Not If I Date You First

Chapter 5

ADA

I burst into the office of The Huntley Agency, sending the doors crashing against the walls. The receptionist jumps, almost toppling out of her chair.

"Sorry...I'm...late." I'm panting so hard I can barely get the words out between gulps of air. I sprinted the whole five blocks from Jitters. I bend forward, chest heaving as I struggle to breathe. The receptionist stares at me, mouth agape as she takes in my disheveled, juice-stained appearance.

Great first impression, Ada.

I gulp down some of the coffee I'm still clutching and straighten, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the pane of glass that divides the reception area from the rest of the office. I gasp. Chunks of hair stick straight out from my ponytail. I look like a deranged hedgehog.

Frantically, I attempt to comb my fingers through the now crunchy strands, but the juice has hardened into a sort of plaster, turning my normally purple strands sludge green. 

Sighing, I realize I have no choice but to make the best of the situation. I force what I hope is a professional smile and hold out a hand. "Hi. I'm Ada Datchery. The new intern."

The receptionist's eyes flick to my hand, then she looks me up and down, one judgey, micro-bladed eyebrow raised. She sniffs, turning her attention back to her computer screen.

I glance down at the green streak smeared across my palm and quickly wipe it on my yoga pants.

"Rough morning," I explain.

"Looks like it," she mutters, tapping at her keyboard while simultaneously giving me some serious side-eye. "You're Ada Datchery?"

"Yes."

"The intern meeting started ten minutes ago."

Could she be less helpful? I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from snapping at her. Forcing a smile, I say, "Would you mind showing me where to go? Please?"

"Last room on the right." She jerks a thumb toward the hallway leading from the glass door next to her desk.

I force myself to say a terse "Thank you" before bolting to the door.

"Good luck," she says, her tone making it obvious she thinks I'll need it. I check my watch as I hustle down the hall. 9:13. Crap. Crap. Crap.

The bitter smell of automatic coffee lingers in the air as I pass the double doors of a break room, bustling with people wearing business suits and photogs with cameras slung over their shoulders. They clutch Styrofoam cups as they thumb through the tabloids that litter the tables. A couple of photographers dressed head-to-toe in black notice me. They do a double take as I barrel past. Considering the state I'm in, I don't blame them.

Celebrity photographs decorate the long, white hallway. Jennifer Lawrence laughing into a phone at an outdoor cafe in Los Angeles, Taylor Swift wearing a tangerine and magenta two-piece gown and holding an armful of Grammy awards, and Liam Anders standing outside Microsoft Theater at last year's Emmy's. I glare at his stupidly handsome face.

His eyes look even bluer next to the red carpet. The crooked smile dancing on his lips would be charming if I hadn't just experienced what a complete and total jackass he is firsthand.

Dirtbag stalkerazzi. My fingers squeeze my to-go cup, making the sides bow. Just thinking about his words makes my temper flare.

Millions of people live vicariously through pictures of celebrities online and in tabloids. Grams and I used to buy a copy of each of the major magazines every Monday when she picked me up from school. We'd skim through the pages, dissecting the latest scandals and fashion trends while binge-watching our favorite classic movies. We watched everything from Casablanca to Sixteen Candles. It was our thing, and I loved it.