Adopt A Guy

I finally made it to the office.

After turning off the engine, I sat in my car for another moment, studying my reflection in the rearview mirror. I checked my lipstick, smoothed my brown hair, and tucked one rebellious strand behind my ear.

Better.

I stepped out, straightened my blouse, and gave myself one final inspection in the car window.

Fitted white blouse. Leopard-print scarf tied neatly around my neck. Brown miniskirt. Black heels.

Professional. Polished. Powerful.

Exactly how a senior manager at a fashion company should look.

You wouldn't expect the woman responsible for approving designs, managing employees, and keeping an entire department from falling apart to show up wearing an oversized T-shirt and yesterday's jeans, would you?

Actually, considering some of the people I worked with, that wasn't entirely impossible. But I had standards. I had worked too hard to let a bad outfit ruin my reputation.

With my confidence restored, I headed toward the building, my heels clicking against the pavement. The moment I entered the lobby, the familiar chorus began.

"Good morning, Miss Hayes."

"Good morning."

"Morning, ma'am."

I answered with polite smiles as I passed the reception desk and crossed the lobby. Everyone knew me here. More importantly, everyone knew I had earned my position.

Five years.

It had taken me five exhausting years to become a senior manager. Five years of impossible deadlines, rejected designs, cold coffee, and late nights that blurred into early mornings. Five years of pretending I wasn't exhausted when I could barely keep my eyes open. Five years of telling myself that the next promotion would make all the sacrifices worthwhile.

There had been moments when I wanted to throw my laptop out the window, walk straight to the elevator, and never return.

I hadn't done any of those things.

Mostly because the laptop was expensive, the windows didn't open, and I needed the paycheck.

But I had survived.

I still remembered my first day at the company. I had been young, inexperienced, and desperate to prove that I belonged. While other employees went home at six, I stayed until the office emptied. When the cleaning crew came through, I pretended I was finishing one last thing. When the lights went out on my floor, I worked beneath the glow of my desk lamp.

For one major deadline, I had slept in the office rather than waste time commuting home.

It hadn't been glamorous. My neck had hurt for three days, and I had woken up with a paperclip stuck to my cheek.

Still, I had made it.

Senior Manager Lara Hayes.

Not bad for a girl who had grown up in an orphanage.

I couldn't remember my biological parents' faces. Sometimes I wondered whether I had ever known them well enough to remember, or whether my mind had invented vague memories to fill the empty spaces. The nuns had raised me, and the other children had grown up beside me. They were my family, even if none of us shared the same blood.

I used to imagine my parents watching me from somewhere, proud of what I had accomplished.

Maybe they were.

Maybe they weren't.

Either way, I had built a life for myself. I had a good job, a beautiful apartment, a decent car, and enough money in my savings account to make my younger self cry with happiness.

There was only one tiny problem.

My love life was so nonexistent that if it were a department at my company, I would have shut it down years ago.

I pushed the thought aside and approached Lily's desk.

Lily was my assistant. She had worked with me for almost a year, and she was, without question, one of the most reliable people in the office. She was also one of the few people who could make me question the existence of fashion standards.

The moment she noticed me, she shot to her feet. Her chair rolled backward with a squeak, nearly colliding with the cabinet behind her.

She pushed her enormous glasses up her nose. Pink braces flashed when she smiled. Today, she wore a loose white blouse and a long orange skirt that seemed determined to swallow her whole.

I glanced at her outfit.

Then at her.

Then back at the outfit.

I decided not to comment. I was her manager, not her personal stylist, and I had learned that unsolicited fashion advice rarely ended with anyone thanking you.

Besides, Lily was excellent at her job. She could organize a meeting, track down a missing report, and untangle a scheduling disaster faster than most people could open their email.

If only she could apply that same talent to choosing a skirt.

"Good morning, Lara!" she said.

"Morning, Lily."

I was about to continue toward my office when she hurried after me.

"W-Wait!"

I stopped and turned.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"No! Nothing's wrong." She fiddled with a white envelope in her hands. "I just wanted to give you this."

I took it.

An invitation.

I raised an eyebrow. "What's this?"

"It's..." Her cheeks turned pink. "It's a wedding invitation."

I looked at the envelope, then at her.

"A wedding invitation?"

She nodded, suddenly looking as though she might burst into tears or start dancing. Possibly both.

"I'm getting married."

For a moment, I simply stared at her.

Then I blinked. "You're getting married?"

She nodded again, a shy giggle escaping her lips.

"Oh, my God!" I exclaimed. "Lily, congratulations!"

Her whole face brightened.

"Thank you!"

I meant it. I really did. Lily was sweet, hardworking, and far more patient than I would ever be. If anyone deserved to find someone who made her happy, it was her.

"You should come," she said, holding her hands together. "I'd really love it if you came."

"Of course I'll come."

The answer slipped out before I could think about my schedule. I tucked the invitation into my hand and smiled at her.

Then Lily added, with the casual innocence of someone stepping on a land mine without knowing it, "You should bring your boyfriend, too."

My smile froze.

"My what?"

"Your boyfriend." She blinked behind her glasses. "You have one, don't you?"

I stared at her.

She stared back.

Somewhere in the distance, a printer started whirring. I briefly considered climbing inside it and letting it shred me into tiny pieces.

"Ah..." I laughed. It sounded painfully artificial. "I think I'll come alone."

"Oh! Okay!"

She didn't seem to notice the small funeral taking place behind my smile.

"Congratulations again," I said quickly.

Then I escaped into my office before she could ask any more questions.

Once the door was closed, I placed the invitation on my desk and stared at it.

A wedding.

A boyfriend.

Two perfectly ordinary words that had somehow managed to ruin my morning.

I leaned back in my chair and sighed.

Why did everyone assume a woman needed a boyfriend? I was successful. Independent. Financially stable. I could buy my own coffee, assemble my own furniture, and deal with a flat tire without calling a man to rescue me.

Well, I could call roadside assistance. But that wasn't the point.

I didn't need a boyfriend.

I didn't.

The problem was that I didn't have one, and apparently, being twenty-seven and single was enough to make people wonder whether something was wrong with me.

Maybe something was wrong with me.

No. Absolutely not. I refused to begin my day with an existential crisis before nine in the morning.

I had work to do.

And, as it turned out, a wedding to attend.

The address on Lily's invitation said Riverton.

I checked it once.

Then twice.

Then a third time, because surely I had misunderstood something.

Nope.

The address led me to a small meat restaurant squeezed between two ordinary buildings. It had a faded sign, a narrow entrance, and pink balloons tied around the doorway in such quantities that I wondered whether someone had emptied an entire party store onto the sidewalk.

A paper banner stretched above the door.

CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR WEDDING!

I lowered the invitation.

"You have got to be kidding me."

Laughter spilled through the glass door. Someone inside shouted for another bottle, followed by a chorus of cheers.

I looked down at myself.

My red Alexander McQueen jersey dress fit like a second skin, and my black Yves Saint Laurent Tribtoo pumps were the kind of shoes that deserved a glamorous evening beneath chandeliers. I'd spent nearly an hour getting ready, carefully styling my hair and making sure my makeup looked effortless.

Nothing about my outfit said, Hello, I'm here to eat grilled meat at a neighborhood restaurant with a hundred pink balloons.

I looked at the entrance again.

I could leave.

I could tell Lily that I'd gotten lost. Or that I had an emergency. Or that I had suddenly developed a rare medical condition that prevented me from entering restaurants with suspiciously cheerful decorations.

She would be disappointed.

The thought made me feel guilty.

Lily had invited me because she wanted me there. She hadn't asked me to bring an expensive gift or pretend to be someone I wasn't. She simply wanted to share an important day with a person she trusted.

I took a breath.

"Fine," I muttered. "Let's do this."

I pushed open the door.

The restaurant was warm, noisy, and crowded. Conversations overlapped beneath the hum of the ventilation fan. Glasses clinked against tabletops, chairs scraped across the floor, and somewhere behind me, meat sizzled on a hot grill. The air smelled of garlic, smoke, grilled beef, and alcohol.

It was the opposite of the elegant wedding I might have imagined for myself.

Then again, I had never actually planned my own wedding. It was difficult to plan something when you couldn't even find a date.

As I stepped inside, the nearest conversations began to fade. One person noticed me, then another. Within seconds, several guests had turned toward the doorway.

I froze.

For one terrible moment, the entire room seemed to be staring at my dress, my shoes, and my carefully styled hair.

I smiled awkwardly.

I swear, I'd never seen these people before in my life.

"Lara!"

Lily suddenly sprang up from her seat and hurried toward me. Her ivory-white wedding dress swayed around her ankles.

I looked at it.

I tried very hard not to look at it.

The dress was not exactly what I would have called modern. It had a high neckline, a full skirt, and enough fabric to upholster a small sofa. If someone had told me she'd borrowed it from a grandmother who had been married in 1997, I would have believed them.

But Lily was glowing.

She looked so happy that, for a moment, the dress didn't matter at all.

"Thank you for coming!" She grabbed both my hands. "I'm so glad you're here!"

"Of course." I squeezed her hands. "You look beautiful."

That wasn't a lie. Not entirely. Happiness suited her better than any designer dress ever could.

She beamed and turned toward the crowd.

"Darling! Come here! I want you to meet Lara Hayes."

A skinny man in a black tuxedo stood so quickly that his chair scraped loudly against the floor. He hurried toward us with an enormous smile.

"Hi!" he said, bowing a little too enthusiastically. "I'm Damian! Lily's husband!"

I blinked at his volume.

"Hello, Damian. Congratulations."

"Thank you!" He looked as if I'd personally handed him a winning lottery ticket. "Please, sit down! Make yourself comfortable!"

Lily led me to an empty chair beside her. Damian returned to his seat across the table, and the restaurant immediately resumed its usual chaos.

Someone laughed so loudly that I jumped. A guest called for another bottle of wine. At the next table, an older man was already halfway through a plate of grilled meat and seemed to be having the best day of his life.

Lily reached for a bottle of red wine and poured some into a small glass with a chipped rim.

"Here you go."

"Thank you."

I took a sip.

Sweet. A little sour. Bitter at the end.

Cheap wine.

The sort of wine you could buy at a convenience store without giving it a second thought.

I normally preferred something better, but I took another sip anyway. The room was warm, the food smelled wonderful, and the noise had begun to feel less like an assault on my ears and more like a celebration.

Then I noticed Lily watching Damian.

He leaned toward her to say something, and she laughed softly. He reached across the table to straighten the edge of her napkin, and she smiled at him as if he had just performed a grand romantic gesture.

It was ridiculous.

It was also strangely sweet.

"I only invited you because..." Lily lowered her voice, suddenly embarrassed. "I'm not very close to anyone else at the company."

I understood.

In our industry, people could be cruel about appearances. Everyone was expected to look polished, fashionable, and effortlessly beautiful. Lily didn't fit that image, and some of our coworkers treated her as if that made her less capable.

It irritated me more than I could explain.

She was smart, dependable, and kind. She remembered details other people forgot and noticed problems before they became disasters. She worked harder than half the people who spent their afternoons discussing designer handbags.

If they couldn't see her value, that was their problem.

"I'm glad you invited me," I told her.

Her smile softened. "Really?"

"Really."

She looked so relieved that my chest tightened a little.

For all the expensive restaurants and fashionable parties I had attended over the years, I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen two people look at each other the way Lily and Damian did.

There were no crystal chandeliers here. No extravagant flower arrangements. No champagne tower or designer decorations.

Just a tiny restaurant, a few dozen guests, pink balloons, grilled meat, and two people who looked at each other as if the rest of the world had politely agreed to disappear.

Maybe happiness wasn't supposed to be complicated.

Maybe it was supposed to be this simple.

I raised my glass and took another sip.

Then another.

And another.

I was so busy watching the newlyweds that I didn't notice how quickly my glass was emptying. The cheap wine went down easily, and the warm atmosphere made it easy to forget that I had a very important weakness.

I was perfectly capable of drinking responsibly.

Until I wasn't.

By the time the room began to sway, the conversation had become pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. The lights blurred into golden circles, and the laughter seemed to come from somewhere far away.

I stared at the empty glass in my hand.

"Oh."

I was drunk.

Not a little tipsy. Not the kind of drunk where I could laugh, drink some water, and go home.

I was entering dangerous territory.

"I'm twenty-seven years old," I announced.

Lily turned toward me. "Lara?"

I looked at her, then at Damian, then at the wineglass.

"And I've never been in love."

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Oh, God.

Why had I said that out loud?

I lowered my gaze.

I'd spent years building a life I could be proud of. I had a career, money, a beautiful apartment, and a car that started when I turned the key. I had worked hard for every single thing I owned.

But I had never had a real relationship.

Never had someone wait up for me because they wanted to see me. Never had someone look at me with that ridiculous, lovesick expression Damian gave Lily. Never had anyone make me feel as if I was the only person in the room.

"It's pathetic," I murmured.

"No, it isn't," Lily said gently.

"I'm pathetic."

"Lara, you're not—"

"I'm Lara Hayes."

I lifted my head and smiled at her.

She looked alarmed.

"I'm Lara Hayes," I repeated, as though she might have forgotten.

"Yes," she said carefully. "You are."

"Lara..." I blinked slowly. "Hayes."

My name sounded strangely unfamiliar.

The room tilted to the left.

I tried to correct it by leaning to the right, which turned out to be a terrible decision.

The last thing I remembered was Lily reaching toward me and someone calling my name.

Then the lights went out.

The next morning, I woke up with a headache so violent it felt as if someone had spent the night building a house inside my skull.

"Ugh."

I pressed both hands against my temples and groaned into my pillow.

What had I done?

I was usually good with alcohol. I knew my limits. I knew when to stop.

Unfortunately, I also knew that once I crossed those limits, my common sense packed a suitcase, abandoned me without notice, and moved to another country.

The next morning, I was left with a pounding headache and a memory full of holes.

I prayed I hadn't done anything embarrassing.

The last time I'd gotten this drunk, several people at work had started treating me strangely. It took me two days to discover why.

Apparently, I'd spent half the night pretending to be Catwoman.

I had no explanation for that.

I didn't even like cats.

I slowly sat up and looked down at myself.

Still wearing the red dress.

"Okay," I whispered. "Lily's wedding. Restaurant. Wine."

I remembered most of it. The balloons. Damian's enthusiastic introduction. Lily's happy face. My deeply humiliating announcement about never having been in love.

I covered my face with both hands.

Excellent. I'd delivered a public confession of romantic failure at a wedding. At least I hadn't climbed onto a table and sung the national anthem.

As far as I could remember.

I swung my legs out of bed and shuffled toward the kitchen. My mouth felt like sandpaper, and all I wanted was a glass of cold water.

I opened the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle, and twisted off the cap.

Then I heard a noise.

Snrrrk... Snrrrk...

I stopped with the bottle halfway to my mouth.

What was that?

I lowered it slowly.

Silence.

I waited.

Snrrrk... Snrrrk...

The sound came from the living room.

My heart began to pound.

Someone was in my apartment.

A burglar? A murderer? Some terrifying stranger who had broken in while I was unconscious?

I lived in a secure building. The front desk checked visitors, the elevators required access cards, and my apartment door had a very expensive lock.

But apparently, none of those things mattered to whoever was snoring in my living room.

I glanced around the kitchen. My eyes landed on an empty vase.

It wasn't much of a weapon, but neither was my bare hand, and I wasn't about to challenge a possible criminal to a fistfight before breakfast.

I grabbed the vase with both hands and crept toward the living room.

Snrrrk... Snrrrk...

The sound grew louder.

I reached the corner and stopped. My palms were sweating against the smooth surface of the vase.

I could call the police.

That would be the sensible thing to do.

Unfortunately, my phone was on the kitchen counter, behind me.

Of course it was.

I took one careful step forward, then another. The living room came into view.

Someone was sprawled across my couch.

A man.

He had one arm hanging over the edge, his legs stretched across the cushions, and a black jacket draped over his face. He looked completely comfortable, as though he paid rent and had lived there for years.

I stared at him.

He snored again.

My brain supplied a single, perfectly reasonable conclusion.

Criminal.

I tightened my grip on the vase.

"Hey!" I called, trying to sound intimidating.

The man didn't move.

I swallowed.

"Hey! You! Get up!"

Nothing.

Fine.

I raised the vase over my head, took a deep breath, and prepared to defend my home, my savings, and what remained of my dignity.

Then I screamed.

"AAAHHHHHHH!"