Befall Teaser

Chapter One

            It didn’t used to be like this. My life used to be better.          

Every time I read a horoscope I wonder why I even bother. As if the stars could tell me what my day is going to be like or what is in store for me. Then I lump myself in with all those weirdos who depend on the horoscopes every day even though a little part deep, deep down secretly craves the guidance from the stars. 

            I quickly closed the magazine I was reading as a beeping sounded in my ears. A groan, my chair squeaked with the sudden movement as I straightened and pushed the button on the phone.

            “Pure Travel Reservations, my name is Olivia, where can I book you today?” My voice was a lot more chipper than I felt, my lightness masking the oppressive weight I felt every time I answered the phone.

            “I’m not sure yet.” It was a smart-ass. Great. He sounded rich. His wealth so stifling I almost could not speak.

            “How can I help you, sir?” I said, choosing to ignore his little quip.

            “Well, I have some vacation time coming up and I would like to use one of my time share weeks.”

            “Very good.” I kicked the computer to life with a click of the mouse. It buzzed and woke up, glaring at me with its bright screen as if saying Screw you, I’m sleeping. Apologetically, I tap lightly on the keys as I pull up the window where I was to enter the customer information.

            “What is your name, sir?”

            “Lyle Truman.”

            He gave me all his information and I typed away like a good little girl. His impatience was building; I could feel it.

            “All right, Mr. Truman, where can I send you?” I knew where I really wanted to send him and it was not a nice place. It was warm though.

            “Here is my dilemma. My wife wants to go to Hawaii, and I would like to go somewhere different like Key West.”

            Such a dilemma. I rolled my eyes and bit back the words that came to mind.

            “All right, well, I see you have been to Hawaii ten times, so it is understandable that you would want to try somewhere new.”

            “But I love Hawaii.”

            “Okay. What island would you like to go to?”

            “Kauai. Less people there. Have you ever been to Key West?”

            “No, sir. I hear it is fantastic though.”

            “So I should go there.”

            “I’m really confused, sir. Do you want Key West or Kauai?”

            “That’s why I called you.”

            “This is Reservations, Mr. Truman. I book the time share for you. I can’t make the decision for you.”

            Lyle Truman harrumphed at that, exasperated. My patience was wearing thin.

            “I can, however, tell you some features of either place. Maybe that will help you figure out which one you would prefer.”

            “That would be helpful.”

            It was helpful. That is me. Reserve the grand escapes to paradises I will never see for people who lose sleep wondering if they should choose Hawaii or Key West. The next day it might be Alaska or New Mexico. Lyle Truman, a prime example, ended up going to Hawaii for the eleventh time, but he chose a different resort. Such a nice little compromise he made with his wife. I’m impressed.

            When the call was over, I rested my head on my desk and closed my eyes. This is what my life has come to. I have to take deep breaths, knowing full well that, in a matter of minutes, my headset will beep again and another yuppie will call with another life-altering dilemma. Paris or Rome? Gee. Why not both?

            I removed the headset and rested heavily in my chair, rolling my head back. When my head returned to normal position I see a perfectly coifed redhead, impeccable makeup, and a bright grin peering at me over the wall of my cubicle. Tanya, my only confidante in this gopher trap and menial life, is so put together it makes me ill sometimes. Probably because I’m so not put together.

            “Breathing exercises already, Liv?”

            “It is a little early for them, right?” I looked at the clock. Five more hours left of my shift.

            “No stress, hon. Anything you need to do not to bite off people’s heads.”

            “I do consider it a successful day when no one ends up headless because of me.” I stretched my arms above my head.

            “A success in anyone’s book, my dear,” she said with a wink.

            “Oh! Phone call. Shit.” I sat up, my chair groaned with the movement, fumbled as I put on the headset. Tanya disappeared behind the cubicle wall again and I clicked the red button of doom.

            “Pure Travel Reservations, my name is Olivia, where can I book you today?”

            “Is that really how you answer the phone? Did you get your coffee fix today, Liv?”

            I recognized the voice. “Nikki, why are you calling me on my work line?”

            “Because, you silly duck, I knew you wouldn’t answer your cell phone.”

            Nikki Lovelace, my best friend from high school, was also my roommate in college and now she was my roommate again. At her mom’s loft apartment here in Boston. I had planned on moving to New York City when I was done with college. I got my degree and it was time to follow my dream of being on Broadway. Turned out that there was no way I could afford to move to New York right away. It also turned out that Nikki’s mom, Paige Minnix, lived in Boston and she had a connection to Broadway that she was constantly trying to line me up with.

            “There’s a reason why, Nik. It’s called my boss would fire me if he knew I was taking private calls.”

            “This is important, Olivia. I will make it quick.”

            I looked at my watch. “Thirty seconds to sell me whatever it is you’ve got.”

            “Gee, and I thought we were besties. Two things: my mom got in touch with Mr. Burke today, and he has agreed to meet you today at five-thirty. He will be in town for a couple of hours so you have to haul your fat ass fast outside the Orpheum Theater downtown. Do you think you can handle that?”

            I forgot all about Nikki’s thirty second time limit. Mr. Henry Burke was Paige’s connection to Broadway. The last two times I have tried to meet him something random and tragic has happened. It was a miracle he even agreed to meet me again.

            “I can handle that, Nikki. What was the other thing?” I did not want to ask but I had to change the subject or else I would be on the phone for hours with her. Then I would for sure be in trouble.

            Nikki paused and I heard her suck her breath in through her teeth. I wasn’t sure if I actually heard it or if I just knew her well enough to know that was what she was doing.

            “My mom also has a guy she wants you to go on a date with.”

            I rolled my eyes. “Is it her personal mission to play Cupid for me, or does your mom like to see me squirm?”

            Nikki laughed. “Maybe a little bit of both. Trust me, babe, if I didn’t have James, she’d be doing the same thing to me.”

            James was Nikki’s boyfriend. They had been together since our freshman year in college. He had followed Nikki and me here to Boston from University of Missouri. Over the years I had become accustomed to being the third wheel or the one on an awkward first date with some random guy James or Nikki knew. I was always Nikki’s little shadow. She with her magnetic personality, her perfect blonde hair, hourglass figure always outshone me with my thick black hair, dull brown eyes, impossibly pale skin, and hopelessly thin build.

            “Please tell me this one actually knows what hygiene is.” My last blind date, courtesy of Paige Minnix, was a disaster. The guy smelled a little too heavily of sweat, his shirt was all rumpled and wrinkly, and, out of the corner of my eye, I swear I saw him pick his nose.

            “No guarantees, babe. You know my mom. If it’s a guy that is around our age and single, she thinks he’s the right one.”

            “Probably why she and your dad didn’t work out,” I said without thinking.

            Thankfully, Nikki laughed. “You catch on quick.”

            I actually knew Nikki’s dad, Vince Lovelace. He lived in St. Louis where Nikki and I grew up. He was my dad’s bowling partner and one of the nicest guys I knew. And I know I was not the only girl that was Nikki’s friend that had a crush on him.

            “When is this horrid matchup happening?”

            “Tonight.”

            “You’re kidding me.” I looked around sheepishly after I realized that I had said it really loud.         “Aren’t my thirty seconds up?”

            “No way are you getting out of this so easily.” I gritted my teeth.

            “James is going to pick us up at eight and then we will go get your date, then go out for dinner and drinks, and then go from there. Sound good?”

            “The drinks sound good,” I muttered. “What’s this one’s name?”

            Nikki sounded like she was reading something when she answered. “Harper?”

            My brows furrowed. “Sounds like a name from a soap opera.”

            “Never know. Maybe he’s your soul mate.”

            “Hanging up now.”

            “See you later, chica.”

            “Uh-huh.” I pushed the button quickly and groaned. “This is just great.”

             I didn’t want to go on a date tonight. A blind date, no less. I wondered how Paige Minnix, a sixty-something divorcee who was also a shopaholic, managed to meet all these eligible, young bachelors. Men were never my forte, but I had hoped that would change when I moved to a new city. My move to Boston had not gone as planned from the beginning. That should have been my first clue.

            I was supposed to have a job as a curator at the National Heritage Museum. One of my professors at University of Missouri had a connection there and, as a history major, it is best to jump right on those little connections. It was perfect, too, because Nikki was moving to Boston to be closer to her mom and because she had gotten a great job as a paralegal at some high and mighty law firm. And then Paige had told me she had a connection with Broadway, and that sealed the deal.

            Then the curator job fell through. I had packed all my things, uprooted my whole life, thinking that I would have this great job, but when I arrived for some orientation, they told me that the position had been closed.

            So now here I am. I work at a miserable job where I talk to snobs all day in a nice little box. What I really want to do with my life is not answer phones and watch other people make plans for amazing trips to exotic places. And I really don’t want to be a curator at a museum although that would be a far cry above Pure Travel.

            Lunch time came and I realized I did not have a lunch with me. With a sigh I made my way to the commons area where there were some vending machines. I was in dire need of a chocolate fix. My hunger was a burning knot at the back of my throat.

            I pushed the buttons for a king-sized Snickers. Don’t judge me; I love my chocolate.

            To my despair it got stuck, hanging on for dear life by the edge of the little spinning wire that keeps the candy in order. A harsh growl escaped from my mouth.

            I kicked at the machine. I’m weak. I know that much. Slapping at the glass was no use either. Groaning, I rested my forehead against the clear cover of the vending machine, the only thing holding me back from my lunch. I closed my eyes and, just as I was about to resign myself to use some more money to try again when I heard a voice behind me.

            “Mind if I try?” I lifted my head from the vending machine, looked up at the owner of the voice. Stark blue eyes, dark stubble on a nice firm jaw, a quick smile, and sandy blond hair, he was taller than me but not by much. He was wearing a light blue shirt that accentuated his eyes and his tanned skin.

            With a sound akin to a hiccupping squirrel jangling from my mouth, I stepped back, allowing the stranger ample room to try his hand at freeing my precarious Snickers bar. He took the flat of his hand and smacked the plexiglass with a practiced ease and a loud thwapping noise. The Snickers fell with a victorious little crash to the bottom of the vending machine.

            He retrieved the candy bar for me and turned to me with a gleaming white-toothed grin. “Good choice. Definitely worth the trouble.”  

            “Thank you,” I took the candy bar from him with a sheepish smile. 

            “Enjoy your Snickers,” he said, flashing me a quick smile lined with nice white teeth.

            I looked down at the stupid Snickers which was, in fact, snickering at me right at that moment. Such an apt name for a dumb candy bar. I tucked some hair behind my ear, wanting to take back the last, say, twenty minutes. Start over at the moment I decided I wanted a candy bar for lunch.

            The Snickers, however, was enough fuel for the remainder of the drag-along day. I took the headset off for the final time which is the sweetest part of my day when I can leave work. After I said my goodbyes to Tanya and my select few acquaintances there I headed for the elevator with my purse slung over my shoulder and my black coat tied at the waist. I pushed the button for the elevator and stood there alone as I watched it make its descent.

            My reflection in the silver doors was mottled but I could see the wide brown eyes and the thick black hair tied back in a quick bun. The picture before me made me look gaunt and ghostly and I tried to tell myself it was just the fact that I was looking at myself in a steel mirror, but that did nothing to comfort me.

            The doors opened, splitting the image of me in two and part of me was relieved that I didn’t have to look at that any longer. I stepped inside, noticing that I was not alone. I sighed as the doors closed. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the couple standing next to me. There was a tall man near my age with sandy blond hair and a quick smile. His arm was slung around the shoulder of the woman next to him. She had fake red hair, dark red lips, and a model thin figure.

            I rolled my eyes and looked away, hoping the next ten floors would go by quickly.

            The redhead made a whimpering sound. Yes, she whimpered. Oh, please, just let me get out of this elevator and catch the next one.

            “I can’t believe you can’t come over tonight,” she said.

            “I have plans, babe, but maybe I can come over right after.”

            I snorted. It was an involuntary reflex that I didn’t realize I had done out loud until I saw that the dyed red Barbie was glaring at me sideways. I looked away and bit at my thumb nail nonchalantly. When I sneaked another glance at them I could see that the man was looking at me, an odd look in his sharp blue eyes. I recognized him from my nearly tragic loss at lunch. Thankfully, the elevator stopped and the doors opened just then. I rushed out of there as fast as I could without running. The Snickers Man was also Awkward Elevator Guy. Figured that the smooth rescue of my Snickers bar was just that. Smooth. Womanizing.

            I shuddered. It was not my style to judge people, but I knew this guy’s type all too well.

            Once I was outside, I squinted in the late afternoon sunlight that painted everything a soft golden color. Every time I left work I felt like a mole coming out of the dark, deep hole in which I had been hiding, my eyes blinded momentarily by the beautiful sun. Spring was coming in Boston and the prickling cold of winter was on its way out, leaving welcome warmth and new life in its wake.

            The Orpheum Theater. Those three words sprang up in my mind, twinned with an image of its solid but archaic and classy architecture, and I felt my heart lurch in my chest. I sprang into a run, waving my hand like a crazy person as I hailed a taxi. No luck. There was not a single taxi in sight. I kept my pace, walking in the direction of the theater. It was just about four blocks from where I worked, but I did not want to approach Henry Burke panting and sweating like an eager, lost puppy. I’m sure he would just love that and ask me to be on Broadway right away.

            It was better than nothing. I set off at a quick walk, pretty certain I looked like I had to pee something fierce. My quick walk became a jagged jog as I thought of my dreams of being on Broadway slipping right through my fingers.

            Olivia Jordan, drama queen extraordinaire that I am, actually started believing that this was my only shot at Broadway. Tears sprang to my eyes as I jogged with my purse bouncing against my hip. The random tragedies that were the last two attempts of trying to meet Mr. Henry Burke still hung over my head. The first time I had spilled coffee on myself and had to run back to change my shirt. Those two minutes it took to change had been the difference between Mr. Burke leaving and me arriving.

            The second time was not my fault. I was on time, and I was waiting for him. Then Paige called me and said that Henry had been stopped in traffic for the last hour and would miss his flight if he made a stop to meet me.

            Random. Tragic. I did not want anything like that to happen again.

            Two blocks later I finally got a cab. It would give me time to gather my composure. I told the cabbie to take me to Orpheum Theater. This was it. My break. I pulled my hair out of the bun and let it fall around my shoulders. By the time we reached the theater I had my breathing under control and felt more put together. Once the taxi came to a stop, I handed the driver a crumpled bill and told him to keep the change, then I rushed out onto the street.

            Paige had described Henry Burke to me. She said he was tall, British, and had an impeccable shock of white hair that he wore wild and curly. I figured he was pretty hard to miss. I searched frantically for him. I was not late.

            Then I saw him from behind. His hair was blowing lightly in the wind and it was definitely noticeable. I ran toward him and saw that he was getting into a cab.

            “Mr. Burke!” I cried out, desperate. I reached him, touched his shoulder just before he was getting into the taxi. “Mr. Burke, I’m Olivia, Paige Minnix’s friend.” I stopped as he turned around. It wasn’t him. It was a woman with nice, white hair, and an incredibly tall, thin frame.

            “Excuse me?” she looked at me as if I had spit in her soup.

            “Sorry,” I murmured. “I thought you were someone else.” I pulled away as the woman shook her head and got in the cab.

            I sighed and looked around, searching for the elusive Mr. Burke again. There was a slight chilly wind in the air and the sky was a steel grey color. My hair blew into my face and my lips and I spat it out. A sweet smell of rain was in the air and I knew it wasn’t long before a downpour. The weather could turn on you so fast in Boston, and now I understood why everyone carried an umbrella with them through all the spring months.

            Biting my lip, I felt a coldness settle in my chest. What if I missed him? I looked at my watch. I was right on time. I looked at the front doors of the Orpheum Theater. People were milling about, and I could hear their chatter vaguely. Suddenly, I was nervous and my mouth went dry.

            Just as I turned my eyes skyward to check for the impending rain, I saw another flash of white. I fought the urge to squeal in delight. Mr. Burke was just coming out of the building. Don’t judge, but my heels might have clicked together right before I set off in a little jog toward him.

            As I was approaching, a big man with a neck the size of my waist blocked my path. He was wearing a dark suit and his eyes were small and narrowed. My breath caught in my throat.

            “Where are you going?” he asked.

            I opened my mouth to speak and saw Mr. Burke continue to walk, completely oblivious to me and this mountain of a man who was most likely one of his bodyguards.

            “I need to speak to Mr. Burke right there. He’s expecting me.”

            “Who are you?”

            “Olivia Jordan. We have a mutual friend who arranged us to meet today about five minutes ago. It will just take a few minutes.”

            “We were not notified about a meeting today. You will have to make an official appointment if you want to see Mr. Burke.”

            No way. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I tried to move past the beefy blockage, but he stepped in my way. Damn, he could move fast for someone so big. I waved my arms frantically, watching Mr. Burke and his entourage walk away with my dreams.

            “Mr. Burke!” I cried out, still waving my arms like a lunatic. At any other point in my life I probably would have felt pretty pathetic.

            I tried to run toward him again, seeing that big mop of white hair disappear into a sleek, black limousine. His guard dog stopped me again as if I were a terrorist. I weigh 120 lbs soaking wet and I’m the threat. That makes tons of sense to me too.

            The doors to the limousine closed and I whirled on the bodyguard who destroyed my chances.

            “Are you happy now? You just ruined everything!” Tears welled up in my eyes, and I left, turning my back on the mountainous monster and the limo that was driving away with my dreams.

            Okay, so maybe I’m slightly on the dramatic side. Hello, I’m dying to be on Broadway. What else would you expect? But, I must say, these were real tears I was crying. My only real shot now was to somehow get myself to New York City, be a poor waitress, and get on the endless roller coaster to stardom. I had learned that was not the route I wanted to go. I would not waste my life on this. Even though, to me, it was worth it.

            “I don’t know how to flirt,” I was saying  to Nikki on the phone approximately twelve minutes after my Meeting that Never Was. After she had sympathized graciously for the way things turned out, she changed the subject to another one that I did not want to talk about: the blind date.

            “That’s just silly, Liv. You totally know how to flirt.” I could picture my best friend painstakingly straightening her pale blonde hair, her head crooked to the side so she could hold her phone between her cheek and her shoulder.  

            I sighed. “I’m just too serious.”

            “I’m the serious one, remember?” Nikki said jokingly, and I could hear her chewing bubblegum.

            I groaned at that. “I can’t go on this blind date.”

            “Why not?”

            “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because today has already sucked enough as it is.”

            “Ya never know.” I heard some rustling while Nikki was quiet. “This guy could be Brad Pitt’s doppelganger.”

            My lip curled involuntarily. “I never understood this fascination you have with Brad Pitt.”

            “Nobody does, babe. Now get your ever-lovin’ ass home so we can get you all prettied up.”

            I groaned. “You act like I can’t dress myself.”

            “From one fashionista to another, sometimes your style sets people off.”

            I stopped mid-stride and looked down at my cute red heels, my black pencil skirt with white pinstripes, and the white blouse with black polka dots and ruffles on the sleeves and collar. Definitely not practical for my over-the-phone job, but I always tried to look professional and stylish. Granted, my style tended to lean toward the vintage look, and I modeled a lot of my style after Liza Minelli, but I thought I looked good.

            “What does that mean?”

            “I love you, sweetheart. That’s what it means,” Nikki said a little too quickly. She knew me well enough to know when she was heading into the danger zone. “Enough talking. Get moving. I’ll see you when you get here.”

            I sighed and hung up, stared at my phone for a minute, and wondered if that conversation actually just happened.

            Just as I dropped my phone back into my purse, I heard a whoop of delight coming from behind me. I turned around to see what was going on. A young man, near my age, was running toward me with a big smile on his face and a black fedora on his head. I immediately thought of Newsies by the way he was dressed in a vest and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked like he shot out straight from the 1930s. There was a spryness in the way he moved, it almost seemed unreal.

            Then I realized he was being chased. A bigger man with a dark scowl on his face was running after him, but the man in the fedora seemed thrilled by the chase. He was older and had a thick neck and even thicker arms. If I had a man that looked like the big guy running after me, I would be scared for my life. They were both heading right for me because I was in the way.

            I tried to dodge the younger man running toward me by sidestepping but I was too late. He turned to look at, big surprise, the other man who was chasing him.  

            “Come back here!” the pursuant called while I tried to maneuver myself out of the line of fire. Every time I moved, the guy in the fedora went the same way. The pencil skirt was not much help in easing my movements. It all happened so fast, but it seemed like everything was going in slow motion as the guy in the hat rammed right into me, knocking me to the ground unceremoniously. I let out a yelp, caught myself with my hands, and tried to maintain my dignity.

            “So very sorry!” I saw a hand in front of my face and I went to slap it away before I realized that it belonged to the guy who had knocked me down. I looked up at him, his ridiculous smile beaming under his fedora. Cool grey eyes twinkled merrily at me.  

            I took his hand and he helped me to my feet. My purse had tumbled to the ground and spilled just about everything out of it. With a curse under my breath, I dusted off my skirt.

            “Gotta go!” my assailant said quickly as he patted me on the shoulder and took off running again.

            “I’m sure you do, asshole,” I muttered. I looked at the palms of my hands that were now riddled with scrapes and little pebbles from the sidewalk. Now I was going to go on my blind date with bandaged hands. Real great first impression.

            “Did he hurt you?”

            I turned and saw the big man who had been giving chase to the man in the fedora. He had kind eyes despite his rough-looking exterior.

            “Just knocked me down. I’ll be just fine. Go get him, sailor.”

            He gave me a confused look and nodded. “Don’t let him near you. He’s trouble.” Without waiting for a response from me, he took off running, but I could no longer see the guy he was chasing.

(This is copyrighted by ME. Don't steal from me, please. I will hunt you down and make you pay. Ok? Hope you enjoyed the first chapter!)

Befall Teaser 2

“All right. Whatever. If it happens, then great. If Grady is psychotic then I will know tomorrow for sure and Jesse and I can go on our date as if nothing happened.”
I yawned and my eyes watered a little. “This is silly.” The clock by my bed showed that it was 2 AM. Work was going to be really fun tomorrow with so little sleep.
I dropped my shoes and put the coin on my nightstand, and then crawled into bed, turning off the light. Just before I closed my eyes I saw an orange-ish glow on my nightstand. The coin.
It was glowing as if it were on fire. The light was getting brighter and brighter.
“What the---?” I turned my light back on and it actually drowned out the unnatural light coming from the golden coin.
“I must be dreaming,” I sighed even though I knew that was not true. I grabbed the coin, half expecting it to burn my hand, but it felt normal.
“All right. Fine,” I said. Yes, I was talking to the coin now. Don’t judge me. “I’ll make the dumb wish.”
I grabbed my shoes, just wanting to go back to bed and forget this night ever happened. It was a good thing I was alone because I was already embarrassed enough as it was.
Ever the drama queen, I raised the coin high above my head and called out into the empty air. “I wish Jesse Phillips would fall madly in love with me forever and ever.”
It might have been my imagination but it seemed like the coin vibrated after I said those words.
“This is creepy,” I muttered, stuffing the coin into one of the shoes.
I put the shoes back in the closet and climbed back in bed again. As soon as the light was out again and my head hit the pillow I was fast asleep.

A Rare Treat

Here is a teaser from the beginning of the book I am working on.

The working title is Befall: A Tale of the Unluckiest Lucky Girl.

Do you believe in luck? I sure don’t. I just can’t fathom the idea that standing on your toe and facing east and singing a song all while holding a duck on your head will bring you good luck. Okay, so that was a bad example. Who would hold a duck on their head just for luck? So you know several people who would. I don’t care. The point is: I don’t believe in luck because I’ve never needed it.

I was a star in high school. So I know what you’re thinking now. Oh great, here’s the ex-prom queen trying to tell us that she did it all on her own. Well, you’d be right. Sort of. I was not prom queen. I was the hottest singer and actress ever to set foot on the auditorium stage at Chapman High School. I have it on good authority, even to today, that I am still the best, and it’s been almost ten years since I graduated. In case you’re wondering, I do have connections still. Greggy, the biggest nerd in high school who had the hugest crush on me since grade school, is now the principal at Chapman. Another example of my success is that he would still do anything for me.

Let’s back up before you think I’m some arrogant brat. All right, so I might have laid it on a little thick. The point is, you don’t get to where I got by being lucky. It takes hours and hours of practice and a little natural talent doesn’t hurt either.

My name is Olivia Jordan. Like most high school graduates, I left the world of adolescence with glimmers in my eyes and the whole world at my fingertips. The world was my freaking oyster and I was going to slurp that nasty seafood right up. Broadway was my goal but I knew that I would have to work my way up to that like Liza Minelli and Patty Lupone did. Ok so Liza had Judy Garland for a mother. That, my friend, is not luck; it’s fate.

I saw my name in flashing lights on the marquee. In my dreams. When I was awake that was a different story. I moved from a barely smallish town in Missouri to New York City, scraped every bit of cash I could get out of my savings, and started doing small auditions all while working as a waitress at a little café. Once that job wasn’t paying enough to get me by I got a second job. And then a third one.

Luck schmuck. I finally got my break and it wasn’t because of luck. By now you may be wondering why the diatribe about luck. Well, be patient, I’m getting to that.

At night I would come home to my tiny apartment that cost more than my car, frustrated and tired, and I’d jam out to Les Miserables or, on a really bad night, Wicked. Something about Idina Menzel singing about defying gravity is very liberating.

One night, call it fate, I pulled out my laptop while Mandy Patinkin sang “I Dreamed a Dream” to me and I started typing away, plucking away my frustrations with each stroke of the key. By the end of the night, I felt a surge of relief that I had never felt before.

That night was the catalyst of what would become my addiction. Writing. And I found I was pretty good at it. So I started a blog. Just like about ninety percent of the country does because we all think that our thoughts are something everyone will actually care about.

My blog was called A Starlet’s Unending Road to Broadway. Within just a few weeks I had about 100 followers. I could not believe it. My popularity went out of control and, suddenly, my life took a completely different path. While I still had Broadway on my brain, I was desperate enough for some solidarity in my life that I decided to put my dream on hold.

Fast forward a few months. I left NYC for Boston where I landed a job as a blog columnist for The Boston Phoenix. All right so you’re probably thinking that, for a girl who doesn’t believe in luck, she sure is lucky.

I will tell you one area in which I am not lucky, and that is with the men folk. I’m not hideous. Yes, my eyes are an unfortunate and boring brown and my skin is a little pasty. But I have sleek black hair which, I am told, is my most endearing quality. My dad called me Black Irish. In other words, I’m a freak of my own kind. It’s all right. I have accepted this.

So, it’s not my appearance that repels the opposite sex. I’ve yet to discover what it is exactly. My best friend, Nikki, constantly tells me that it’s because guys don’t like a girl with determination. I thought guys got a clue since the 19^th century.

I’m not telling you all of this to make you feel sorry for me. That is the last thing I want. My so-called luck just does not spread into all aspects of my life. If there is such a thing as luck or some outside force that, by chance, does actually step in and bring about good things then I would want said outside force to step in with Jesse.

Jesse Phillips. I get to work with this beautiful specimen of rugged manliness. He’s one of the top reporters at the Phoenix. Nikki has seen him and says his face reminds her of a weasel, but she is wrong. If he were compared to an animal he would be a lion, proud and fierce in his own little Serengeti. He has sandy hair that he wears loose and wild like a lion’s mane and his eyes are the blue of what I’d imagine African skies to be like.

One day, when I had forgotten my lunch, I went to the candy vending machine to get some sort of chocolaty sustenance. When I’m at work I am in the zone. It is where I am at the top of my game. My hunger was a burning knot at the back of my throat.

I pushed the buttons for a king-sized Snickers. Don’t judge me; I love my chocolate.

To my despair it got stuck, hanging on for dear life by the edge of the little spinning wire that keeps the candy in order. A harsh growl of despair escaped from my hungry mouth.

I kicked at the machine. I’m weak. I know that much. Slapping at the glass was no use either. Groaning, I rested my forehead against the clear cover of the vending machine, the only thing holding me back from my lunch. I closed my eyes and, just as I was about to resign myself to use some more money to try again, I heard a voice behind me.

It was a voice with an apprehensive tone with a slight rumbling of amusement and tenacity. I recognized it instantly. I had heard that voice in meetings and at cubicles far away from mine.

“Mind if I try?” Jesse Phillips edged around me. I lifted my head from the vending machine, looked up at the broad-shouldered Adonis before me, and felt heat rise to my cheeks.

With a sound akin to a hiccupping squirrel jangling from my mouth, I stepped back, allowing Jesse ample room to try his hand at freeing my precarious Snickers bar. He took the flat of his hand and smacked the plexiglass with a practiced ease and a loud thwapping noise. The Snickers fell with a victorious little crash to the bottom of the vending machine.

Jesse retrieved the candy bar for me and turned to me with a gleaming white-toothed grin. “Good choice. Definitely worth the trouble.” I noticed his careless Henley shirt that was a green color that made his skin look even tanner.

“Thank you,” I took the candy bar from him with a sheepish smile.

He looked at me carefully, as if seeing me for the first time. Okay, I have no illusions in my head that he had ever noticed me before that moment. Jesse Phillips could have any woman he wanted and I knew I would always be far, far down on that list.

“I’ll see you around?” Jesse’s brows lifted. It was a question, a promise of future run-ins that I hoped were not as humiliating.

“Probably in our meeting later today,” I said, matter-of-factly, with a nod.

His smile drained off his features, leaving behind a dumbfounded shock. “Right,” he said sharply. “Well, enjoy your Snickers.”

I looked down at the stupid Snickers which was, in fact, snickering at me right at that moment. Such an apt name for a dumb candy bar that ruined my chances with Jesse Phillips. I tucked some hair behind my ear, wanting to take back the last, say, twenty minutes. Start over at the moment I decided I wanted a candy bar for lunch.

“Maybe I don’t know how to flirt,” I said to Nikki on the phone approximately twelve minutes after my Jesse Phillips encounter of doom.

“That’s just silly, Liv. You totally know how to flirt.” I could picture my best friend painstakingly straightening her pale blonde hair, her head crooked to the side so she could hold her phone between her cheek and her shoulder. Nikki has a hard life. She works from home as some sort of consultant. I’m not really even sure what she does.

I sighed. “I’m just too serious.”

“I’m the serious one, remember?” Nikki said jokingly, and I could hear her chewing bubblegum.

I groaned at that, lowering my head to my desk without worrying with how hard it would hit. “I can’t go to that meeting today.”

“Why not?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because Wonderboy will be there?”

“Now he’s got a nickname?” I heard some rustling while Nikki was quiet. “You act like he’s Brad Pitt or something.”

My lip curled involuntarily at the comparison. It just was not right. “You’re really bad at metaphors and comparisons. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“Only you, darling,” Nikki said with a smile I could hear.

“Well, you work on your whatever you do. When you get a break, try to write down some metaphors. We’re going to make a metaphorical queen out of you in no time.”

“I think there was a play on words there. I’m not sure though.”

I laughed. “I don’t play with words. I work with them, Nikki.”

“Touché.”

A few hours later I gathered up my things and went to the conference room. It’s a thoroughly modern building where I work. Everything is made up of sleek lines, glass, dark wood, and shiny metal. Being in the conference room is like being in a glass house and not just because the four walls are made of glass. Sometimes the words thrown around in the conference room can be just like stones being thrown in a glass house and I am always shocked when the walls don’t just shatter all around me.

I took my seat at the long, lustrous table in between Margie the events columnist and Tyrone the sports editor. The seats slowly filled up. I stuck a pen in a twirl of my hair, a quick fix to get the hair off my neck. When I looked up, across from my seat, I saw Jesse Phillips.

My mouth popped open and I quickly averted my eyes. Before I did so I noticed he had been watching me unabashedly. What was he doing sitting at the low end of the table? The top reporter usually took his seat to the right of Jade Catrall, editor in chief and my boss.

Speaking of which. My boss, Jade, walked in last. She likes to boast an entrance wherever she goes but it’s never anything flashy, but it’s not understated either. People notice when she walks into a room. Her tall, lithe form is always covered with designer brands. Today it was a white sweater with a silver belt and slick black pants that hugged her thin legs. As if my boss weren’t tall enough, she always wore pumps.

Her handsome face regarded us sternly for a moment as a rush of quiet fell over the glass house conference room. Jade Catrall had to have Cherokee blood judging by her high cheekbones, dark hair, and almond shaped eyes.

Jade’s eyes fell on Jesse momentarily and I swore I saw a brief glimmer of shock. He had never moved from his position to her right. This was going to be a bad meeting.

“Good afternoon,” Jade said calmly, lowering herself into her chair.

We all murmured our responses half-heartedly.

“Just two more hours before tomorrow’s paper goes to press. Let’s have a rundown.” Jade eased back into her seat.

You have to realize how out of my element I feel when I’m in these meetings. While the other columnists can drone on and on forever about their subjects and the subjectively exciting things they are writing about, I find that I can only say a few words. What is there, really, to say about a column that is just an extension of my blog? Yes, that is what they hired me to do: write a column the way I write my blog. It was all a ploy to get more readers which, according to Nigel, our resident numbers guy, has been a success. Since my column started running in the paper, readership jumped nearly twenty percent. Luck had nothing to do with that either so don’t even start with me.

As we went around the table I noticed the tension in the room. I was not alone either. Everyone could tell that Jade was fuming at the disruption in the seating arrangement. Jesse sure had guts to change things up when we all knew how much of a control freak our boss can be.

I looked over at Jesse, my lips pressing together into a firm line. Conferences are awkward enough without this weird tension. He looked back at me, a finger tapping his bottom lip pensively. I could feel my expression darken as his bright blue eyes met mine. He was up to something.

“Olivia,” I heard my name and nearly jumped out of my skin. Jade, not to mention the rest of the room, was looking at me. I felt my cheeks burn.

“Yes. Right,” I stammered, trying to gather my thoughts.

“Whatever you are working on must be pretty thought-provoking to make you speechless, Olivia,” Jade mocked. She was right; it takes a lot to make me shut up. Unless I’m in awkward conference meetings, I’m usually a chatty Cathy.

I took time to take a deep breath and looked down at my notes.

“I am working on a piece on Kristin Chenoweth’s new tour and, of course, tying it with how I wish I could be her.” I am an unashamed loser. I will be the first to admit that I failed my dream to make it to Broadway, and I am not afraid to joke about it.

That earned light laughter and an approving nod from Jade. And they moved on. I may have saved the paper by giving it more readership but they know I don’t like to gush about my writing.

I zoned out again as they continued going around the table. Until, that is, it was Jesse’s turn to report his article. The tension in the room heightened as we waited for him to speak which also pulled me out of whatever reverie my mind was conjuring. I like to escape from the conference room mentally at least because it eases the boredom.

Jesse had a funky smile on his lips, light from the windows in the next room touching his cheek and making the stubble on his jaw golden. “I am doing something a little different this time. Changing it up.” His eyes were on Jade, a pencil twirling in his fingers. I suddenly felt a clenching in my stomach.

Jade’s brows shot up. “Go on, Jesse. Indulge us.”

He took a deep breath, an eye of the storm in the midst of the tumultuous tension around him. I tried to pretend the apprehension did not bother me, but I found myself tapping my fingers against my notepad nervously.

“I am going to do an article on Broadway hopefuls. What separates the hopefuls from the stars. And my first interview will be,” he paused, turned and laid his summer breeze eyes on me. And then everyone’s eyes were on me. “Our very own Olivia Jordan.”