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It was hell on earth.
Mom slept soundly on her hospital bed, dreaming of god knows what, as I stared down at the piece of paper she probably wouldn’t even be able to read. Another bill, and this one wasn’t even for her current treatment. I shuddered to think what they would charge for a three-day antibiotic drip after this.
Insurance covered practically nothing. When she’d first been diagnosed, they’d had the audacity to claim it was a preexisting condition, something Mom had developed long before Dad had started his job carrying insurance that covered the three of us. After he’d passed, that insurance was taken away, meaning when I’d purchased it myself and set it up for her outside of having a job, it truly was a preexisting condition. Thousands upon thousands of dollars were flowing from my pockets every month, eating through my savings—due to my lack of a salary for the last three months—and eating through my sanity.
And I’d most likely just blown the best opportunity I’d been given in months.
The paper crunched in my hand as my grip tightened around the bill for nearly six grand just for one day in the hospital a few weeks ago. Even asking for an itemized bill didn’t help. I’d have to keep looking for a job and if that meant moving Mom and me out of Boulder to find one, then so be it.
It also meant that every second of my free time would continue to go toward taking care of Mom. From losing the extra time in the morning to do my makeup properly or style my hair, to losing friends because I had no spare moment to see them, to the lack of time for even a one-night stand with a man. The last relationship I had ended in flames when I couldn’t see him often enough. The last person I’d actually slept with was my boss from two jobs ago, simply because I could do it on the clock and not lose time I needed to dedicate to Mom.
I loved her more than anything, though. I was okay with giving these things up for her as long as I had to, even if that meant becoming an old, sexless maid who only cared for her. I’d do anything, even work for the fucking brute that was Wade Colchester.
The cycle would have to break at some point eventually. As it stood, I had two options: hire a caregiver so I could work full-time again to pay off all the bills as well as the caregiver, or not work at all and slowly lose everything, including my sanity.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and stuffed the bill into my purse. I could at least scroll job listings instead of staring at numbers that made my stomach sink.
One new notification from Facebook appeared on the screen.
I opened the app, fully expecting some nonsense that was a memory from years ago or a friend request from someone I didn’t know but instead, I found something far, far more interesting.
A friend request from Wade fucking Colchester.
I clicked on his name, hoping it would take me to a public account that I could snoop on without having to accept his absurd little request, but found it only available to friends. Dammit. Friends it would be then.
I accepted his request and returned to his page. Tagged picture after tagged picture of him with various women, blondes, brunettes, and every ethnicity under the sun. Photos of him at clubs, fancy restaurants, on private jets, in different countries. And every single one had some beautiful woman featured with him, a different one each time.
Ski bunnies. Such a playboy.
I nearly jumped out of my skin as my phone buzzed in my hand. Incoming call, unknown number. It could be anyone. It could be someone asking you to come in for an interview. It’s not Wade.
I glanced at Mom, still sound asleep as her machine beeped her heartbeat out loud. I ran out of the room as quickly as my legs would take me on the slick tile.
Sliding to answer, I brought the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Facebook stalking me, Blunder Bunny?”
Fresh rage washed over me and sent a shiver down my already aching spine. “Were you just waiting for me to accept your friend request so you could call me?”
“Something like that,” he purred, the wicked grin evident just from his voice alone. “Tell me, Ray, were you hoping you’d hear from me?”
“Not really,” I grumbled. I pulled the ends of my sleeves down over my palms, a nervous tick I’d had since I was a kid. “How’d you get my number?”
He laughed, the sound echoing around what I could only assume was his office. “You put it on your resume. How else was I meant to contact you to offer you the job?”
“I don’t know, email me like a normal human being.”
“Aw, but then I wouldn’t get to have such a pleasant conversation with my favorite candidate,” he drawled, his voice dripping with what felt like disdain but was more than likely just sarcasm.
“Wait.” I replayed his previous sentence in my mind, over and over, each time glossing over the offer you the job part until it became more clear. Clear as fucking day. “You’re offering me the job?”
He laughed again, this time a little happier, less maniacal. “Your reaction time to that honestly has me worried for your abilities as an employee, Raylene, but yes. Despite the fact that you cannot ski to save your life, you have every skill I am looking for and far more experience than anyone else who I interviewed. I somehow trust that you’ll be able to keep my professional and personal affairs in order.”
The hallway was too bright. The beeps too loud. The scent too thick.
Or maybe I was just panicking.
“But there was someone else,” I stammered. I adjusted the phone in my grip, the sweat from my palm leaking through my sleeve. “I talked to him while we were waiting to be called back. He had more experience than me. He knew his shit.”
