Six years later…

"Mia!"

The commanding voice of my boss cut into the daydream that I was right in the middle of. Which was too bad- it was a good one.

"Yes, Mr. Cohn!" I said, turning on my heels like a military recruit who happened to be wearing a pair of black Vans rather than combat boots.

I was greeted with the sight of one of my bosses, Henry Cohn, standing only inches away from my face, staring up at me from his diminutive height with his tiny brown eyes, his fleshy face tightened in anger. He was dressed in his usual oversized white t-shirt and jeans, the top of his bald head gleaming in the light and surrounded by a horseshoe of graying hair. Despite his non-threatening appearance, he was one of the biggest names in the game.

Right at that moment I was fully brought back into reality. I was at my job at Bronzeplate Productions where I'd been employed as the lowest of the low, a gopher, for the last two months. It was my first gig out of grad school, and though it wasn't the most glamorous gig in the world, it was a start in the film business, which is what I'd been praying for these last couple of years. Plus, it'd gotten me out of the Midwest and into New York, right where I wanted to be.

"There a reason why there's a meeting happening right now and no one has a cup of coffee in front of them?"

The office was a mad bustle behind Mr. Cohn, with girls and guys my age zipping here and there, fetching odds and ends for their own bosses, usually coffee, print-outs, or anything else the producers didn't feel like getting themselves.

"No, Mr. Cohn," I said sheepishly, knowing I'd been busted daydreaming again.

His expression softened.

"At least you're kind enough not to give me a bullshit excuse," he said, stepping back and looking me over. "Make it up to me by getting your ass in gear and getting our coffee order pronto."

With that, he scowled one last time and stormed off, his hands clasped behind his back.

"You really know how to brownnose," said a voice from behind me.

I let out a gasp and turned around, now face-to-face with Sophia McCarthy, one of the few girls I called a friend here at work. She stood before the window of the fiftieth-floor office where we worked, the island of Manhattan sprawling out before her, majestic and grand in the late morning sun. The view distracted me for just a moment- in the few months I'd been here I still hadn't really gotten used to the fact that I lived here in New York- the center of the freakin' universe.

"I can always spot you small-town transplants," she said, noticing what I was doing. "You look at the city like you can't believe it's real."

"I mean, can you blame me?" I said, putting my hands on the windowsill and looking out. "It's amazing!"

"Yeah, yeah; I know," said Sophia, smirking. "But when you act like this you might as well have a big sign on your back that says ‘look at me! I'm from Nebraska'!"

I blushed; she was right. I turned back to Sophia, who was looking the picture of professionalism as always in a perfectly-tailored outfit of dark jeans and a white blouse that outlined her trim body, her hair styled in a hip, trendy bob that framed her magazine-cover-worthy face. Sophia was a sweetheart, but she always had a way of making me feel small-town just by being the too-cool native New Yorker that she was.

"You better get a move-on," she said. "You know who Mr. Cohn's meeting with in there?"

"Who?" I asked, an excited smile forming on my face.

One of the perks of the job was that because I worked in the film biz, I got to see plenty of celebrities. And what was always weird is that because they were here to meet with producers and go over scripts, they were in casual mode, just making their way through the offices like any other employee. This led to some interesting celeb run-ins, like the time Tom Hardy walked into the break room while I had a mouth full of Chipotle, or the time a girl in the stall next to mine asked me for some toilet paper and she thanked me. As she stepped out of the stall while I was washing my hands, I saw that it was Amy Adams. I did my best to play it cool in situations like these, but it was hard not to be a little star struck.

"Jace Landau," said Sophia, letting out a little squeal as soon as the name passed her lips.

"You're kidding," I said, hardly able to speak.

Jace Landau was one of the hottest new actors on the scene. Six-feet-five-inches of pure Australian muscle, he made a huge splash with a string of indie hits and now was in the states ready to make the leap to the big time. Rumor has it that he was being considered for the lead in one of the upcoming superhero movies. With a bod like that, he was a shoe-in.

"What's he doing here?" I asked. "Shouldn't he be in LA talking with Disney or something?"

"I don't know," said Sophia. "I think he's wanting to do some more indie stuff. Stupid if you ask me- he could be a star."

"And he's meeting with Mr. Cohn now?" I asked.

"Yep," she said. "He's the one who is, right now, at this moment, waiting for the coffee that you're not getting him."

"Oh, fuck!" I shouted, covering my mouth with my hand a second later when I realized what I'd said.

"Don't be such a hayseed," said Sophia. "If anyone got in trouble for saying shit like that we'd be shut down by the end of the day. Now go!"

I started off, already nervous.

"And get his number for me!" called Sophia after me.

I smiled at this, but she wasn't crazy- Sophia was a total babe, and I'd heard rumors of her ducking into supply closets with actors and producers. But whatever she was up to, she kept it to herself. I hurried through the floor, making my way to Mr. Cohn's office. Reaching his door, I knocked gently.

No response.

I knocked again, a little more firm this time.

"Just come in!" shouted Mr. Cohn.

I opened the door and stepped into Mr. Cohn's large, well-appointed office. The large space was decorated with modern, chic furniture and paintings of nude women that just bordered on scandalous. The view was incredible, with the green rectangle of Central Park stretching out into the distance. The room was big enough to accommodate meeting table, and seated there was a handful of producers and agents that I didn't recognize, and, sure enough, Jace Landau. My eyes stuck onto him for a moment, paying special attention to his flawless shock of blonde hair and his chiseled features- those that weren't hidden behind his large, dark sunglasses, that is. He didn't seem real; it was like I was looked at a statue of a Greek god that'd been brought to life and dressed up in hip, tight-fitting clothing.

And whatever meeting these men were having, I had clearly interrupted. My face went a deep red, and I wanted to hide.

"You don't need to get someone to let you in, Maddie," said Mr. Cohn. "This isn't a damn dinner party. Just come in and see what everyone wants."

I felt so ashamed that I didn't even think of correcting my name. I made my way around the circle of important men, jotting down their orders and not making eye contact. When I got to Jace, I was so nervous that I could barely understand what he said as I scribbled his request down- something double-hot-half-whatever.

When I was done I ducked out of there as fast as possible and rushed to one of the open elevators. Once I was safely behind the doors, I rolled my eyes at the complicated orders I'd written down.

Isn't "black, two sugars" enough for these guys? I wondered, my eyes moving from drink to drink.

My eyes stopped on one of the orders, which I could barely make out. It looked like nothing more than a blurry mess of ink, and I struggled to remember whose order it was.

My heart stopped when I realized that it was Jace Landau's. I must've been so distracted by him that I wrote nothing but chicken scratch. I began pacing back and forth in the elevator nervously, trying to remember what he ordered. Going back to the office and getting a clarification wasn't even an option, so I wracked my brain hard.

Half-caf? I thought, almost feeling like I was going to cry. Half-caf skinny?

I went through all the possible combinations as the elevator doors opened and I stepped into the sleek, vast lobby. Soon I was on the bustling sidewalks of Sixth Avenue, weaving my way through the tight knots of pedestrians as I headed towards Starbucks. Before I knew it, I was in the cramped little coffee shop, the teenaged boy with nose rings and dyed-black hair behind the counter looking at me with an expression of annoyed impatience. I ran through the list of drinks in my shaking hand, and when I came to Jace's order, I closed my eyes and spoke.

"Half-caf venti, soy milk, a splash of cinnamon."

The words came out with such ease and clarity that I was sure they had to be right. Moments later the kid called out "Mary" and I wondered just how many times people were going to be getting my name wrong in this damn city.

Drinks in hand, I rushed back to the office and was soon at Mr. Cohn's door. The drinks balanced carefully in my hands, I walked in, having learned my lesson last time. No one even acknowledged me as I entered, and moving around the table, I placed a drink in front of each of the men at the table.

"Thanks, little lady," said Jace as I set his drink in front of him, my heart skipping a beat both at him saying something to me in that sexy accent of his and at the hope that I got his drink right.

The coffee delivered, I rushed back to the office door, eager to get out of that place. But right as I placed my hand on the door handle, I heard a disgusting sound, like a sputtering, followed by the calling out of a familiar voice.

"Just what the hell is this?"

It was Jace.

Turning around, I saw that there was now a white splash of foam on the table in front of Jace, a disgusting little mess that his assistant next to him was frantically blotting up with little balled-up napkins. And rather than the men at the table looking at Jace, all of their eyes were on me. They knew whatever had happened, it was surely my fault.

"Is this fucking soy milk?" he demanded, pointing to the cup in front of him as though it were rancid, maggot-covered piece of meat. "I specifically said ‘almond.' Almond! I can't drink this!"

"Mr. Landau is highly sensitive to soy," said his assistant, still blotting up the mess.

"I can speak for myself, Antoine," said Jace, turning his eyes to me. "I'm very sensitive to soy."

"I'm-I'm sorry!" I said, the words tumbling out of my mouth.

"Didn't you hear me when I told you?" asked Jace, still shocked at the misfortune that had befallen him. "Or was that head of yours totally blank?"

I wanted to cry; I'd never felt more humiliated in my life.

"I can get you another one!" I said.

"Forget it," said Jace, holding his palm up theatrically and shaking his head. "I don't feel in the mood for coffee any longer."

I opened my mouth to say "sorry" once again, but before I could even get a word out, Mr. Cohn cut me off.

"Mia, get out of here. Now!"

I was happy to comply. I turned on my heels and rushed out of the office, tears streaming down my face. Once I reached my sorry little cubicle, which was nothing more than a three-walled partition with enough space for a computer and little else, I let the tears flow. I felt like I was in over my head, like I couldn't do anything right. After all, if I couldn't even take a drink order right, how was I supposed to do anything else in this industry?

"What's up, M?" asked Sophia, standing at the entrance to my cubicle.

"I fucked up," I said.

"I heard," said Sophia.

"What?" I asked. "How did you hear already?"

"I was near enough to the door to the office to hear that little primadonna freak out over his coffee," she said, stepping into my space and sitting on the small desk of cheap plastic.

"Ugh," I said, now feeling somehow ever more embarrassed than I had been. "Nice to know that not only did I screw up, I did it in front of an audience."

"Don't sweat it," said Sophia. "We've all made little fuck-ups like that. I got yelled at by Paul Giamatti for getting his sandwich with Swiss cheese instead of provolone."

"Really? What happened?"

"Nothing, just like what's gonna happen with you. This is a high-pressure industry, and people are just looking for excuses to blow their tops and let off some steam. Sucks that it's usually us little people that they take it out on, but at least we don't have to take it personally."

I was already feeling a little better. Sophia was calm and cool in a way that I could never be; nothing seemed to bother her, but her attitude had a way of rubbing off.

"Just think of it this way: the more you get yelled at by these jerks, the faster you get used to it. And the faster you toughen up, the faster you move up. This line of work has a way of filtering out the delicate little flowers, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

Sophia's little pep talk was just what I needed; I still felt silly, but less like I wanted to run out of the office crying like a little girl who'd just stepped barefoot on a Lego.

"I think you need some motivation," she said. "Let's go have some rose; I've got something to show you."

With a smile, she stepped out of my cubicle and headed down the hall. The idea of drinking during the middle of the day seemed like a bad idea, but man, did it sound nice. I checked my phone and saw that it was about time for lunch, so I figured a quick glass couldn't hurt. Gathering my things, I headed out and caught up with Sophia. Ten minutes later, we were down at some trendy wine bar on the same block as our office building, a glass of pink wine in front of us as we sat out on the back patio.

"OK, so what's this motivation?" I asked.

Sophia smirked and slipped her iPad out of her bag.

"I just got some of the latest headshots of guys who're gonna be in some of the movies we're producing in the next few months."

She swiped her iPad on, and a few more swipes later, had the image of an absolutely gorgeous man with a hard-angled chin, shaggy brown hair, and a killer smile up on her screen.

"This is, um, Ken Worth, I think. Fucking stud, right?"

"Oh my God," totally," I said.

And he was; total California surfer look. Not my usual style, but hot-as-hell is hot-as-hell.

She swiped through some more pictures. Most were black and white eight-by-ten standard headshots, but some were more candid pictures of them at the beach, holding dogs, shots taken on vacations, even a few with friends.

"It's like Tinder except every guy is unbelievably gorgeous," she said, swiping picture after picture.

"So, how is this motivation?" I asked, taking a sip of my wine, my eyes locked on the procession of hotties.

"Because if you can stick it out, these are the guys who'll be after you," she said, continuing to swipe.

I blushed. "Oh, come on," I said. "Guys like this won't have anything to do with someone like me."

"Are you kidding?" asked Sophia, taking her eyes off the screen long enough to shoot me a disbelieving look. Mia, you're a fucking babe. You should be chewing these guys up and spitting them out."

"Stop it," I said, blushing somehow even harder.

"I'm serious," she said. "And what's worse is that you're one of those girls who thinks she's, like, a five-and-half when she's actually a nine."

"A what?"

"Every guy rates girls on a ten-to-one scale- all of them. Ten is the hottest of the hot, five is average, one is…um, well, someone really ugly. And girls like you think that they're lower on the scale than they actually are."

My face stayed that same deep red; I was never very good at getting compliments.

"Thanks", I said, sheepishly.

"I mean, if I were I guy I'd do ya," she said with a smirk before turning her attention back to the iPad.

"Oh, look at this one," she said, pulling up the photos of some generic-looking, square-jawed type.

She swiped through the pictures, stopping on one briefly of him standing with another man…another man who looked strangely familiar. The two were in tuxedos, their arms around each other's shoulders in some kind of manly camaraderie pose. I couldn't look closer from Sophia holding the pad close to her face.

"Hey, lemme see," I said.

Sophia pulled the pad away and threw a playful smirk my way.

"Why, see something you like?"

I had to take another look at the picture, to try and figure out who this man was. But before I could, a "ding" sounded from the pad.

"Shit," said Sophia. "Mr. Cohn's calling a staff meeting; looks like break time's over."

We downed the rest of our win in quick swigs, paid out bills and headed out. And the whole walk back, the fleeting image of the other man in the picture lingered in my mind, haunting my thoughts like a ghost from the past.