure. But as hard of a time she gives me for it, it isn't Brooke's relationship. Or non-relationship, I should say. John could show up at my house with a diamond ring and a sobbing apology, and it still wouldn't sway Brooke from thinking him the devil.

A car horn blares from beside me and kicks up my nerves. I dart across East Bay Street to The Southport Anchor office and glance at my phone— 4:28.

Shit. I need a smoke to calm myself, but deciding there's not enough time, I throw open the heavy glass door at the front of the tall brick building.

“Can I help you?”

Panting from my rushed walk over here, I look up to find a stout, mousy-looking woman with dull brown hair staring at me from across a desk. "Yes, hi. I uh." It takes me a second to catch my breath. "I need to speak to someone about running a press release, please."

Standing, she digs in her purse and pulls out a set of keys. “You realize we close at 4:30, right?”

"Oh, yes ma'am," I say, running a quick hand through my hair. "I looked online, and it says you're open until 4:30 today?" I grab my phone again to glance at the time and drop it right back in my bag. "And it's 4:29."

The woman purses her lips. She's obviously not amused about staying past quitting time on a Friday evening, and I don't blame her. I hate that I'm even standing here right now, but I have no choice. Staring down at the silver watch on her thick wrist, she shakes her head. "Sorry, honey. You'll have to come back Monday. We're already closing—"

"—You're fine to leave, Bridget," a deeply rooted voice says from my right. "I'll take it from here."

I turn toward the open office door to find—

Oh my God. That hot, adorable nerd that I made out with in the middle of a meadow. My mind jolts back to last night. Pitch black dark, cheap beer, the Boxley Brothers, rainstorm. Shit. This man touched my tits last night. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in the heat of my cheeks.

"Are you sure, Mason?" Bridget asks wrinkling her forehead. "I don't mind staying if—"

He nods. “Absolutely. Go enjoy your weekend.”

After thanking him a little too desperately, Bridget brushes past me and slides through the front door as Mason and I stand in silence staring at each other.

"Well," I say, exhaling my sudden onset of insecurity. "This took an awkward turn."

Mason traces the same path to the glass door that Bridget had and locks the deadbolt. The force with which he turns the lock and the arrogant shade of annoyance I can now read on his face makes me feel frantic and trapped. Digging in my bag, I feel around for my phone in case I need to call for help. I take a few steps backward toward the chairs lined against the front windows. But I end up stumbling into a small coffee table scattered with colorful magazines. "You gonna murder me or something?" I ask, knowing it won't be funny but not being able to stop the freaking words from coming out of my mouth. My palms grow damp, and I want to beg him to speak. His silence is impenetrably loud.

Shaking his head, Mason walks back to the door frame and leans against it. He feigns a smile. It's one of sympathy, maybe even bordering on pity. "You and I both know I wouldn't be able to get away with that in broad daylight, Ellie. Can you imagine how the headline of that one would read?" He chuckles at his joke and scrubs a hand over his jaws.

"So what can I do for you?" His tone is professional with an edge of courtesy. But there's something about the set of his jaw that makes me sense an underlying thread of hostility in him. Is he mad that I didn't give him my phone number?

"About last night…" My nerves waver at the fact that I shouldn't have to give my number to someone if I don't want to. But why should that impact things on a professional level? He's a bigger jerk than I could've imagined if that's what he's thinking. When I speak again, my voice is raspy, more careless sounding. "I swear I didn't know you worked here or else—"

"Or else what?" he snaps causing me to grip my bag tighter.

"Or else I wouldn't have come here. Look, I just came needing to talk to an editor about press since I'm helping to organize the—" my voice dies down. "But you're clearly not the—"

"I'm the Editor here," he says curtly. "What do you need?"

"You're the..." I finally register his words which causes my mind to implode, and suddenly, I feel like I can't breathe. "Oh, shit. Really?" Without being able to hold it back, I fall into a serious fit of nervous laughter. "You really are a nerd," I grin, the beginning of high-strung tears starting to sting my lash line.

Not finding my uncontrollable hilarity amusing, he sighs. His cordial smile fades into an expression of patient irritation. "What do you want, Ellie?"

His complete lack of empathy sobers me, pulling me from my craze.

What am I doing? Yes, I may have charmed this guy into making out with me last night, but he's made it very clear that without the mask of alcohol and a shared connection, I am an off-putting, completely ridiculous mess of a human being. One with which he wants nothing to do.

Clearing my throat, I dive into the only plea I'd come prepared with today. "The Stars Over Southport Music Festival is in three weeks, and we're hoping to have a press release in the paper. Or maybe someone to interview the bands and do a little promo," I spew, my throat feeling dry. "It's the first year for the festival, so no one knows about it yet, and we're hoping to spread the word."

He runs a hand down his face, slowly nodding. “I’ve heard of it. What’s the lineup look like?”

“Actually, it’s amazing,” I say, thinking I’ve finally cracked him. I dig through my bag looking for an extra flyer but realize I handed Brooke the last one for the corkboard at the coffee shop. “We’ve been working like crazy over the past few months to pull everything together.”

"And somehow," he drawls, his voice stretching with an edge of heat, "actually advertising the event didn't come up until three weeks beforehand."

My stomach knots itself at his tone, and I shake my head. "That was tacked on to my responsibilities last minute," I say, my voice now small. "I didn't realize—"

"Funny how that works, isn't it? Look, I'm sorry, but we don't cover events that don't advertise with us."

Swallowing hard at his rejection, I take a deep breath. Who is this asshole? This is not the same Mason I swapped spit with last night. He was gentle at the show and had seemed eager to share our passion over our love for the band. Or maybe I was too hammered to know any better. With a sigh, I decide to try once more. "Like I said, this is only our first year doing it. Paid advertising isn't exactly in our budget."

With a small frown on his lips, he crosses his arms over his tight chest, still eying me but not saying a word.

"Mason, this could be huge for Southport. You and I both know that. This festival could finally put us on the map." I shrug and nervously pull my hair away from my neck needing some cool air. "Aside from that, you'll love the music."

"Oh yeah? And what would possibly make you think something like that?" He shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray, form-fitted Chinos. He's wearing the same dark-rimmed glasses from last night and a black, long-sleeved thermal shirt that, under more pleasant of circumstances, I would find handsome on him.

Turning away, I press my hands to my cheeks to hide the warmth crawling up my face. He's so harsh, I feel like I might start crying in front of him. Pacifying myself, I glance out the window and notice a pelican popping a squat on a parking meter. On the horizon, the sun is just starting to creep its way down toward the river, and the sight of it, orange and warm, instantly soothes me. Taking a deep breath, I consider leaving him to his arrogant misery because I've already dealt with my quota of assholes for the day. But turning back, I decide to dig a little deeper. "Mason," I say, his name feeling foreign in my mouth. I tuck my hair behind my ear now and look up at him through the lift of my lashes. "Is this because I didn't give you my number last night?"

He chuckles as if my question is completely absurd. "Of course it's not. I told you, we don't—"

"Sure," I suddenly snap. I'm at my wits end with him, wishing I'd never met him in the first place. "Whatever, I get it." I shake my head in feigned agreement. "No advertising, no coverage. Sounds fucking brilliant for the Southport community," I say in anger. Turning, I rush for the door. As I push on it, I realize it's still locked from earlier. Twisting on the deadbolt, I push again, but it still won't open. Under the judgment of Mason's stare, I try once more, but the door doesn't budge.

Mason walks up behind me with an annoying chuckle, and I turn to stare daggers into him. He has the nerve to turn me down for press, then thinks it's funny that I need his help to leave with any semblance of my pride intact? He puts his hand on the small of my back, and I feel my knees go wobbly. His move feels belittling, so I step away from him causing his hand to drop.

He pushes in on the lock and twists. “Sticks sometimes,” he says, close enough to me that I can smell the cinnamon of his gum on his breath. His proximity shoots a shiver down my spine.

Opening the door, he looks down at me with a smirk. "Good luck with the festival, Ellie."

As he all but pushes me out the door, I can't bring myself to speak, his self-righteous performance shocking me into silence. Hitting the sidewalk with an urgent upset in my step, my heart grows furious at Mason's words. Good luck with the festival? He could clearly give two shits about the festival. I think back to the person he was last night— calm and compassionate. Mellow. He wasn't this smug asshole who thinks he runs things.

I remember the feel of Mason's hands on me, the taste of his stupidly delicious lips, the texture of his sweaty, messy hair. How can a person morph into a monster overnight? An actual Jekyll and Hyde if I've ever seen one. His transformation suddenly pierces my heart with rage, and as I reach for my phone to call Brooke and tell her what a dick this guy turned out to be, I feel something soft in my bag. The Boxley Brother t-shirt. And then it hits me.

Be the storm, Ellie.