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DRY SPELL

CHAPTER ONE

SAMANTHA CALLAHAN SLAMMED the lid closed on her laptop. The most satisfying sound known to mankind. Who would ever use a tablet when the closing of a lid felt so final . . . so complete?

She smiled for the first time in three days. Her project was finished and, glancing at the clock, with thirty minutes to spare. Her boss would see it first thing in the morning, and love it, of course. Next, nail the presentation and get one step closer to her promotion.

I’m at the top of my game.

Time to celebrate.

She reached into the fridge for one of her favorite California whites. After a generous pour, she hammered the cork back into place with her fist, and strode to her living room to binge on Netflix. In the distance, outside her living room window, the Golden Gate Bridge gleamed with spotlights illuminating the suspension cables, despite a thin layer of fog.

The same view she’d loved when she’d toured this apartment six years ago, and the deciding factor in signing the lease. But as she huddled into the couch with her overfilled glass of wine, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked out the window. Work was her obsession.

Only a few minutes into the first episode, her cell phone chimed. She ignored it until she heard it again. Sam glanced at the screen. An email from her boss. Something about scheduling a meeting with the client to close the deal.

Instead of reading his more-than-likely verbose critique on her little screen, she grabbed her laptop from the coffee table.

Sam’s boss was an even bigger control freak than her. But after this proposal, she was certain he’d have no choice but to let her run point for this new client. Thereby, earning that coveted new director role.

Finally, I have my chance.

The second she opened the lid, the computer screen flashed an ugly blue.

Samantha’s heart froze. A gasp lodged in her throat.

The blue screen of death.

Her life was on that computer. Her project proposal, her presentation, all her sales leads . . .

No matter how many times she pressed the escape button, or control-alt-delete, nothing worked. Until the little black bar in the center popped up.

Deleting files...

“No!” she screamed, lunging forward. Her wine spilled all over the keyboard. The subtle lights under the keys flickered, then died.

Her computer shut off, the hard drive’s faint hum dwindling into silence.

Oh God, no. This cannot be happening.

She smashed her lips together, and inhaled through her nostrils. Think.

She opened her email on her phone, and all her messages were still there. No crisis. Thank God.

She could fix this. All she needed to do was take it in to the computer nerds. They could fix anything. This wasn’t the first time the geniuses had to fix the blue screen of death for someone, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. This would be easy to repair, right?

At least that’s what she kept telling herself.

Sam grabbed a towel from the kitchen, blotted what she could, and turned her laptop upside down to let any remaining wine drip out.

She stood with hands on her hips, mourning her beloved laptop. Well, that’s just great.

****

“DON’T DRINK AND drive goes for computer work as well.” The repair guy snorted at his own joke. Far too ornery on a Friday morning for Sam’s tastes.

She glowered. Comedian of the century, this one. “It was an accident.”

“It always is. Here’s the important question,” he sighed behind his black-rimmed glasses. “Did you backup your data?”

“Of course, I did . . . ” She scoured her mind for the last time she’d synced up her external hard drive. Her heart sank. “Last Christmas.”

Trevor, from his nametag, audibly winced. “You need to do that more often—”

“I know,” she barked back, then bit her tongue. “I’m sorry. There’s just a lot of important stuff on this hard drive. Can you save that?”

“Maybe. We won’t know until we get in there and poke around. Give us until next week.”

She blinked. “Next week?”

“We’re pretty slammed, and it’s a holiday weekend.”

Of course it is. Shit!

He entered her contact information and passwords, and followed with, “We’ll give you a call.” That was it. What more could she do?

She released a breath and headed to the car.

At her car door, she let the cool air calm her heated face. A warm breeze blew, chasing off the fog across the bay, allowing thin sunbeams to dance across the water’s surface. The radio forecast had hinted at a warm front coming this week, and tourists were sure to flock to San Francisco. Mocking her current dismal situation. She wanted to crawl under a rock and die.

The nerd’s words replayed in her head. You need to do that more often.

A little late for that.

You’re a smart woman, Sam. In thirty years, you’ve learned nothing?

Before she could berate herself any further, her phone rang. The screen displayed “Jordan Beck,” her best friend, along with her picture, reminiscent of a smiling Mila Kunis.

“Hey, Jordan. This really isn’t—”

“Morning, sunshine. With you, it’s never a good time. But we love you anyway.”

God, she was more chipper than usual. “Morning. What’s up?”

“Guess what?” Jordan didn’t wait for a reply. Her excitement about something sizzled over the car speakers. “I found us an incredible deal on a beach house in Santa Cruz for the week. A last minute cancellation, and we’re taking advantage.”

Her eyes narrowed on the display screen in her car. Was this really her BFF talking? “For a week? Are you crazy?”

“Nope. You’re crazy because you work too damn much. Your boss wants you to take a break. How much vacation time do you have accumulated, Sam? Ten years? And it’s Fourth of July weekend, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Actually, she had. Nerd had to remind her.

“So, get your bikini and toothbrush, and be outside your place in two hours.”

What?! “You cannot be serious, Jordan.”

“Like a heart attack. Liddy is already on board. We’ll work on our tans, shop, snorkel, flirt with the hotties, and dance our asses off. So, pack your bag.” Jordan was adamant.

Sam let out an exasperated sigh. Really, she had no good reason to stay home. Any meeting with the client would be at least a week or two away, and certainly not over the holiday. Besides, a dead computer meant work would have to wait.

Did she want to miss this trip? Her last beach vacation had been eons ago. Sam had even missed Christmas with her parents because of a big presentation for another new client worth twice her salary, which she’d nailed, of course.

She was justifying.

Her sigh felt like an anvil on her shoulders. “I don’t know, Jordan.”

“Perfect. See you in one hour fifty-eight minutes.” The line went dead.

Shit!