Page 18 of Sexting the Coach
“This was my fault,” Elsie doubles down. “I sent that text, and I gave you the wrong idea.”
Why does the sound of that make my chest tighten? It’s a good thing that the text was an accident. I have no interest in this woman.
“So, Wolfe, do we have a deal?” she asks. A second later, she sticks her hand out toward me, palm up, like she’s just remembered how people signify a deal.
I’m not happy about the idea of touching her again. Not while we’re still out here alone. And this entire thing sounds like a terrible idea to me.
But Elsie seems confident. And right now, I don’t have much of a choice.
“Sure,” I say, sliding my hand into hers, swearing that flush on her face grows a little darker when I do. Her palm is warm,dry, hand smaller than mine but her fingers long, wrapping around mine. “We have a deal, Montgomery.”
Chapter 7
Elsie
The drive back to San Francisco with Mabel is full of questions and exclamations and Hattie on the phone through the car’s stereo, practically having a meltdown at all the reasons why this is aterribleidea.
“It’s my only choice,” I say, crossing my arms in the passenger seat, glancing over at Mabel, whose fingers are tight on the wheel when we go over the Golden Gate Bridge. “I just…panicked and said all that to Karlee. It’s not like I can take it back without looking like a massive liar.”
“Itisa lie, though!” Hattie says.
“You know, for being so graceful, you’re incredibly clumsy,” Mabel says, sparing me only a quick glance before returning her gaze to the road. “Being a little less accident-prone would solve a lot of your problems.”
“Ha, ha.”
When we get home, Mabel and I lug our things through the lobby, telling the doorman there’s no need for him to help. The elevator catches like it always does about halfway between our floor and the next, though luckily, this time it’s only about a minute before it jerks and finishes its ascent.
Hattie greets us at the door, then there’s more of Hattie and Mabel grilling me on my bad decisions, then we spend the rest of the weekend watching reality TV. Mabel tries to make a recipe she found on TikTok, and Hattie insists we spend at least an hour cleaning the apartment, which Mabel and I resist, only to be pretty pleased with the ambiance when we have dust-free surfaces and afall leavescandle flickering happily on the table.
Monday morning, I open up an empty text thread with Weston—I deleted the sext out of embarrassment—and send yet another to him.
Elsie:Still on for the HR meeting this morning?
I half expect him to tell me that he changed his mind about this entire thing, that he actually already told them the truth and that we’ve both been fired.
Instead, he texts me back seconds later.
Weston:See you in ten.
And I do. When I walk up to the HR office, Weston is waiting outside for me, leaning against the wall, looking like he’s the cool rebel boy in school. He’s wearing his Squids jacket and a pair of ass-hugging joggers, and I have to work hard not to stare at him.
When he sees me, he straightens up, tucking his phone into his pocket right away. It takes me back for a second—when was the last time someone put their phone away, rather than finishing their video or text first?
Something warms in my chest. It’s kind of a turn on.
No—I chastise myself. I am not attracted to him. I’mnotdoing this again. Last time I let these thoughts run rampant, I ended sending the text that started all this. I’m going to keep this all under lock, stomp it down until it fizzles out completely.
“Hey, babe,” he says, and I swear to god it literally wipes my brain clean for a moment, wondering if those words actually came out of his mouth. I find myself staring at his lips, not surewhat to say, until I get close enough that he can reach out and run his hand over my arm. “You ready for this?”
It’s at this moment that I see the HR receptionist through the glass doors, openly watching us. There are papers spread out on the desk, manila folders. Light comes in through the small window behind him.
I do my best to give Weston a wide-open,I’m so in love with youkind of smile. This time, he’s the one blinking back at me, a little bit of pink glowing on his cheeks.
“Yep!” I say, then I ruin the effect by patting his arm like he’s my grandmother or something. “Let’s get this over with so we can get back to work.”
Five minutes later, Weston and I are sitting side by side in a small office, the HR guy staring at us with a slightly bored look. Sighing, he reaches into his desk and pulls out several bundles of papers, adds them to the ones on the desk, and pushes them over to us.
“I’ll need you to each fill out these forms,” he says. “Standard stuff. Then, we’ll go through some of the questions and expectations we have for workplace relationships.”
