You’re a sweet, take-you-home-to-meet-my-mom type of a girl and I’m just not ready for something so serious.

The text message invades my phone like an unforeseen missile strike. Boom.

Is that the best Jacob Ryan could come up with? A pathetically buffed-up rendition of it’s not you, darling, it’s me?

A breakup text.

I’ve heard of them. And seriously doubted I’d ever be on the receiving end of one.

You’d think I’d be hurt, right? Especially since Jacob and I’ve been dating for over a month. Forty-five days to be precise.

But I’m not hurt one bit.

Seriously.

I mean I sort of gave up on meeting my Prince Charming ages ago. Mr. Charming does not exist and, believe me, every modern-day woman knows this, despite all of the sappy romance movies and novels out there.

So fuck it. I’m totally swearing off men now. Alpha men, hot men, poor men, rich men, short men, tall men…

Just men. Period. End of discussion.

And I mean it this time. I—Daniella Belle—do solemnly swear to never go out with another damn member of the opposite sex again. Ever.

Well, at least for now, anyway.

Never is a borderline extreme commitment that I’d surely fail to live up to. For example: Suppose Circa-2000 David Beckham were to strut across this busy Los Angeles Metro station platform wearing nothing except his ripped abs and jeans? He’d seductively squeeze his way through the crowd of downtown-bound commuters, his gaze glued to mine as he makes a beeline toward me, professing Victoria—what’s-her-face—has left him and he wants to be with me. Then, of course, I’d forgo swearing off men.

Obviously.

Anyway, this epiphany-inducing text could not have come at a worse time. Today is supposed to be a great day. Yet already, my alarm clock failed to go off, I got shampoo in my eyes, there were no more Pop-Tarts in the pantry, and of course now, this gimpy-ass text.

When a day starts off bad, it has a tendency to only get worse. This theory has been statistically proven to be true, which instinctively compels me to internally pray to the good day gods that today does not snowball into an epic-fail-shit-happens sort of day. From this point on it’s gotta be smooth mutha fuckin’ sailing.

I am on my way to a job interview that, if all goes as planned, will land me my dream job.

Well, my almost dream job. Let’s just call this the get-my-foot-in-the-door-to-my-dream-job job. A job that is, after all, the sole reason why I moved to Los Angeles from Dallas; to be a fashion designer—a designer of lingerie, to be more specific.

I graduated the top of my class from LA’s Fashion Institute of Design last year. Except so far, I’ve had zero luck getting anyone to notice my designs.

Budging my way through the crowd of busy Los Angeles commuters, I feel my phone’s vibration through my purse. I cringe. It better not be another text from Jacob, the breakup texter.

I yank my phone out of my purse and peek at the caller ID.

Oh. It’s my boss. Well, she’s also a good friend. So what’s the term for that? Boss slash friend?

“Hey, Stacy,” I answer, slowly inching my way closer to the edge of the platform.

“Best of luck today, lovely. Have you caught the train yet?”

Stacy’s actually the one who showed me the Google alert that mentioned: Antonio Michaels, Creator and CEO of CraveMe Lingerie is actively seeking a professional and experienced Personal Assistant. Honestly, I had never even heard of Antonio Michaels. Sure I’ve heard of his CraveMe line of lingerie, but seriously…who hasn’t?

“Not yet. Still waiting at the station. Along with a whole bunch of other people. I may have to fight my way onto the train.” I laugh internally at my sarcasm.

“You can’t be late for that interview. I don’t want to lose you as a nanny to Emma, but you can’t miss out on an opportunity so great.”

True confession time: I’ve got no real experience being anyone’s Personal Assistant; yet, Stacy swore that, since I’ve been a nanny to her daughter Emma, I’ve really been like her Personal Assistant over the past five years, basically keeping her entire professional world, as a lawyer, and personal world, as a single mom, organized.

Stacy helped me spruce up my résumé and gave me a respectable letter of recommendation. And a letter of recommendation from Stacy is full-on, drop-the-mike status, on account that she’s a well-known entertainment lawyer.

“I won’t miss the train. I promise. And thank you, Stacy. You’re the best. Oh, and guess what? Jacob broke up with me.” I pause and lower my voice after catching a woman in close proximity eavesdropping. “Via text,” I add.

“What a loser!” Stacy announces as if it’s breaking news. “I told you he doesn’t deserve you. Anyway, I’m walking into court right now. Emma will be home briefly this afternoon before she heads to her dad’s for the rest of the week.”

I nod as if Stacy can see me.

“And I’m catching a red-eye to New York,” she asserts.

I actually forgot about that. Even though I made all of her travel arrangements. She’s off to some lawyers’ convention for the week.

“Right. New York. Have fun!”

“Sure. Well, I’ll catch up with you later. Good luck. Love ya.”

“Love ya, too.”

As the train approaches, I keep a careful eye out for anyone holding a coffee cup. The last thing I need is for someone to solidify this to be a bad day, by bumping into me and spilling coffee all over my new dress. Shit like that isn’t just made for TV; it happens all of the time.

The train reaches the platform and, as soon as I board, I realize it’s standing room only.

Figures.

These stilettos aren’t really made for standing.

As I maneuver my way to the back of the train, hoping to find an empty seat, my phone buzzes.

Ugh. Another text from Jacob the loser Ryan.

Just checking: Did you get my text message this morning?

I roll my eyes in unbelievable disgust at his inquiry and am just about to text a scathing reply, letting him know exactly where he can shove his stupid-ass breakup text, when I trip over who knows what, and land right up against a tall, dark-haired guy who is eating—a jelly donut.

That’s right, a Fucking. Jelly. Donut.

Never did I think I’d need to be on the lookout for anyone eating a fruity donut on the train. A donut that has left its explicit mark on the top half of the front of my brand-new sweater dress.

Did I mention it’s a white dress?

“Whoops.” The dark-haired guy snickers, as he continues to bite and annoyingly smack his way through his evil donut. He doesn’t even look the least bit concerned with the fact that remnants of his shitty breakfast choice are now splattered across the top front of my dress as blatant as a large letter S for Superwoman.

I scoff at his nonchalant response and reach into my purse in search of something I can use to wipe off the massive glob of jelly.

“Whoops? So, that’s all you’ve got to say?” I briefly consider getting my revenge by snatching what’s left of the donut out of his hand and smearing it all over his light blue button-down dress shirt.

He produces a semi-wicked grin. “Well it wasn’t my fault. You do know you totally bumped into me, right? You really shouldn’t be texting and walking. It’s evidently impairing. In all actuality, I saved you.”

I finally retrieve a tissue out of my purse. “I beg your pardon? You saved me?” I shake my head and roll my eyes. Surely he must know I am annoyed.

“Yes. Had I not been standing here for you to clumsily bump into after you tripped, you would have epically face-planted your way to the floor of this train. So please feel free to thank me anytime, now.”

Really? He can’t possibly be serious, right? Where is this guy from: the land that time forgot?

“Oh, I’ll thank you, alright. You and your fucking donut have ruined my dress and my day. I’m on my way to a job interview and this is how I’ll be presenting myself. So if anything, thank you for ruining my day.”

The train gives a swift jolt as it takes off, and of course, the movement forces me into Mister Not-So-Friendly which, ironically causes part of the glob of jelly to rub off my dress and onto his shirt.

Pushing myself off him, I grab a tight hold of the pole and can’t help but laugh at the sight of his shirt.

Sweet ironic revenge at its best.

He looks down at his shirt, then up at me, and without taking his eyes off me, he swipes the jelly off his shirt with the tip of his index finger, and calmly licks the sticky goo off before he winks. “I’ve got a wide selection of clean shirts I can change into at my office.”

For a split second, the sight of him licking his finger makes my spine tingle. The dark-haired guy is scrumptiously gorgeous—tall, tan, with smoldering dark blue eyes. But his sarcastic remark just downright infuriates me.

“You’re a first-class jerk, aren’t you?” I suggest, feeling my face heat up.

“And why would you say such a thing? You hardly know me.” The tone of his voice has a delicate accent to it, a sultry brew of American, Italian, and French—an international delight, perhaps.

“Thank goodness for that,” I admit. “I would pay good money to never have to bump into the likes of you again.”

“Ouch. You certainly do possess a spicy little bite, huh? And a huge scruffy attitude, too.” He flirts as he runs his tongue across his soft lips.

I glare at him, displaying I am not at all interested in flirtatious banter. “Scruffy attitude? Let’s not forget you are a huge reason why I have this attitude.”

He shakes his head. “Oh no. Don’t try to pin it on me. I watched you as you got onto the train. You looked annoyed after you glanced at your phone. And now you’re taking it out on me. Let me take a wild guess…did someone dump you via text?”

“You know what? Screw you,” I spit out, more shocked than he probably is. Sure, I tend to curse like a sailor, but not in the presence of hundreds of commuters on a train.

“Whoa! Such language for a little lady.” He smiles conspiratorially and leans in close enough for me to get an accurate count of the somewhat sexy sprinkle of freckles along the bridge of his nose. “Tell me, how many guys have you kissed with that potty mouth of yours?”

I step back, flabbergasted at his blatant audacity to deliver such a question so bluntly. Without much thought, I cleverly toss back, “Tell me, how many women have you lost with that endless arrogance of yours? It spills out of you with as much force as water gushing out of a busted water main.”

The train comes to a halt and I realize it’s my stop. At least I think it is.

I rush past the brute who’s un-graced me with his presence for the last ten minutes, and as I get closer to the exit, I hear his voice gripe in the distance. “Good luck on that job interview, Miss Potty Mouth. It’s a crying shame you can’t use me as your character reference.”

I’ve walked at least three blocks and, thankfully, I’m just about there. I was so flustered on the train, I got off a stop too soon. But who could blame me? The guy was utterly despicable. In my not so humble opinion, walking the rest of the way is a winning trade-off, despite the fact I know darn well my feet are going to be done-in by these shoes once I get to the office building for the interview.

Part of me wants to head back to Stacy’s Beverly Hills home and forget this interview since my appearance is less than to be desired. Honestly, who shows up to an interview with food spillage? My gut tells me something good has got to come out of this bad start to my day. The worst is behind me…left on that train.

When I finally arrive, with about twenty minutes to spare, I head straight for the receptionist desk to check in and when I approach, a young woman popping pink bubble gum is busy on the computer. She bops her head from side to side as if she’s got a groovy pop song stuck in her head. At first glance, it’s safe for me to assume she’s around my age—early twenties, at least. Her dark blue eyes switch from the computer screen to my face, then almost immediately switch to the pitiful stain on my dress.

“Oh my goodness! What happened to your beautiful dress, hun?” She covers her mouth and her eyes widen, displaying what appears to be empathetic shock.

Instinctively, I try to cover the now dried-up jelly glob with the palm of my hand, but realize it’s a total waste of time.

“Oh, I was accosted by a jelly donut on the train this morning,” I sarcastically explain.

“A jelly donut? That’s freakishly bizarre because—” She pauses, holds up her index finger, and mouths the words ‘hold on’, reaching to answer the office phone that sits underneath a pile of file folders on her desk.

As she diverts her attention to the person on the other end of the phone, I take a seat on one of the two couches that sits in the center of the lobby. The black-and-white walls are decorated with large gold-framed photos of women who are scantily adorned in exquisite lingerie pieces—a tasteful shrine of blown-up magazine spreads of CraveMe unmentionables.

“Sorry about the interruption,” the woman says, with a gesture for me to make a return to her desk. “The phone has been ringing nonstop since a job opportunity was announced.” She looks at me questionably. “Wait. Are you here for an interview?” She steals a quick glance at my ill-stained dress again.

“Yes, actually I am.”

“Oh, goody! What’s your name, hun?”

“Daniella Belle. Belle with an E.” I anxiously tap my fingernails against the top of her elongated, podium-style desk.

She picks up a clipboard and skims over the list of names. “Oh right, B-E-L-L-E. Here you are. Sign in, right next to your name, please. You’re slotted for 9:53 a.m.” She smiles as she hands me the clipboard along with an ink pen. “I’m Liza, by the way.”

“It’s great to meet you, Liza.”

She focuses on me with her head cocked and her perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowed as I hand her the clipboard. “You look like you’ve had a rough start to your day. How about I loan you something to put over your dress? You know, to cover up that stain?”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Absolutely.” She removes a beautiful hot-pink cashmere scarf hanging on the back of her swivel desk chair and hands it to me. “Here you go, sweetie. This should do the trick.”

“Oh, my! Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Girl Scout’s Honor. I would be beside myself if I didn’t lend a helping hand. Besides, like I was about to mention just before the phone interruption, jelly donuts seem to be a—”

The phone rings again and this time, Liza mouths the words, “I’m so sorry.”

I take the free moment to tie the scarf around my neck and let it hang slightly—just enough to cover the drastic stain.

Liza ends the call and informs me it’s time for her to escort me to my interview. She places a telephone headset over her ears, maneuvers her way from around her desk, and motions for me to follow.

“This way, hun.”

I follow close behind as we enter a hallway, accessible only via her keycard. Liza seems as sweet as she is stylish. She’s wearing a cute black-and-white knee-length dress, black high-heeled pumps, and her blond hair is secured in a chic bun. She reminds me of a modern-day pinup girl.

Our walk down the hall comes to a halt as Liza points straight ahead. “Your interview will be right through those double doors. Just let me give you a brief rundown.”

I nod, giving her my undivided attention as she leans against the bare wall.

“Okay, so as you know, Antonio Michaels is looking for a new Personal Assistant. He’s insisted he conduct the interviews on his own, and so far, out of maybe, two dozen, he hasn’t been the least bit impressed.”

She looks at me, puzzled, then in an almost motherly fashion approaches me and pats down a piece of my hair that must look out of place.

“Anyhow,” she continues, “just hand Antonio your résumé and let things progress from there. He’s looking for some type of connection. Dottie, his last PA, retired last month. She’s kind of got big shoes to fill because she had the ability to keep Antonio in line. He’s kind of…well, I don’t want to share too much more. It may make ya nervous.”

“I’m not nervous. After the morning I had on the Metro, I’m feeling like nothing could be worse.”

“You rode the Metro here this morning?” She checks her watch.

“Yep. But I got off the train too soon and walked about four blocks.”

“You did appear to be a bit flustered when you approached my desk. Come on. You’re up.”

She leads the way, closer to the double doors, and I must admit, the anticipation of the unknown has surfaced.

What will this Antonio guy be like?

Will he have tough questions for me?

Will he scoff at my lack of PA experience?

We reach the double doors that, incidentally, look a lot larger now than they did ten seconds ago.

Liza smiles. “Funny thing,” she says as she slowly turns the knob to open the door, “Antonio also had a jelly-donut-related incident on his way to work this morning. Maybe it’s something you can use as an ice breaker? It may help you connect with him.”

“Wait, what?” I almost stop in my tracks. “That’s an odd coincidence. But a good enough ice breaker if you ask me,” I say.

We enter the spacious office, and right away, I can’t help but notice the bay window that overlooks Downtown Los Angeles. The view is breathtaking—I could seriously get used to working in an office like this.

A tall, dark-haired, slender man in a dark blue suit is facing the large window with his hands securely nestled in the pockets of his perfectly creased slacks.

“Mr. Michaels, your 9:53 interview is here,” Liza says, then looks to me and mouths the words ‘good luck’ before making a quick exit.

“Just have a seat and I’ll be right with you,” he says, still facing the window.

I make my way toward one of the high-back chairs in front of what I assume is his desk.

He turns to walk toward the desk and our eyes lock. The look on his face is probably the same look fixed to my own—a look of unfathomable shock, although his is embellished with an impish grin.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Miss Potty Mouth herself. You’re my 9:53 interview?” says Antonio Michaels…formally known as the jelly-donut-eating, rude guy from the Metro.

And uh…someone better call in the cavalry; the bad day snowball has officially reached monumental avalanche status.