Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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I WAKE UP IN THE middle of the night, wondering why it feels like I'm floating on a cloud. Everything is so dark and quiet—the opposite of our chaotic apartment. I can't see my surroundings. Disorientated and groggy, I forget where I am, and then cold realisation sinks in. It all comes back to me. I remember sleeping with Max. I remember him convincing me to stay for dinner, having sex with him again, and finally, him picking the movie after I lost at Rock Paper Scissors.
I've never fallen asleep with someone I'm 'dating' before, much less stayed over, and that awful pressure is back with a vengeance. Reflexively, I inhale a ragged breath, struggling to get enough oxygen into my lungs.
Max stirs beside me, no doubt hearing my strangled intake of air.
For years, I've wanted to be done with this fear, to throw myself into relationships as easily as Lauren and Zac seem to be able to, and I really thought I'd overcome it this time. Made progress. But I clearly haven't escaped its clutches. It's dragged me right back like I never left, humbling me at record speed.
"What's wrong? You okay?" Max's voice is sleep-clogged and laced with worry.
A prickly lump forms in the base of my throat. Fuck. His concern isn't helping. "Yep. All good. Sorry." I place a hand on my chest, feeling my heart hammering beneath my palm. It feels like a caged butterfly, desperate to break free. "But, uh, I was thinking maybe I should go," I blurt out, and it doesn't sound smooth or calm—what I was hoping for. "Right? Yeah. I should probably go."
Silence descends between us, thick and heavy.
Even in the darkness, I sense Max's confusion and disappointment. Adrenaline surges through my veins, sweeping through my system. My pulse is in overdrive now. My brain operating on autopilot. Desperately wanting to escape my current situation, I do something without thinking. Something I'm not proud of.
I flee.
Untangling myself from the blanket and swinging my feet to the floor, I quickly retreat to his ensuite bathroom and close the door behind me. I try all the usual strategies—splashing water on my face, taking a bunch of deep belly breaths, and mouthing a stern get-it-together, girl in the mirror.
Nothing works.
I know it's only a matter of time until Max comes after me. What's even more complicated, I think I want him to.
I don't know how to face this alone anymore. For twenty-six years, I've tried. I've asked my family and friends for advice, buried myself in my work, and spoken to countless therapists about my irrational fear of commitment. I'm still just as lost and without the answers I need. I don't know how to let go of this. And I'm so incredibly close to just giving up, to letting this consume me. But there's also this incessant, underlying feeling I can't shake, like I need to keep trying, no matter how hard or uncomfortable this gets. And the more time I spend with the man in the next room, the more I'm convinced he's the reason why.
