Blooming Love

Meeting

America

As of now you were hurrying through the streets of New York city, running later than usual for work. You work as a secretary at a big reporting office, though your dream is to be a reporter (your boss holds you back, saying you--as a woman--aren't eligible to become a reporter). Though your boss is rude, you still try to win him over, impressing him by being early, working hard, and leaving late.

As you shoved your way towards a coffee shop (to retrieve a latte for your boss) you were breathing heavily, looking obviously stressed. You bumped into an old lady, immediately apologizing but still rushing ahead for the coffee shop, shoes tapping against the concrete.

Coming up on the coffee shop you realized it was closed, and there wasn't another shop nearby--at least not close enough to hit up and still be on time. You stood at the doors of the shop as it began raining. Looking inside you saw most of it cleared out--it was closing for good. Suddenly you heard a ringing coming from your blazer's pocket. Grabbing it out you saw it was your boss. You answered.

"This is Y/N speaking, how might I-" You were cut off.

"L/N!"

"M-Mr. Bacco!" You feigned surprise, "Sir, oh, gosh! I'm so sorry, I'm running a bit late-" You began ranting, but you were once again you were cut off.

"You're fired!"

"What?

"I said, you're fired." You could hear the smirk on his voice. He always hated you, only keeping you around because you were an attractive suck-up who would get him coffee on demand (also because even he had too much of a conscience to fire you for no reason). You felt your face burning with rage.

"Sir-!" You began,

"Bye bye, L/N!" Mr Bacco said, hanging up.

You now stood in front of a closed coffee shop, in the rain, phone to your ear, and face red with anger and embarrassment. You knew your boss was always looking for a plausible reason to fire you; you being a bit late? While stupid to you, he must've thought it perfectly fine.

You heard someone clear their throat from behind you. Turning around you were met with a young man around your age. He had silky-looking blond hair with a stubborn cowlick in the front, his eyes were bright and excited, baby blue hues that were hidden behind simple-framed glasses. He wore a casual looking suit, with black slacks, a white button up, dark brown leather suspenders, and his suit jacket draped over his shoulder. The man tilted his head, smiling.

"You okay?"

England

You were standing in an elevator, very nervous and jittery. You had moved to England in hopes of finding a good job away from family drama you had back in your home country, and you had been lucky enough to find a nice paying job as the secretary of some random businessman. Your resume was, surprising to you, a good enough fit for the job position--you had an impressive education, good references, and fitting past jobs and experience.

The elevator dinged as the doors opened on the fifth floor. Walking out you turned down the left hall, following the directions the nice lady from the ground floor gave you.

As you walked you got even more nervous, the butterflies in your stomach becoming more frantic with each step. You took deep breaths as you turned another corner in a futile attempt to calm yourself. You wondered why you got the job--sure you were pretty reliable, but this was a pretty big job! Why would they hire some bloke from overseas? Surely someone from England, with that posh accent, would be a better fit?