PROLOGUE
ALL GREAT LOVE STORIES START WITH A CORNY PICKUP LINE.
Scottie
I feel like I’m two seconds away from hyperventilating into a paper bag from nerves, now that I’m in San Francisco for this interview tomorrow.
But at least I look good.
Swiping through the dozen timed selfies I took a bit ago in front of the view at the Golden Gate lookout, I know my social media followers are going to eat this up. I’m dressed in a neon yellow blazer, black ankle-length dress pants, statement earrings, and a pair of matching neon yellow heels sharp enough to be registered as weapons.
It’s bold, bright, and unapologetic.
I pick my top three selfies and upload them to social media with the caption:Big things are coming.
After I upload it, I switch to a map app and find I’m only one block from the burger bar I found while doom scrolling at the airport. Apparently, it’s a must-visit when visiting San Francisco. As luck would have it, it’s so close to my hotel, too.
And what I need right now is a drink to take the edge off.
Tomorrow, I have an interview with a panel of producers who could offer me a dream job to be the feature for the nextseason of my favorite home renovation show calledNailed It or Failed It.
On a whim, I submitted an application when I heard they were looking for someone. They must have received thousands of submissions from actual professionals and people with real portfolios or larger followings. Somehow, they still picked me for an in-person interview. I’ve been sick with nerves ever since because I want—no, Ineed—this chance to prove I’m more than a face behind bright colors, some brand deals, and a decent editing app. I want a chance to prove I belong in this industry.
It’s also a shot to finally get out of my parents’ house.
I’ve spent the last few years doing DIY project tutorials with paint-stained nails and plaster dust in my hair before spending late nights video editing, all for this moment. So, naturally, instead of rehearsing my answers to the interview questions they sent over in my hotel room, I’m headed to drown the nerves with booze.
“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS says.
I look up at the sign, and it’s…not what I was expecting. The outside looks weathered, but I pull the door open anyway. This bar is essentially a hole-in-the-wall establishment. I’m not one to wander into a bar like this alone, especially one that smells like old wood, spilled beer, and someone’s questionable cologne.
I scan the room and it’s busy. My eyes land on an open bar seat and I take it. My phone rings in my purse, pulling my attention. Looking down, I reluctantly swipe to answer.
“Hello, Mom.”
“Scottlyn? Can you hear me?” she practically yells through the phone, causing me to pull the phone away from my ear while I cringe at the use of my full name—which she knows I hate.
“Yes. Canyouhear me?”
“Barely. There’s so much shouting and music around you. Where are you?”
“I’m at a little spot in San Francisco calledBetween the Bunsto grab dinner.”
“Shouldn’t you be preparing for your interview?” my mom asks, full of judgment. “And did you bring the notes I gave you? The ones about how you should explain the remodel we did?”
“I was just grabbing some food. And?—”
She scoffs, cutting me off. “Haven’t you heard of room service? You should be in your hotel room preparing and, most importantly, figuring out what to wear. These producers are going to want someone polished and put together.”
And there it is.
The only thing my mother ever worries about is appearances.
But that’s how it’s always been.
If I fail at anything, it reflects back on her.
“You’re right,” I lie to keep things at bay. “I’m going to grab my burger to go and head back to the hotel. Thanks for calling to check on me.”
