Page 33 of Whiskey & Wreckage

POPPY

It’sMonday morning and my stomach is doing somersaults.

First day. New job. Big girl stuff.

And the only reason I’m not having a full-blown panic spiral in the bathroom mirror is because of the text that came through at 7:13 AM.

Thomas: You’re going to crush it. They have no idea how lucky they are to have you. Don’t let them underestimate you—not even for a second.

God. That man.

It’s like he can hear my thoughts before I think them.

He dropped me off last night after a weekend that honestly felt like something out of a dream—if your dreams include makeout sessions, grilled ribs, board games, and a 140-pound dog that believes in full-body cuddles. We didn’t talk about what we are yet, but I don’t think we need to. Not today, anyway.

Today’s about this job. This fresh start. This grown-ass woman moment.

My MBA finally gets to do more than gather metaphorical dust. I’ll be starting as a Business Operations Analyst at Finch &Moore—one of those sleek, eco-modern companies with exposed brick, standing desks, and kombucha on tap. It pays more than I’ve ever made in my life. Like…big pay raise, I might actually be able to buy a couchkind of more.

And I’m not going to screw it up.

Now… deep breath. Lipstick. Power stance. Let’s do this.

The Finch & Moore building is one of those too-cool-to-function offices that looks like it belongs on the cover of an architecture magazine. Exposed beams. Giant windows. Plants that are probably watered by an app. Everyone looks stylish and competent and vaguely like they meditate during lunch.

And then there’s me—walking in with the heels Thomas got me a few weeks ago, off-brand tote bag, and two-day-old curls that I fluffed up with dry shampoo and prayer. But hey, I look good. I feel... good-ish. And more importantly, I’m not spiraling. Not really.

The receptionist, Zara, is too pretty to be this nice, but somehow she is. She gives me a badge, a folder, and a smile that doesn’t feel fake. Then she leads me to HR where I sign approximately nine hundred forms about tax withholding and non-disclosure agreements.

By 10:15, I’ve got a desk, a computer login, and a new boss named Eric who’s exactly what you’d expect a thirty-five-year-old operations director to be—calm, decisive, a little bit too obsessed with spreadsheets. But he doesn’t seem like a dick, so I’m already winning.

I sit at my new desk—corner spot, lots of natural light, plant I’ve already named Kevin—and exhale like I’ve been holding my breath all month.

This is real. This is mine. I open my work email. I open the task management app. Then I open my phone... because obviously I need to check if Thomas texted again.

Thomas: Don’t forget to eat. And don’t be afraid to ask for what you need. You’ve got this, baby.

My cheeks actually hurt from smiling. I glance around to make sure no one’s watching, then type back:

Me: I already made my mark. The break room was out of creamer so I left a passive-aggressive sticky note. Day one is off to a blazing start.

His reply comes instantly.

Thomas: That’s my girl.

Okay. Focus. Work. Be a professional. Don’t daydream about his hands or his mouth or the way he kissed the back of your neck while you were rinsing dishes like it was the most natural thing in the world. Too late.

Lunch comes fast, and I sit alone in the little café area, eating my overpriced quinoa bowl and watching people flit around like worker bees in blazers. A few of them smile at me—two say hi. It’s not high school. No one’s being mean. But no one’s exactly inviting me into the inner circle yet either.

That’s okay. I’ve been the new girl before. I know how to play the long game.

Still... part of me wishes I were at Thomas’s instead. On his couch. With Bear’s head in my lap and a pizza box on the coffee table. No makeup. No heels. Just… soft places and safe people.

The thought hits me in the gut, quiet and sharp.

I miss him. Is that insane? It’s been, like, fifteen hours. God, I’m that girl. But maybe for the first time in my life… that’s not a bad thing.

Chapter Twelve

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