Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I pat his shoulder. “You should. That’s part of the beauty of being back home, right?” He starts to speak, but I cut him off with a wince and a quick, “Be right back, man. Gotta hit the head.”
I hurry around him, but when I push through the cluster of people near the champagne station, Red Dress is nowhere to be found. It’s just more guests in designer clothes, food servers in their standard black-and-white uniforms, and discreet nooks for chatting, which whoever planned this party was eager to provide.
It was a great move for a networking event, but fuck…
I’m starting to doubt that I even saw her.
You’re probably imagining things. The months of celibacy and grinding on the career are taking a toll.
The inner voice could have a point. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe I’m so caught up in this weird obsession with a woman I glimpsed for thirty seconds that I’m starting to hallucinate.
Either way, this isn’t the time to veer off course. It’s time to get my head on straight, focus on the life-changing opportunities in front of me, and stop acting like a lovesick kid with a crush.
But even as I’m giving myself a very reasonable mental pep talk, my feet are moving toward a long, dark hallway up ahead, away from the polished perfection of the party.
If I were Red Dress, I might pop down here for a moment away from it all…
The hall is luxurious in its own way—this is a five-star hotel—but more understated than the scene I’m leaving behind. What I assumed were guest rooms turn out to be meeting spaces, all empty at the moment, but that’s no surprise. The Maison isn’t the kind of place that double books a glitzy party with a shareholder meeting.
I keep going, past room after empty room, but there’s no sign of life. I’m about to turn around when I hear a sound coming from behind one of the few closed doors.
It’s soft, rhythmic, and accompanied by the occasional hitch of breath.
Someone’s crying, quiet, hopeless sobs that seem to be coming from behind a door with “Janitorial” scrawled across it in an elegant font. It’s the kind of crying that suggests someone is trying not to be overheard, which somehow makes it even harder to stomach.
I stop, my chest aching for whoever’s suffering behind that door.
Maybe it’s because I remember what it feels like to cry alone—those nights as a kid when Grant was at practice, Beanie was working a double, and I was sure the guy shouting at his wife downstairs was really going to hurt her. Or me.
Or maybe it’s just that my mama raised me to believe that ignoring someone else’s pain is the worst kind of failure.
We’re not put on earth to ignore each other.
We’re here to connect and share the load and lift each other up, no matter how hard the modern world has tried to convince us otherwise.
Either way, I can’t just turn and walk away.
I knock gently on the door. “Hey, you okay in there? Can I get you something? Maybe water or a tissue or something?”
The crying stops immediately, replaced by the kind of silence that suggests the person on the other side of the door is holding their breath, hoping I’ll go away.
“If you’d rather be alone, that’s fine,” I hurry to assure them. “Just wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything I could do.”
“I’m okay,” comes a muffled response in a sweet, husky voice. “Sorry, I’ll be back to work in a minute. I just…needed a second.”
The voice is female, with a hint of Louisiana drawl that makes my chest tighten with recognition.
We locals have to look after our own.
“Don’t rush on my account,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not going to go telling any tales. I learned not to tattle when I was still in preschool. Snitches got stitches in my part of town, even when you were three.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then, “Me, too. My foster mom pulled me out of daycare the first week. Said she would rather stay home with me than pay to have me get roughed up in the sandbox. Or get a call that I roughed someone up in the sandbox. I was a problem toddler.”
I find myself grinning as I say, “Doesn’t sound like a problem. Sounds like a little girl who knows how to stand up for herself. In my book, that’s a good thing.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Her voice sounds steadier, like talking to someone—even through a door—is helping.
“Want to tell me who was roughing you up in the sandbox tonight?” I ask. “Sometimes it helps to vent and I’m not afraid to throw hands, if someone’s ass needs a whoopin’.”
“Thanks, but no,” she says, a hint of amusement in the words. “No whoopin’ needed. I’ll be fine. You should get back to the party. I’m sure you have better things to do than talk to a door.”