Page 6 of Her Wild Coast Promise

It feels good to move, my sneakers tapping the hard ground and my breaths in rhythm with my pace. I do my best to put my doomsday thoughts aside. I’ll be okay without this job. I have savings set aside. Tomorrow, I’ll spruce up my resume, make lists, start fresh.

My phone chirps with a text from my bestie, Libby.

Come help me pack tonight?

Can’t. Dinner with Doug

Oooh. Are things any better?

I got fired today

Shit! What happened?

Long story

I want to hear it. I’m coming over

Doug’s taking me out tonight

Okay. Smoothies tmrw at Sip & Suck?

I give her a thumbs up.

Hang in there

* * *

Doug honksthe horn and I slip from the house and lock the door behind me. In an effort to fake it till you make it, I’m wearing my favorite dress, kitten heels, and the cashmere shawl my mother gave me for Christmas last year. It’s the nicest thing I own and makes me feel elegant.

I slide into Doug’s coupe, tucking in my dress.

“Hey babe,” he says, and leans to kiss me.

“We should put the top down,” I say, glancing at the roof of his convertible. “It’s so nice out.”

“I don’t want to be late for dinner,” Doug replies, backing out of the driveway.

This mild form of discouragement shouldn’t make me want to cry. It’s not Doug’s fault he’s so practical. But it won’t be long until it’s too cold, and I’m feeling a little reckless. Maybe it’s the sting of losing my job in such an unfair way, or maybe this answers Libby’sare things any better?with a solid no.

“I got us a table at Lucca’s,” Doug says.

“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Wow.” Lucca’s is the nicest restaurant in town. Italian food with friendly, impeccable service. How did he get a reservation on such short notice? The only time we’ve been there was when his parents visited, and Doug had to book the reservation a month in advance.

He’s kind to want to treat me like this, yet I can’t shake the feeling that something is off about it.

At the restaurant, Doug parks and we walk inside, arm in arm. He smells like Dial soap, and with the scent of the jasmine in the air and the warm night, it’s wonderful.

Inside the cozy restaurant, the hostess greets us with a kind smile. The soft lighting and blend of rich tomato and sweet basil wafting from the kitchen creates a romantic ambiance. My mouth starts to water.

Our table is an intimate booth along the left wall. Doug orders wine from our waitress, and I sip my water while Doug talks about his day—the stressful encounter with his boss and an update on his latest project.

He finally asks about my job, and I give him the short answer. That I broke too many rules. I keep the panty part to myself. Once, I tried to explain that taking off my underwear was the best part of my day. He looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

“Lessons for next time,” he says, nodding gravely.

Maybe he’s right, but this hurts.

When he launches into his favorite subject—cars—my mind starts to drift.

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