Sweet, sweet air-conditioning hits my sticky skin when I open the door to our local bookstore, Once Upon a Time. That’s the way it is in Miami—move from your air-conditioned house to your air-conditioned car to the next air-conditioned building. The only thing that prevents me from keeling over between each one is my iced latte—which unsurprisingly lacks ice at the moment.

I never thought I’d end up in the DIY section of the store, but here I am. Rock, meet bottom. It ain’t pretty. But if the other night taught me anything, it’s that I want to keep my job at all costs. And to do so, I need a Hail Mary. Or at the very least, a dummies guide to beer. There must be one, right? I figure if they make them for dating, then there must be one to match its counterpart once that advice fails miserably. I’m obviously a ray of sunshine today.

Don’t get me wrong—I love the idea of love. I think I was even in love once. But then he ended up in my best friend’s bed, and here I am, being one big cliché.

I glance around before I dip into the aisle with the DIY section. Not another person in sight, which is probably for the best. My best friend, Melissa, told me I should just do online research, but I’m more of the paper and pencil type. Everything I research online tends to have a twenty-four-hour expiration date in my head. So I’ve made a plan for today: find a book, buy it, and then practice flashcards until my eyes bleed. Basically, it’s like I’m back in college. Except now, I have rent and food to consider. Also add self-pride to that list because there’s no way I’m going to let Reid best me.

Even a day later, I can still feel the heat of his palm from where he slid his fingers under my shirt. I shiver and set my coffee on a shelf.

It’s just the A/C. That’s why I’m shivering. Yep. That’s what I’m sticking with until this ache between my thighs goes away. Because I refuse to believe I have the hots for my dickish co-worker. Especially not one who would love nothing more than for me to be fired.

“Ah-ha. Got you.” I snag the copy of Beer for Complete Idiots off the shelf and flip through the pages. Yep, exactly what I need. A book that can talk to me about beer products and terminology like I’m five.

“Callie, is that you?”

I levitate in my spot, banging my knee on one of the bookshelves. Shit. I shove the book back on the shelf and turn around to find my boss.

“Tom, what a coincidence. What are you doing here?”

His brow furrows and understandably since I just asked him why he was in a public place like a complete moron. The urge to face-palm is strong. I’m not usually a jumpy person. I even pride myself on the fact that I can sit through most horror flicks without budging an inch, but this tiny lie has snowballed and is turning me into a neurotic person.

“Going to get my daughter a book for her birthday. How about you?” he says.

“Just brushing up on some reading.” I pick a random book out and hold it up.

Tom frowns as though confused. “I didn’t know you were a clown.”

I stare down at the cover. Idiot’s Guide to Clown Performance.

Oh, holy shit.

“An amateur, really,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh. And by an amateur, I mean the closest I’ve come to being a clown was when I forgot to put sunscreen on my nose and it turned redder than the balls in the Target parking lot. “I dabble from time to time.” Someone should really hit me in the back of the head with something hard to put me out of my misery. It’d be a service to all mankind.

“You know, the entertainer just cancelled at the last minute for my daughter’s party. Do you think you could fill in?”

Not if you don’t want your child to need an extensive amount of intense therapy. “Of course.”

Dammit. Hope he has a good health care plan for his kid.

“Great!” Relief etches across his features. “They’re eight. So I don’t know what you need to change in terms of age. Party starts at three on Saturday. I’ll send you an email with my address. See you there!”

And with that, he strides over to the YA section.

What in the fresh hell did I just agree to?

I grab the damn clown book along with two on craft beers.

Two hours later, I’m back in the apartment with both my bestie, Mel, and my favorite wine. Three glasses in and I’m feeling just fine. More than fine actually.

“Tell me again how you got roped into being a clown for a birthday party?”

“You know—” I point at her. Or one of her. There are currently two, so I’m aiming for the one on the right. “I had a pretty good buzz going until you mentioned this.” I grab for my empty glass and nearly knock it off the table. I really need to invest in unbreakable drinkware.

“All I’m saying is you could have just said it was a mistake, and you meant to pick up a how-to book about clamming or something.”

“Well, I could have used you while I was breaking out in back sweat in the middle of the bookstore. I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. I was caught off guard.” Usually, I think better on my feet, which was why I went for my business degree in the first place. I’ve always prided myself on having common sense. Give me a disgruntled customer, an angry employee, or a problem with marketing—those were things I could handle. Not the taste of beer. And definitely not dressing up as a clown for my boss’s kid.

Seems like everything about this job has thrown my whole life out of whack. I throw my hands into the air. “I blame it on Reid.” I can picture his damn cocky grin and wish I was currently within reach to slap it off his face.  

She nods, flipping through the balloon animal book. “Yeah, screw Reid.” Her gaze lands on something in the book, and she throws her head back and cackles. “This one is of the phallic variety.”

I lean forward and find an overly happy clown holding a balloon in the shape of a hot dog. He’s pretending to eat the hot dog. At least that is the PG version of what it looks like he’s about to do to the hot dog.

“You should totally make that for the kids,” Mel says.

“Um, yeah, no. I’m not making something that a clown is about to deep throat.” I put my head in my hands and groan. “I am so screwed. Stupid Reid.”

“Amen, sister.” Mel lifts her glass and salutes me. “Don’t worry. He’ll get what’s coming to him. Karma always has a way of kicking people like that in the ’nads.” She takes another sip of wine.

“I should tell him exactly how I feel.”

Mel sets her glass down on the coffee table with a bit too much force, and some of the liquid sloshes over, splashing on the wood. “That’s a terrible idea. I’m drunk, but even I realize how horrible this is.”

Psh. I’m not that bad. And Reid totally deserves an earful, especially after he cornered me in the hallway the other night. What was up with that, anyway? And why did he have to smell so damn good? “Oh, it’s happening.”

I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I hit Satan.

Oh, yes. Reid will soon know exactly who he’s messing with.