Page 1 of Finding Mr. July

T here are pros and cons to getting stuck in the office pantry closet. Pros: It’s calm and quiet, it smells like coffee beans, and challenging situations are good for exercising the mind. Cons: The “stuck” part. And possibly spiders.

Hope and dignity.

I fan myself and eye the vent cover in the ceiling, gauging how far I’d have to leap from the shelving unit to reach it.

No. While I’m no stranger to facing challenges head-on, there are limits to how far out of my comfort zone I’m willing to push myself.

Leave my job as a corporate attorney and accept an unpaid internship for a chance at a new start?

Yes, I’ll do that. Contort myself Mission: Impossible style to ensure everyone’s morning coffee is brewed on time? I don’t think so.

I sigh. This is quite the turn of events on a morning that started out great.

I woke up before my alarm, got in a fifteen-minute yoga session to loosen my limbs, and enjoyed a nice, hot shower in my brother’s guest suite where I’m currently living.

Not only that, but for once, my shoulder-length hair also cooperated with me, and the bagels I’d ordered for the team were waiting for me at the shop on my way in.

It has to be said—I do love an empty office in the morning. To flick on the lights, hear my footfalls play a solo against the laminate wood flooring, open the blinds to take in the waking city outside, be the first to breathe life into the sleeping corners. It feels like walking in on a secret.

On a morning like that, I’d have expected the pantry door to cooperate, too. Instead, this.

There is exactly zero air circulation in here, so I unbutton my blouse while I sink onto a low step stool and glare at the treacherous door handle that refuses to budge.

If only I had my phone, but no… I don’t normally walk away from it, but in my defense, I was only intending to start the coffee maker and set out the bagels in the kitchen and then return to my desk. But then the filters needed restocking…

I fight off that insidious stinging behind my eyelids that threatens at the most inopportune times nowadays.

The one that speaks of unfairness and bad luck.

I don’t have time for tears. “Channel it into action,” I mumble to myself—a nugget of wisdom I’ve picked up from my brother.

Not that there’s much I can do about my situation at the moment.

But maybe there’s at least a lesson to be learned from my predicament.

My gaze sweeps past bales of paper towels, stacks of napkins, assorted tins of tea, tubs of party decorations, and other miscellany. What value does this situation bring to my experience here at Global Conservation League?

I’ve been here for nine months. HOLLY KING, INTERN, GCL, SEATTLE my badge reads, but if I play my cards right in the weeks to come, I’m hoping it will instead say, HOLLY KING, PROGRAM LIAISON, GCL, GLASGOW .

Perhaps being stuck in this closet is meant to force some uninterrupted brainstorming time for how I might best approach the new role once it’s mine.

Or maybe it’s a metaphor for my life, the need to break free?

I get up and pace the few feet available to help me think, but as much as I try to wring this particular lemon into a sweet-tart beverage, I’m unable to ignore the fact that soon my colleagues and bosses will arrive, and I will have failed at the most menial of tasks.

The other four interns may not be as experienced in the workforce as I am, being almost a decade younger than me, but they sure as hell get their coffee duty right. I’ve got to get out of here. Now.

“Help!” I call, banging both fists against the door. “Help, I’m stuck!”

“Hello? Is someone in there?” A deep voice I don’t recognize responds on the other side.

Finally! “Yes, hello. It’s Holly. Can you help me out? The handle won’t turn.”

The knob rattles, presumably the man on the other side making sure I’m telling the truth.

“Oh jeez,” I hear him huff. “Okay, hold on a sec. I’m going to…” His voice trails off.

I rest my forehead against the door. “Come on,” I mumble.

Hurried footsteps return. “I can’t find a key. Was it locked when you got here?” His voice is growing more urgent, and it’s rubbing off on me. My pulse picks up.

“There’s no key. I think it’s the handle.”

He rattles the knob again. “Damn it! How long have you been in there?”

Is this more serious than I thought? I look around the small space, but no obvious reason for his alarm stands out to me. “I don’t know. Twenty minutes maybe.”

“Twenty minutes? Um, okay… Just stay calm, and I’ll…” A thud follows that sounds like he’s slammed a shoulder into the door.

“Hey, don’t hurt yourself.”

“We’ve got to get you out!” Another thud and the door frame creaks. “Stand clear!”

I spin away from the door, but as I do, my half-open blouse snags on the offending handle, and the remaining buttons rip loose. I make it to the opposite wall right as the door swings inward with a snap of the door plate. Two rolls of paper towels come tumbling off the shelf above me.

“Are you all right?” A panting male figure dressed in black blocks the doorway with wide shoulders.

To my surprise, I recognize him as one of the creatives.

I think his name is Jonathan, but I’ve never heard him speak before.

The other interns have nicknamed him “The Shadow,” which sounds more menacing than it is.

Mainly it’s because he stays in the periphery in meetings, not engaging.

Also, he’s always in black. He’s the last person I’d have guessed comes to work early.

A lot of people here are zealous about the mission of the organization—something I’m working to emulate.

Jonathan usually appears, for lack of a better way to describe it, the opposite.

At first his frantic eyes are on my face, but then they dip to my white lace camisole that’s serving much more than its intended peekaboo look.

A vague thrill at being caught out echoes through some dormant part of my belly, but I still hurry to wrap my open blouse around me and clutch it together with one hand while I pick up the box of coffee filters I came in here for.

His features are unique: the long ridge of his nose kinked as if it’s been broken at one point, the sharp jawline covered in intentional stubble, a fuller lower lip.

The kind of face that reveals something new every time you see it, I think. Then I blink the odd thought away.

“I’m fine. Running late now, but courtesy of you, not everything is lost. Thanks for that.” I gesture to the door frame with my elbow.

He takes a small step forward. “You’re sure you don’t need to sit down for a bit? That must have been…” He gives a small shudder but doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Must have been what?” I ask.

There’s a quick hint of a self-deprecating grimace. “I was going to say ‘an ordeal.’”

I squint at him. Beneath his thick, dark eyebrows, his gaze is surprisingly soft.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s genuinely concerned.

How odd. Being trapped was inconvenient, and I suppose I did lose my composure for a moment, but all things considered, this was only a small snafu in my book.

I look down at my disheveled appearance, and it occurs to me that that’s what must be sparking his reaction. I do look like I’ve wrestled a couple of angry raccoons. “Well, I definitely need to go tidy myself up.”

“Mmm.” The syllable is short and noncommittal.

“You don’t think so?”

At my question, his open expression shuts closed. “No, I do. But maybe it wouldn’t be my first priority after something like this.”

I raise an eyebrow at his curtness. “Some of us have to worry about stuff like that because I can’t come off unprofessional unless I want to remain an intern. ‘Ordeal’ or not.”

I can tell he doesn’t like me throwing his choice of words back at him, but he checks his tone nonetheless. “Sorry. It just seemed an odd thing to focus on after this.” He gestures to the closet.

Personally, I think the oddest thing about this is how big a deal he’s making about it. What is he not saying? “The key word being ‘after.’ The door got stuck, and then you got it open. Time to get on with my day. I don’t like to dwell.”

He opens his mouth as if to rebut but stops himself.

He looks away, lips pressed together. Takes a step back.

“You should always prop doors like this open, you know. There’s a stopper right there.

” He nods toward the gray rubber wedge resting against the baseboard trim, his cadence now matching the sulky air he normally gives off.

“You’re lucky I showed up when I did or who knows what might have happened. ”

I tilt my head. Patronizing much? “My guess is thirty more minutes of boredom for me and no coffee for the people. But like I said, I’m very grateful.”

For a moment, we stare at each other, neither of us moving.

“Do you mind?” I nod to the open space behind him.

“Not at all.” He walks off.

I scoff at his receding backside. What a weirdo.

By the time I get back to my desk, several other people have arrived.

“There’s coffee and bagels in the kitchen,” I say as I pass them.

“You’re making the rest of us look bad,” Callum, the youngest of the interns, tells me. “I didn’t bring in food when it was my week.”

“Moms got to ‘mom,’ right?” Letitia says from her desk, giving me a friendly smirk.

The statuesque business grad is my fiercest competition for the program liaison job.

She’s mature, professional, and passionate about our cause here at GCL.

I shouldn’t like her, but unfortunately, she’s also exceptionally personable.

“Still not your mother,” I reply in a singsong voice. It’s been a standing joke from week one that I’m the “mom” of the group because the rest of them have yet to turn twenty-five and I’m thirty-four.