When History Repeats Itself

Chapter Eight

"Beach trip!!!!!!!" one of the designers screamed from the middle of the bus, and the rest of us erupted in cheers. The energy was electric—infectious in the way only free booze, sun-soaked anticipation, and a two-hour work-sanctioned getaway could be.

There was a massive ice chest strapped in the back, packed mostly with alcoholic drinks and a few token water bottles for balance. It was on wheels, so every few minutes someone would shove it down the aisle like a party cart, shouting names and offering shots. Bottles changed hands without ceremony—cocktails in soda bottles, suspiciously strong lemon drinks, and the occasional hard seltzer for the image-conscious.

I was sitting next to Paba, who had insisted I take the window seat so she could lean into the aisle and flirt with a guy from the IT office. He was across from her, two rows down, all dimples and biceps, pretending to be interested in the music trivia game while Paba peppered him with inside jokes and hair flips. I'd seen them eating lunch together more than once, and I couldn't help but wonder what the fraternization policy had to say about that.

Mental note: check the employee handbook for Chase Men's official stance on inter-office dalliances. Immediate problem: I'd have to ask Paba where to find the handbook in the first place.

I'd expected to nap, the way I usually did on long road trips. But there was no sleeping through the chaos—karaoke battles that turned into drinking games, impromptu high-fashion catwalks down the aisle, arguments over who packed the best snacks. Somehow, two hours sped by in what felt like thirty minutes, every moment filled with the kind of secondhand joy that left your cheeks sore from smiling.

When we finally pulled into the resort, the bus practically exhaled as people stretched, unbuckled, and began pulling down bags from overhead shelves. I stepped off and immediately felt the breeze roll in from the ocean—cool, salty, and thick with promise. My curls lifted slightly, and for the first time in a while, I felt like I could breathe.

Check-in was a mess of half-hearted coordination and last-minute confusion. People were chattering, pointing, waving room keys around like they'd just won a prize. I was glad I'd stuck with Paba—she moved like she knew what she was doing, which was more than I could say for myself.

"Dinner's at six!" Paba yelled over her shoulder, dragging her small suitcase behind her. Everyone was heading toward a main building on the right, but for some reason, Paba and I were pulling our bags and following Dom and a few of the designers in the opposite direction—toward the water.

"Where are we going?" I asked, lowering my voice to a whisper.

"You'll see," she replied with a twinkle in her eye.

A few steps later, I did see.

A row of sleek modern huts—more like beachfront pods—lined the edge of the property. Each had floor-to-ceiling glass windows and doors, with a perfect, uninterrupted view of the ocean. The afternoon light bounced off the water and painted the glass in soft golds and silvers.

Dom walked into the first hut without a word. Paba tugged my arm and led me to the one right next to it.

Once inside the hut, Paba flopped onto the bed like it had been waiting for her all year.

"This year," she said with mock regality, "we don't do those standard twin rooms like the rest of the peasants. We get ocean-view huts, baby. Thanks to Mr. Chase flying out tonight, we're in his room. Perks of being executive assistants."

I climbed up beside her, face to the ceiling, eyes tracing the concentric design of bamboo beams overhead. Everything about the room whispered coastal luxury.

"Plus," she added, her tone teasing, "it keeps you closer to Dom."

"Shhh." I hushed her, eyes still on the ceiling.