What's It Like to Be You?

02

CHAPTER TWO: SPOTTED DICK

"That's it?"

I ask, "Really, Mara?"

Mara whines. "He's Noah Cadden for Pete's sake!"

I press my lips, waiting for her next line.

"The youngest chef ever to win a Michelin!" She adds, "You know, after he flopped harder than Affleck years ago?"

"My point exactly." I click my tongue. "He's successful. It's scary."

Mara sighs. "How many times have you seen a chef who's hot and witty in a single human body?"

"Okay, that's a no."

"Hey—"

"See you later!" I shut my phone off.

Hearing Mara's marketing pitch on Noah makes me want to throw up. God knows what's inside her head when it comes to guys.

I shiver both at the thought and on the rain check that it's still Wednesday.

As a junior writer in B Cut, having the responsibility to work with 43 writers a day can be very much a pain in the ass. It's not that I hate my colleagues—and most of the time, I don't—but remembering their names is like cramming a calculus test.

Despite the fascinating byproducts that I've gotten at 27, I enjoy my timetable even more. With ranging deadlines and a hectic workspace, my life is just like any other busy occupants' in NYC. Although it might not be as fascinating as a neurosurgeon or a software engineer, I'm more than satisfied with the 45:55 male-female employee ratio in B Cut and not to forget, life's precious gift: steadiness.

Only when I walk out of the metal box, murmurs are blocking my way from seizing the day.

That's when I notice. All eyes are directed at him.

In spite of being the center of attention, the lost figure stands straight next to the front desk. With big brown eyes, chestnut-color locks and thin facial hair, he creates himself a prim aura. And from his subtle expression, I'm starting to actually question his presence in the prestigious building.

The guy knows what people are doing and is receiving it with thanks. He even lets his eyes have a tour of the crowd before choosing me as his red light.

He even squints his eyes like I'm a long-lost twin.

Not sparing a moment of confusion, via four wide strides, he places a two feet gap between us. And in a world filled with rather manner-misshapen people, the man scans me from tip to toe, stops to curl his eyebrows, and as if it's not enough to treat me like a barcode, he lazily flutters his eyelashes like I'm the shrunken hoodie he bought online.

"Keira McKnight?" his deep voice asks.

My eyebrows sympathetically raise.

At my physical response, the British man clicks his tongue, eyes wandering around at anything but me.

"Damien Grey. The new production manager," he alludes.

I curl an awkward smile.

So?

"Should I get someone to send you to publication?" I ask.

"I've been informed," he blatantly answers, still not looking at me. "But I'm meeting Charlie first."

I hold my fists. "He usually shows up at eight-thirty."

He pulls off a tight smile, stealing a one-second gaze to my shoes. "I notice his absence."