Out Of Office

Emily

I should’ve known I was in trouble the moment Chloe, my perpetually Zen best friend, cancelled our long-planned beach escape at the last minute for a ‘spontaneous’ yoga retreat in Sedona, leaving me with a non-refundable booking and a sudden void in my meticulously scheduled life. Now, I’m standing in front of a weathered cabin that looks like it survived at least three hurricanes and one minor exorcism, clutching a duffel bag full of wrinkle-resistant maxi dresses and a bottle of melatonin gummies like they’re going to save me. My phone has zero signal. The driveway was half a mile of shell-packed sand and regret. And the key? Not there.

I take a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth.

This is fine. Everything’s fine.

I am a grown woman—a highly competent professional. I can handle one solo vacation, even if said vacation is in a place with no AC, no Wi-Fi, and no backup plan, because my best friend ditched me last minute for a yoga retreat in Sedona.

I try the door again, like maybe the key will magically appear out of fear. It doesn’t.

“Need a hand?”

The voice is male, deep, and entirely too amused.

I turn and see a man leaning against the porch rail of the neighboring cabin, shirtless, tanned, and barefoot, holding a mason jar of something with lime and condensation. His hair’s a little long, the kind that would look greasy on anyone else but somehow makes him look like a surfboard ad.

“No, thank you,” I say crisply. “I’m just waiting for the property manager.”

He tips his glass toward me. “That’d be me.”

Of course it is.

I squint at him. “You’re the property manager?”

He lifts the glass in a casual salute. “Jesse Blake. I live in the other cabin. My mom owns the place. I keep the lights on, clear the sand off the steps, and restock the bug spray. Full-service hospitality.”

“That’s great,” I say, forcing a smile. “Then maybe you can tell me where the key is. Because the lockbox is empty and I’m about five minutes from a full systems meltdown.”

He steps down from his porch, walking toward me with the slow, unbothered pace of someone who’s never been late to anything in his life.

“You Emily?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” He stops in front of me, eyeing my weekender bag like it personally offends him. “Was expecting someone a little less… pressed.”

“Pressed?”

He gestures to my outfit—linen shorts, tank, lightweight blazer I refused to leave behind, even though it’s approximately ninety-five degrees. “You look like you’re here to audit the coastline.”

“Funny,” I say flatly. “Do you always greet guests with shirtless judgment?”

He takes a sip of whatever’s in his glass and shrugs. “Depends. Some of them show up with smiles. You came with a death glare and enough tension to choke a seagull.”

I blink. “I am very relaxed.”

“Sure you are,” he says, like he’s indulging a toddler. “C’mon. I’ve got the key.”

He turns without waiting, and I follow, mostly because I don’t have a better option.

Also, because I want to throw that drink in his face and see if he smiles through that, too.

He unlocks the door, pushing it open with his shoulder like it’s done this a few too many times.

“Welcome to paradise,” he says, stepping back and motioning me inside like a smug concierge.

I hesitate on the threshold. It’s… rustic.

The kind of place that would be charming if you were emotionally stable or fond of wicker. A ceiling fan spins lazily above a faded couch. The walls are wood-paneled and slightly warped, like the whole place is slowly giving up.

“It’s not a Marriott,” Jesse says, reading my face. “But the sheets are clean, the water’s hot, and the porch has the best sunset view in the county.”

“Do the windows open?” I ask because the air inside feels like it’s been hanging out since 1997.

He grins. “Sure do. And the cross-breeze slaps once the sun dips behind the dunes.”

I blink at him. “Did you just say the cross-breeze slaps?”

He shrugs. “You’ll feel it. Trust the process.”

I drop my bag by the couch, resisting the urge to dust the armrest with the corner of my sleeve. “Thanks for the key. You can go now.”

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he ambles into the tiny kitchenette, opens a cabinet, and checks the contents like this is normal behavior. “Just making sure everything’s stocked. Coffee’s in here. Filters, too. Pot’s a little temperamental—you gotta jiggle the cord. Oh, and don’t leave snacks out. Raccoons are bold this season.”

“Are you giving me a cabin orientation or auditioning for a wildlife documentary?”

He leans against the counter, sipping his drink. “Just trying to help you settle in. You seem like someone who doesn’t settle easily.”

That hits a little too close.

“I’m fine,” I snap, a little too quickly. “I came here to unwind.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How’s that going so far?”

I cross my arms. “Is this part of the five-star service, or are you just enjoying yourself?”

“Both.”

He grins again, easy and unhurried, then finally pushes off the counter.

“Alright, corporate. I’ll leave you to your spreadsheets and stress dreams. I’m next door if you need anything. Or if you decide you want to learn how to sit still.”

“I know how to sit still.”

“Mmm.” He’s already backing out the door. “We’ll see.”

The silence is oppressive.

Back in Chicago, there’s always some kind of noise—sirens, traffic, the low mechanical hum of people trying to outpace their lives. I used to hate it. Now I’d sell a kidney for the sound of a distant honk or a dripping faucet.

Instead, I get crickets. And waves. And the occasional scurry of something alive on the roof.

The overhead fan clicks with every rotation, like it’s counting down to my inevitable breakdown.

I’ve unpacked, repacked, made a cup of herbal tea I don’t actually want, and flipped through every book on the shelf—mostly battered paperbacks with titles like Finding Stillness and Your Inner Ocean. I try meditating. I last four minutes. Two of those are spent wondering if I’d left my curling wand plugged in back home.

I scroll my phone anyway, even though there’s no service. It’s pure muscle memory now—open, swipe, search for dopamine. Nothing.

I should feel peaceful. Grateful. Instead, I feel like I’ve been dropped into some kind of existential escape room with no clues and no clock.

The porch creaks. I freeze. Then I remind myself I’m not in a horror movie. It’s probably just the wind. Or a possum. Or Jesse, returning to offer me a guided breathing exercise and a handcrafted cocktail. I close the curtains anyway.

When I finally crawl into bed, I lie there staring at the ceiling, trying not to spiral. There’s nothing to do. No one to answer. Nowhere to be. It should feel like freedom. But all it does is make me want to run.

I’m just about to drift off—finally, after counting my breath, the fan clicks, and all the ways I might be failing at life—when I hear it.

A flutter. Then a skitter. I sit bolt upright. Something is in here. Then I see it. Darting across the floor like it pays rent—brown, oversized, and objectively evil.

A palmetto bug.

I scream. It flies. I scream louder. I hurl a sandal. Miss by several time zones. Then I leap onto the dining table like it’s a sinking lifeboat. The legs creak. I do not care. Death is near.

And then—footsteps. Heavy. Rushed.

The door slams open.

“Emily?!”

Jesse barrels in. Naked.

I shriek like a banshee. “YOU’RE NAKED!”

He skids to a stop, wide-eyed, then reaches blindly for the nearest object—a magazine off the coffee table—and slaps it over his crotch.

“I was asleep! “

“You were screaming!”

“There’s a flying cockroach from hell in here!”

He’s spinning in circles with one hand gripping the magazine against himself, the other reaching for a container.

“Where?”

I flail, still standing on the table. “Bookshelf! It dove at me! It has wings!”

He moves fast and traps it against the floor with one decisive clack.

Then… he looks around. No paper. No envelope. No backup. So naturally, he slides the magazine out from his body.

“Don’t you dare!” I yell.

He shrugs. “I need something flat.”

“Not that one! That’s the only thing covering—ohmygod—”

It’s too late.

He slides the magazine under the container, completely forgetting (or pretending to forget) he’s just gone from nude-in-a-rush to fully exposed and crouching.

I look away—too late.

There is a moment.

A very specific, very visual moment.

And I see… more than I mean to. More than anyone should at that angle.

I make a sound that might be a squeak. Or a prayer. Possibly both.

Jesse stands, holding the bug-trap triumphantly, gloriously unbothered by his complete nudity.

“Got him.”

“I saw your—I didn’t mean to—but you turned and I—”

He grins. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m suing.”

He walks past me, still naked, and tosses over his shoulder, “For saving your life?”

“For emotional distress!”

“You didn’t not look.”

“Goodnight, Jesse!” I shout, face on fire.

He pauses at the door. “Sweet dreams, Emily. Let me know if anything else crawls out. I’ll come running.”

I throw a throw pillow at him because words fail me.