Ave Michaels is an out-and-proud cynical romantic who never had her heart broken (considering she has to fall in love first.)
That is until, in order to get published, she has to prove she's a versatile writer by writing a romance novel.
Throw in a...
¡Ay! Esta imagen no sigue nuestras pautas de contenido. Para continuar la publicación, intente quitarla o subir otra.
"In Which Reality is to Continuously Shoot Oneself in the Foot"
(Pt. 2)
· · ·
10:40 AM
Pulse Publishing Inc., New York City, NY
I don't got this. I am so not done.
What the hell did Travers get me into?
"You look young, for someone with connections to the CEO."
Just like her lovely assistant, she gives me the elevator stare* — as expected — her narrow lips pursed into a silent sneer.
Her expression was as stiff as a marble, nose proudly tilted upwards. She stares at me like a falcon scrutinizing a field of grass for prey and finding nothing but wet grass and mud.
As if I've already been weighed, measured, and found lacking.
Needless to say, I was all-too-familiar with the look since childhood. From the stifling etiquette classes with private tutors and countless luncheons and soirees under the watchful eyes of the town's society mavens.
However, it was her remark amidst the long awkward tension-filled silence that cut through my thick cloud of reverie and rendered me unable to get a word out.
How can I not be? I'm sitting in front of this modern-day stuck-up Sphinx of the Concrete Jungle* — in her Den of Judgment — who may, or may not secure my future in the literary arts.
Ugh, why now of all times did Travers suddenly develop the magnanimity to hand the credits over to me? I was fine blending in the shadows.
My fingers itch to touch one of the many books that were organized and placed neatly in a ten-foot bookcase. I could tell from some of the titles that they haven't been released yet.
I roam my eyes around the office, taking note of the minimal and well-organized interior. A few frames were hanging on the walls, but nothing too personal.
The furniture had an interesting variation of contrast in color and shape, resembling fine geometric lines and a triadic color scheme of red, blue, and yellow.
Her desk, decked with glass on top and curved at the bottom in a Postmodernist Art Nouveau,* consisted of a laptop, a coaster for her cup of tea, and a stack of binders.
Her chair, I'm guessing, must be comfy too.
Unlike, mine.
Oh, wait, that wasn't the root cause of my discomfort.
