Excerpt #1

Day 1

Keep going, Dylan. I splash along a London street that must be hundreds of years old. It’s lined with brick buildings, a mirrored office tower reflecting the moody sky, and followed by even more brick buildings. Then, at street level, there’re all the glass-fronted shops. The museum’s got to be close. You’ve gotten halfway around the world, after all.

With the help of printed out maps and free Wi-Fi, of course.

It’s not far now.

And I can’t stop smiling. I can’t believe I’m actually here. Forget the rain.

It’s a soggy, blustery London day, which admittedly does no favors for my leather shoes or my styled hair. Or for making a good impression on the first day of a new job in a country I landed in three days ago. And it’s the first day where jet lag isn’t totally kicking my ass.

I get a little lost on my way from London Bridge station somewhere along the modern gray tiled path leading past the Old London City Hall. The problem being something called Old London City Hall looks very modern and new, with its endless windows and curved oval structure, which is part of what got me confused. Because everything old in London’s supposed to be, well, old. Like really old. And this building is anything but. I squint at the building through the rain at the edge of an equally sleek plaza, dotted with leafy trees boxed in with low hedges, concrete benches, and contemporary art installations, all overlooking the Thames. 

Old London City Hall looks like it was built yesterday.

This must be some prank to play on the tourists.

I pull out a slightly crumpled page from my pocket with one hand and hold on to the umbrella with my other hand. I haven’t sorted out my phone yet, and I don’t want to pay roaming charges. My printed-out map reliably shows Potters Field Park beside the Thames and the Old London City Hall plaza. Plus, there’s the iconic Tower Bridge nearby as a key landmark, and an X in blue pen marks the museum to the east. Raindrops splatter the page with dark spots before I hurriedly tuck it away.

I’m back on track.

The museum must be straight ahead, past the park—my destination—down at the end of the road or the block or whatever people call it here. I start walking again with purpose. Like I belong here amid the Londoners who happen to know where they’re going.

At least, I think it’s the museum at the end of the street. I haven’t actually seen it before, except on Google Street View.

Distracted, I end up making an unscheduled detour down a side street to see more of the surrounding area, which has one-way traffic. But there’re more modern buildings again down this way, and I work on figuring out how to loop back on course before I’m late.

Look right, then left. I keep repeating my new mantra when I cross the street, then hurry up another street toward the museum as the weather worsens. Everyone drives on the opposite side of the street from what I’m used to.

I grip my umbrella tight against another gust of wind.

A red sports car screams past as a wind gust turns my umbrella inside out.

Then an icy tidal wave hits me like a slap, and I reel.

“What the fuck—” I yelp, the umbrella useless in my hand.

An airborne puddle soaks me. Right from my head down to my now very ruined—rather than partly ruined—new shoes. Leather never deserves a flood of water, never mind my face.

Water pours off me in sheets. I’m left sopping wet, gasping and spluttering.

Me and my wet rage, dressed in soggy smart casual. My light cotton blazer, perfect for actual summer, turns out to be incredible at soaking up water like a sponge.

I stare after the red car rocketing up the road toward the museum, its taillights a sharp dazzle against the soft gray world even through the rain. My fists tighten while I drip.

Too bad I didn’t pack a towel in my bag, but I didn’t expect impromptu bathing today.

Asshole

 

Excerpt #2

By the time I reach the double glass doors of the museum offices entry, thankfully far away from the main museum entry, I’m fuming. I should have turned around and gone home to change, but it’d be worse to be late to my dream internship. My vision for the morning had me arriving all relaxed and breezy and well dressed.

And dry.

Maybe it’s not as bad as I think.

I open the glass door and walk in, standing tall like I’m in one of my old dance classes. They say make an entrance—and pre-splash, I looked entirely fabulous—but showing up half-drowned isn’t the look I’m going for.

The receptionist stares at me as the clock behind her ticks ominously to 9:00 a.m.

It’s got to be bad.

I self-consciously run a hand through my hair, now plastered against my forehead. Very aware I’m dripping, I stay on the rug in the small entry, trying to look inconspicuous. And dry.

“May I help you?” she asks at last with a slightly disapproving tone, after she’s had a long, awkward look at me. She’s probably not much older than I am, her dark hair up in a neat twist. She wears a flowery black-and-white dress with a yellow cardigan. And she’s remarkably dry.

“Er, maybe? I’m… Dylan Alexander, the new intern starting today. Some jerk just splashed me with his car. Is there a washroom where I can try to dry off?”

“Oh, you poor thing! We’ve been expecting you. Though how awful. Such bad luck.” Her eyes widen. “Yes, the WC is down the hall to your right. I’ll let Lily know you’ve arrived after you have a few minutes to freshen up.”

But before I have a chance to go attempt to dry off, the glass door opens. Someone behind me clears his throat.

“Excuse me,” says a man mildly in a posh voice.

I’m blocking the door. Quickly, I move off the rug and instead drip onto the tile in front of the floor-to-ceiling window looking out to the street. An impeccably dressed young man breezes by me with easy confidence like I’m invisible, with the flipped-up collar of his pale designer trench coat and expensive leather shoes polished to a shine. He’s traffic-stopping gorgeous, with his dark brown hair curated into a stylish mess.

Rain hasn’t even dared fall on him.

“I’m terribly sorry I’m late. I’m William Martin-Greene, the new intern starting this morning.” And then, William Martin-Greene smiles a devastating smile, with a quick flash of perfect teeth. Dimples have the audacity to appear. I’m trying not to stare, but frankly, he’s hot. So I’m staring without shame since I’m conveniently invisible to him, and I’m totally into sightseeing like a tourist on holiday. And nobody’s paying attention to me anyway.

 

Excerpt #3

At least avoiding Mr. McLaren has been easy enough, because he was job shadowing the museum director at first for a day, I guess to learn what happens at the top, and then he was off helping the Development team with sponsorships. Which makes sense, because look at him. Donors would love him, giving up their wallets and a spare kidney without hesitation. They’d fall over each other in a fight to be the first. Meanwhile, I’ve been with Lily Hayward, my supervisor and one of the museum curators. She’s great. Which is where I want to be, in Curatorial.

None of this explains why Mr. McLaren’s sat down in the boardroom—right beside me, despite all of the empty chairs—to join the Curatorial department for our weekly team meeting held on Wednesday afternoons. His cologne is unfortunately swoonworthy.

Mr. McLaren reaches over for the coaster in front of me and slides it over in front of him before he sets his tea down.

I scowl and glance over at him for about a half second, already annoyed. He could have at least asked for the coaster, the entitled bastard.

Rude.

Mr. McLaren’s all pressed and premium-looking. Hell, even his shirt has French cuffs. At first, I wondered if that’s what all the guys wear in London, but I haven’t seen anyone else at the museum wearing them, except maybe the director. Mr. McLaren has glossy dark hair styled in an artfully careless way, a crisp white shirt that wouldn’t dare wrinkle, and he wears an understated, though clearly very expensive, watch. It gleams. If watches had a new watch smell like cars did, I bet this room would be full of its premium scent and aspirational lifestyle. Something like the French Riviera or maybe peacock feathers. At least he makes good bait, since he smells of money, a perfect fit for getting new sponsors for the museum’s exhibition.

By comparison, my denim shirt has faux pearl snaps, and I’ve added a whimsical enamel rainbow cat pin on my shirt pocket flap. My look isn’t the sort that prospective donors go wild over.

And of course, he’s handsome. In that irritatingly classic, magazine way. The guys I go for are anything but traditionally handsome. Give me quirky, give me strong features, give me someone from the fringe.

But right now, this isn’t about me and the guys I’m into. I’m here to work.