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I glance away, down at my sad, melting ice,verytempted to break my one-drink rule and order a fresh cocktail.
“Are you not a real redhead?”
Lauren snorts to my left. Sadly, we’ve gone out enough times together that she’s heard some version of that question aimed at me many times before.So whatif less than one percent of the population has blue eyes and red hair? I’d rather discuss the weather than mynaturalhair color.
I look up, meeting his superior gaze straight on.
I smile, and he smirks back.
Hook.
I lean forward, so his eyes drop to check out my cleavage.
Line.
“You know what I’m not?” I ask, sweet as sugar.
“What?” he says, smug.
Sinker.
“Interested.”
That gets a guffaw out of the blond guy. Either the two men aren’t friends or he switches sides easily. Not an appealing trait in my book, but I know Lauren can handle herself.
My unwelcome admirer takes the rebuff better than I expected—a scoff and a shake of his head the only reaction before he focuses his gaze on the dancing crowd a few feet away. A minute or so later, he stands, approaching a couple of women who flip their hair and giggle in response to whatever line he delivers.
Lauren and the blond guy are whispering to each other. There’s no sign of Serena.
I slump in my seat, staring ahead and seeing nothing.
I’m lucky, I remind myself. This is everything I wanted, working in music and living in my hometown. With great friends and an amazing apartment, especially by New York City standards.
Dream job. Dream city. Dream life.
But I don’t feel very lucky right now.
More…empty.
CHAPTERTWO
PIPER
The knock on my office door makes me jump. I glance up, my heart rate slowing when I glimpse Linda’s familiar face on the other side of the glass. I was too busy transcribing scribbled notes from this morning’s meeting to notice her appear.
I beckon for her to come in, immediately registering the absence of her usual cheery smile. Linda manages the front desk, greeting everyone when they arrive and overseeing everything that happens in the office. She brings in chocolate chip cookies every Friday and happens to be one of my favorite people on the planet.
She also rarely leaves her post in the front reception. I think she’s only visited my office twice in the time I’ve worked here.
“Hi, Piper.”
“Morning,” I greet, pushing the pad of notes away. “What’s wrong?”
“Carl wants to see you in his office. Now.”
I push my chair back and stand, immediately running through a mental list of possible reasons why the head of the label is requesting to see me.
I come up blank—with one exception. “Am I getting fired?”
