Page 53 of Hate You, Maybe
But that’s how things always go at night, right? Little stuff gets magnified. Your brain catches itself in a loop, and you can’t let go of something that wouldn’t be a big deal in the daylight. So I stare at the ceiling, watching the moonlight shift across the room, waiting impatiently for the first signs of dawn.
Everything will seem clearer in the morning.
Tomorrow, Sayla and I can sit down and force ourselves to come up with a plan for when the SACSS visits. Later, we’ll share what we’ve brainstormed with Bob and Hildy. Withtheir approval, we’ll finish up the rest of this retreat and earn a great report with flying colors. Meanwhile, Tori will steer clear of me thanks to my imaginary relationship with Sayla. Hopefully, the two of us won’t have to act too couply around her to sell the story. Or maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing. As long as I can still sufficiently annoy Sayla. Could be kinda fun to be in on something like that together.
Wilford wants us to cooperate, after all.
Of course, this slippery slope thinking comes with a fair amount of risk. Sayla and I are both completely focused on our jobs right now. And beyond that, neither one of us is interested in dating, let alone anything more.
So don’t enjoy that fantasy too much now, Dex.
Still, after several stern internal warnings (okay, probably fifteen), I finally give up and let myself imagine what holding Sayla would be like. I figure as long as this is all in my head, nobody’s getting hurt, right?
She’s so much smaller than I am. I picture my chin notched up over the top of her head as she tucks herself into my arms. I can almost feel her softly breathing into my neck, our chests rising and falling together, slow and easy. In tandem. A perfect rhythm.
We stay like that for a while, gently swaying, as I take in the scent of her. Pretend everything that’s happened before is behind us. Our future is wide open. And when she finally pulls back, just far enough so I can lift her face to mine, her expression is so open and pure. Perfectly beautiful. Full of hope. Her lips part, and she whispers my name.
Dex.
I’m dying to devour this woman, but I want to savor the moment. Take my time. So I drop my chin as she arches her back, exposing her bare neck to me. Slowly, carefully, like she’s made of glass, I press a tender kiss to her throat. Taste the pulse of her there first. Her heartbeat speeds up and?—
The blare of an alarm jerks me awake.
My phone is screaming, right where I left it next to my pillow. Man. I must’ve drifted off after all. I fumble to shut the thing off, then haul myself up, using my fists to rub the crust from my eyes. When my lids open, the daylight is bright behind the shadow on the bed across from me.
“Thanks for not snoring last night.”
Sayla.
I squint over at her, blinking myself back to reality. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, smelling like fresh soap and sweetness. Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup, her hair towel-dried and adorably disheveled. She’s wearing soft gray yoga pants and a loose pink sweatshirt. She looks so open and innocent with her phone in her lap and a travel mug of something steaming cupped in her hands.
“Coffee,” I croak.
“I had some time to run to the mess hall after my shower.” She angles her chin toward the lidded mug on the nightstand between our beds. “I got you some, too.”
“Bless you,” I groan.
“They had cream and sugar packets, but you take yours black, right?”
“Man.” I shake my head. “Your attention to detail really is impressive.”
“If you saw how many notes I’ve taken on people since we’ve been here, you might be less impressed and more creeped out.”
She offers me a half smile, and I hope this is a sign that the rest of our day will be better than the last three years. We might as well try to get along while we can. Until Wilford decides on the FRIG.
If he chooses her department, I’d like to think I could be the bigger man and still be friends with her. Won’t be her fault, after all. But watching the theater and the associatedrooms be transformed while the gym and fields get ignored would be rough.
If I get the FRIG, though, I can’t imagine Sayla being cool with it. She finally doesn’t hate me.
And that setback could set off a fresh spiral.
“I saw Bob when I was grabbing coffee,” she says, snapping me out of my worst-case-scenario brain. “And look what he gave me.” She holds up her lanyard with a fresh name tag. SAYLA.
“Nice. No more Sailor.”
“That’s the good news,” she says. “Unfortunately, he asked if we’ve come up with a plan for Mr. Wilford yet, and I had to be honest with him.”
I bob my head. “What did he say?”
