The Road to Love City

Chapter 2

At 27, I have ticked off quite a few items on my bucket list:

*Wax my legs and other pertinent parts.

*Watch romantic movies without falling to bits.

*Do the flying yoga.

*Meet Gabriel Castro in person.

But I never imagined that I would do this recently-added item:

*Hack Gabe's FB account and stare at his sexy photos.

Thank God for the IT guys. Now I can't stop from taking a good peek at his abs once in a while which, I have noticed, is a nice distraction from all the work Lila had left. In three days, I have officially become the digital content editor AND proxy features editor. At present, my workstation resembles that of my room – sheets of paper, gel pens, and my mobile phone and tablet all scattered on the gray tabletop. The art director shoots my table a weird look, shakes his head, and whispers to the guy sitting beside him.

I don't think they understand the meaning of creative mess.

The morning rush has failed to give me my daily dose of adrenaline, and the coffee has gone stale in my mouth. I wonder what they fill those vending machines with. I raise my paper cup to my lips and down the last of my java fix, hoping that it would jolt me from my stupor. I stare at my blank screen, where I was supposed to have typed 750 words about bowties. Seriously? Do men still wear bowties these days?

I've had bad cases of writer's block before, but this is the worst. I have wasted an hour on nothing, and my mind is still fixated on Gabe's Boracay trip photos – his dark, chiseled body on the white sand, his brown eyes behind the sunglasses, and his smile, which is something we don't get to see in the office.

He does not scowl, but he is not friendly either. He was very business-like and curt when he introduced me to the staff, and I felt like his eyes were burning a hole on my back. Despite his cool, calm, and collected demeanor, I've still got a crush on him and I would never delete his photos on my phone even if he tells me to.

"Ms. Steph, Sir Gabe wants to see you."

I quickly stash my phone in my bag and look at Melissa, the editorial assistant, a.k.a the one who breaks the bad news. She looks nervous as hell, which could only mean two things:

1. I have submitted a poorly-written work that needs revision ASAP.

2. Gabe has finally found out who has been stalking him – ME.

I nod to Melissa and then promise to see Gabe after a quick touch-up. I look at my reflection – my makeup is okay, I don't look pale, and my red matte lipstick is still screaming "Kiss me now!"—but deep inside I'm about to break. What if Gabe has really found out? What if he fires me?

As I walk towards his cubicle, I feel panic rising in my throat. In my mind, I've imagined this scene countless times, but it was definitely not because of some office scandal or improper behavior.

Usually, Gabe would be typing on his laptop, unfazed by any office drama that editors liked to stage. He is probably the most handsome, poker-faced boss I've ever seen, and he can be painfully sarcastic if he wants to. But this morning he surprises me with a wide smile, like he just entered a million-peso deal. My legs turn into jelly, but I can't exactly figure out why.

"Good morning, Steph. Please have a seat," Gabe greets me with uncharacteristic sweetness. He gestures towards an armchair, and I sit there, trying hard not to squirm.

"So..." he began. I close my eyes as I wait for a plethora of accusations. Do I say sorry or what?

"...I'm so sorry but I'm going to be upfront about this. What happened really disappointed me..."