Picture-Damien smiles at me from an advertisement plastered on the bus’s back wall. He’s got a row of near-perfect white teeth, but his incisor’s turned ever so slightly in a way I used to think was kind of cute but that now just annoys me.
I can’t.
I ride the bus a single stop, edging me imperceptibly closer to work. My two-bedroom apartment is close enough for me to walk to WanderWell’s headquarters, but November in Seattle is usually freezing or damp—or freezing and damp—so most mornings I deal with a bus that smells like pee rather than chill myself to the bone.
Not today. I can hoof it.
At the 45th and Wallingford exit, I duck out of the bus and brace myself against the cold.
I’ll be late, I text Lachlan Mills. In addition to being one of only two other writers on the WanderWell staff, Locke has the dubious pleasure of staring at me all day, since the front of our desks bump up against each other in our shared open office.
He’s also excellent at being on time. I should learn from the master.
Locke’s text comes back a minute later. You’re always late.
Later than normal. Missed my bus. Sort of. I frown at my phone. Cover for me?
Always.
I smile and jam my phone into my pocket. Cold air sneaks down the back of my fitted wool coat, and I pull the collar closer to my chin.
Maybe I should jog?
On second thought, I’ll power walk.
I pick up my pace and weave through the morning crowd, the scent of coffee and fresh rain following me as I go. It takes fifteen minutes for me to reach WanderWell’s brick exterior, and by the time I arrive, the increased blood flow and the promise of caffeine have boosted my mood.
I smile as I wave hello to the receptionist and badge into the offices. While the WanderWell interior decorators maintained the building’s original facade, they gave the interiors a modern overhaul. Orange paint covers the walls in the main hallway, which could be kind of tacky and overwhelming, but which instead feels vibrant. Plaques and framed newspaper articles crowd the walls, bearing images of our founder, Curt Goldberg, wearing his signature T-shirt and flip-flops. In the picture closest to me, Curt stands next to a bank of sleek computers and casts a lopsided smile at the camera.
Best in class every one of the six years since WanderWell was founded, and now I get to be part of the legacy.
I take the elevator to the third floor, then duck into my office neighborhood. Right before I started, Curt discovered research showing that open spaces were better than individual offices for coworker collaboration and creativity, and he decided to conduct an experiment with our floor. He tore down most of the interior walls in our space and transformed it into an open office with rows of desks. Coming from the cramped cubicles of my last job, it was a culture shock, but no matter how loud the room sometimes gets, I don’t regret a single thing. Not when I get to stare at Locke every day.
This morning he sits in front of his computer, nursing a cup of coffee in a mug that proudly declares, That’s a horrible idea. What time? His gorgeous brown eyes are trained on his screen, and I sneak a glance at his profile, which is lit by a single desk lamp—his olive skin, his hair that’s short enough to stay groomed and neat but long enough to run your hands through, the stubble clinging to his chiseled jaw.
Gah.
Just like every time I see him, the world spins a little, and I have to take a deep breath to steady myself.
We keep the overhead lights in the office off, and despite the darkened room, Locke notices me standing in the doorway. He turns to grin at me, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with warmth.
Damn.
Locke’s patented smile hits me in the lady bits every time. Warm and melting, but also sly, like we’re sharing a joke and I’m in on it. We’re always on the same side, which is pretty flipping inconvenient when I’m trying to concentrate on work and his smile keeps running through my thoughts. A million times since we’ve met, my mind has wandered and started to wonder what that mouth would kiss like. If, afterward, he’d smile because of me.
Right now, Locke’s attention makes my stomach dip in a way that feels dangerously close to butterflies.
The secret I wouldn’t dare breathe to anyone other than Molly? It would have been nice if things had worked out with Damien—he was hot and available—but in reality, he had a lot to live up to, and he could never quite make me feel the way Locke does. But I’ll go to my grave protecting that truth.
“She lives,” Locke teases as I shrug out of my coat.
I roll my eyes. “Of course I live. I texted you.” I glance around the quiet room. “Where is everyone?”
He shrugs. “Early morning meeting about the launch of the visa renewal program.”
I nod and drop into my seat. WanderWell runs a series of services that help digital nomads manage the way they work and play, from job boards to housing listings to finance and translation services, and we release new services on a pretty regular basis. Locke got his job back when the company was still a baby by writing to Curt and telling our founder that all his writing sucked. Locke was a freelancer at the time, using WanderWell’s early services to work around Southeast Asia, he said, and as a customer, he saw room for improvement. It was a gamble that paid off, and Locke’s now the senior writer on our team. There are only three of us, but still. I wish I could have half of his confidence.
I used to create product descriptions for the website of a women’s fashion company and write screenplays in my spare time, and there’s not
