Chapter 1: I Hate Summer

I hate summer.

Don't get me wrong - I love sunshine. I love fireflies and clear, starry nights and drinking iced tea in the shade. I'm not usually a grouch, I swear. But people who believe that's what summer is - the iced tea and fireflies and all that - haven't experienced a real Atlanta summer. Or at least they haven't inherited the overactive sweat glands that I did. Thank you, Blankenship genes.

You see, I'm what they call a "hot mess." And sadly, I don't mean that in the romanticized, glamorous way. I mean that in the haven't-had-a-real-job-or-real-boyfriend-in-more-than-a-year way. I literally spent most of yesterday lounging on my brother's couch in yoga pants and an old T-shirt with a popcorn butter stain on the chest, binge-watching a reality cooking competition while trying not to think about how important today's interview is.

I adjust my blazer as I step out of the car, trying to ignore the suffocating humidity. Some days, it feels like someone has wrapped a warm, damp towel around your face the minute you step outside - and trust me, that's the last feeling you want minutes before a big interview. I lift my elbows, trying to air out my armpits as I hurry toward the office building in front of me. Not that my sweat glands appreciate the effort. It's like they have a checklist for all the worst times to do their thing:

First date in months? Sweat!

Chance encounter with my turd of an ex-boyfriend in the supermarket? Sweat!

An opportunity to get a real job and finally move out of my brother's apartment? The sweatiest sweat I've ever sweated!

I'm dealing with a major perspiration situation right now, and it's only going to get worse as my nerves kick in. The worst part is that I don't even want this job. I mean, I want a job, and this one has a decent salary and benefits, but it was never exactly in my life plan to work as someone's executive assistant. When I finished my master's degree in visual marketing last year, I thought I'd have endless career opportunities ahead of me. The reality has been underwhelming.

Frankly, the entire past year has been underwhelming. My long-term boyfriend, Hunter, dumped me two weeks after my graduation, and my love life has been abysmal ever since. Add to that my dad's declining health, and...well, my life pretty much sucks.

But that changes today, I tell myself as I look up at the mirrored windows on the office building. Today is the day my luck turns. Three days ago, I found myself watching some slick-haired motivational speaker on TV at two o'clock in the morning, and his words stuck in my head: If you want to turn your life around, you have to start saying "Yes!" to every opportunity that comes your way. Say "Yes!" to all the possibilities, no matter how unexpected they are!

The next day, I got the call about this interview. It felt like a sign.

I only wish that saying "Yes!" was a little more exciting. And less sweaty.

"Damn it," I curse, looking down at my shirt as I enter the building's lobby. I knew I shouldn't have worn my white blouse, not today. There are some massive pit stains happening under my blazer.

I glance around, looking for the bathrooms. The lobby is surprisingly busy for mid-morning, and there's a moderately sized crowd gathered to the side of the elevator bank. My gaze skims right past them, and I finally locate what I'm looking for - a little silver sign marking the restrooms.

I hurry across the lobby and duck inside, then dart straight to the mirror, surveying the flood damage. My blazer still covers up the worst of the sweat, but the shirt's fabric clings to me between my breasts. Boob sweat is the worst.

I glance at my fitness tracker. I've still got fifteen minutes until my interview. I like to show up ten minutes early - early enough to show I'm punctual but not so early I look desperate. That gives me a few minutes to mop up.

I pull my blouse away from my skin and try to fan a little breeze down there. My blond hair has a thousand flyaways, but I don't think it's too noticeable. I'm just frustrated I spent so long tying it back into a smooth, professional ponytail this morning.

Once my breasts have started to cool, I reach over and grab some paper towels. I gently pat down my neck. After a moment's hesitation, I shove my hand down my shirt and try to mop up the rest of my boob sweat, too. And the swamps that have formed under my armpits.

At least my period hasn't started yet, I think. It's set to show up sometime today - which is why I'm wearing a pair of huge, grungy granny panties under my pencil skirt - but it's holding off for now. That's one less thing to worry about during my interview.

You're going to rock this, Maggie! I tell my reflection. You're going to say "Yes!" to exciting new opportunities! That's all any of us want, isn't it? Exciting new opportunities. The chance to live a fulfilling, extraordinary life. I'm not sure a job as an executive assistant will get me there, but I know that spending another year unemployed and living with my brother certainly won't.

Tossing the last of my used paper towels in the trash bin, I give myself one last look. The girl in the mirror appears confident and put together. The interviewer never has to know that I'm practically swimming under my clothes.

I put on my game face and spin around, ready to rock my interview, when the bathroom door swings open. And in walks an absolutely stunning man.

Everything about him is striking - the broad shoulders, the perfectly tousled hair somewhere between dirty blond and light brown, the chiseled jaw. But his most arresting feature is his eyes, which shine with intelligence and an intensity that stops me right in my tracks, even though his gaze is elsewhere.

It takes me a few seconds to realize what his sudden appearance means - that in my rush to reach a bathroom and clean up, I walked into the wrong one - but it's too late to do anything. The man stops just short of running into me, and he blinks as if just noticing I'm here. Those intense eyes shine into me. They're a remarkable golden brown, like dark honey, and I swallow involuntarily.

The correct thing to do here would be to mumble an apology and run from the bathroom as fast as I can in these work-appropriate heels. But I can't seem to move, not while he's looking at me. After a moment, he backs up a step, his gaze traveling down my body and then back up again. Satisfaction gleams in his eyes.

"You're perfect," he says.

It takes a moment to process his words. I'm...what? But before I can ask this handsome stranger why he thinks such a thing about me, he's already turning around.

"Wait right here," he tells me as he strides toward the door. "I'm getting Karen." And, as if I didn't hear him the first time, he repeats, "You're perfect!"