I still couldn't believe it. Even after two days following my surprise to find myself being interviewed by Scott Holbrook, I still found myself shaking my head in dismay. The last thing I expected when I walked into that office was to see Scott sitting there behind that massive mahogany and leather-topped desk, brass tacks decorating the rounded edges.

I had recognized Scott before he recognized me, and even though he had aged in the past decade, he hadn't changed that much. Of course, he had lost that softness of youth around his face, and now sported a mature, clean-shaven profile. In his mid-twenties like me, he had matured well, to say the least. His blond hair looked a little blonder than it used to, but that broad forehead, those hazel, almost brownish-green eyes, and those heavy eyebrows hadn't changed a bit.

I wasn't surprised that he hadn't recognized me at first. My hair had grown out, and like him, the roundness of my face had slimmed from that of a teenager into a young woman over the years. When I looked in the mirror, I still saw the same person I felt I had been in high school, maybe just a little wearier, but still good enough. After seeing him, I had struggled to keep my nervousness from showing. Glancing around his richly appointed office while he thumbed through the stack of applications looking for mine, I realized how inadequate I felt.

He had come so far in the past decade, yet what about me? I was still living paycheck to paycheck, scrambling for jobs, none of my dreams and aspirations yet fulfilled. In spite of what Scott had said following his impetuous hiring of me for the position as personal assistant to his fiancée, I did believe that some of it was out of pity. I had seen the slight frown marring his brow when he glanced through my resume. Surely, he had taken notice of the type of jobs I had and that none of them had been long term.

I can't say that I was totally surprised when he told me about his fiancée. After all, Scott Holbrook was rich, good looking, and a, all around nice guy. Then again, what did I know of him now? I hadn't seen him since I'd left private school so many years ago. That was a lot of living and experiences, maybe a lot of girlfriends in between. He'd always had a different girl on his arm in high school. He wasn't a player, at least not that I remembered, but he liked variety. That's what he called it. He seemed like his old self, but sitting in an office across the desk from him, that was to be expected, wasn't it?

I sat in a cab heading toward Newport Beach, on my way to meet Scott's fiancée, Kristin Bruno. I had Googled her and found a Facebook page and Twitter account, mostly filled with stuff that rich people do. Boats, excursions, parties, blah blah blah. I tried to swallow a twinge of envy. As the cab headed west, the area got better, the buildings newer and nicer, and as we continue toward PCH, the houses got larger, the properties bigger. The cab drove maybe a mile along PCH before taking a turnoff north into the scrub foothills and sheer rock or sandy cliffs, following a long and winding asphalt drive upward and through the bluffs overlooking the Pacific. The air smelled of the sea. The window, opened a quarter of the way and no more, brought the aromas of the beach with it, reminding me of better, more carefree times.

At the top of the bluff, the cab slowed, passing small cul-de-sacs and other asphalt or cement driveways that disappeared higher into the scrub. For a few seconds, I couldn't help but covet such a lifestyle. To be so rich that you didn't have to worry if you would have enough money to pay the next month's rent, the car insurance, or… stop it. Envy was something I didn't allow myself to feel most of the time, but at this moment, there it was, perhaps tinged with a slight sense of resentment against the haves, as I was definitely a have not.

Could I do this? Could I be Kristin's assistant and succeed at it? What was she like? She had to be nice or I couldn't imagine Scott asking her to marry him. He had hinted that she could be difficult. Nevertheless, it had to be stressful; not only getting married, but being pregnant. I would give her the benefit of the doubt. Would she take one look at me, shake her head, and think of me as white trash? I didn't know why I felt so self-conscious. She wouldn't know anything about me or my past. She wouldn't have any idea how much money I had in my bank account—or not.

Normally, I paid no attention to what other people had that I didn't. I glanced down at my pants suit, brushing at a stray piece of lint on my pinstriped slacks. I wore the same outfit that I had worn to my interview the other day. I didn't have much of a wardrobe, but after I was introduced to Kristin, and given her seal of approval, I was sure that Scott would arrange for at least a portion of an advance in payment. With that, I could buy some more clothes suitable to my new position. Chances were Kristin was just as rich as Scott's family, and it wouldn't do for me to be showing up for work wearing the same outfit every day.

I felt nervous, but low under my breath I repeated my favorite mantra in my head as the cab pulled up into the driveway to an incredibly awesome waterfront mansion. "Fake it until you make it… fake it until you make it…" Those mantras weren't meant to deceive, but to give my self-confidence a boost, often needed in any number of situations in which I found myself. Those words had helped me through more than a few obstacles and challenges in the past.

As instructed, I stepped out of the cab, told the cab driver to wait and assured him that he would be paid in a moment. He nodded. I approached the huge front door, trying not to let my mouth drop open as I ran my gaze over the facade of the mansion, but it was challenging. I had always known that the Holbrook family had money, but I had no idea they were probably multimillionaires. This house was worth millions, let alone the property it sat on. Scott hadn't done so bad for himself.

Scott's home was a gorgeous, two-story, Spanish-style construction that offered a stupendous view of the beach. Cream stucco, wrought iron, rounded clay tile roof. Both stories offered arched and multi-paned windows, some narrow, some fat, with a wrought iron balcony extending around the entire second floor. The landscaping approaching the front door was exquisite with carefully groomed topiaries of sea creatures, huge plants in Spanish clay pots, a colorful plethora of flowers in flowerbeds and lawn surrounding the ground floor. Upstairs on the balcony, dozens of potted plants provided splashes of green to break up the cream stucco between glass doors and windows.

It was late in the afternoon and the sun glinting off the windows from the ocean bathed those windows in a soft, golden glow, making the very house seem alive. I took a deep breath and reached the doorbell beside it, my heart thumping with nervousness. I glanced over my shoulder, gesturing for the cab driver to wait another minute. Beyond the cab and a slight incline that dropped to the street, I could see the drop off of the bluff, then the stretch of white sandy beach and water. A narrow inlet was cut off from the waves beyond by a stone break front, and then the expanse of the Pacific Ocean extended to the horizon.

The front door opened, and I turned to find a woman wearing a light blue dress—uniform—greeting me with a smile.

"Hello," I said. "My name is Megan Bryan, and I have an appointment with Mister Holbrook and Ms. Kristin Bruno." I hesitated slightly as a surge of heat made its way into my cheeks. "I was told that the cab fare would be taken care of?"

"Yes indeed," the middle-aged woman said, gesturing for me to step inside.

I blinked, wondering if she was going to go out and pay the cab driver, but then she looked over my shoulder, offered a wave with a thumbs-up, and the cab driver pulled away. I frowned in confusion. "Isn't someone going to—"

"It's been taken care of," she said kindly. "Please, come in."

I stepped inside and barely swallowed my gasp of dismay. I'd never seen anything so gorgeous in my life. A Spanish-style floor extended through the foyer and down a hallway that extended straight through the house to a set of white, glass double-doors that offered a view of the backyard. To my right was a massive, step-down living room which looked like it was the centerpiece display for an elegant furniture company; everything rich: deep wood, white fabric, and Persian rugs. To the left, a dark wood stairway curved gently upward to the second floor, whose wrought-iron balcony looked down into the entrance way. A gorgeous and delicate crystal chandelier hung overhead.

"Please, come in and sit down. Can I get you some tea? Some Perrier?”

"No thank you," I said. I entered the living room, eyeing the off-white matching sofas facing each other across a large, square, glass-topped table. Each sofa held at least half a dozen pillows of different shapes and sizes, alternating between burgundy, ivory, and beige. The walls were graced with original or at least very high-quality paintings, the ceilings offering soft light through recessed receptacles. A glass-fronted wood cabinet provided an interesting display of what looked like antique glassware. A large, arched opening in the wall to my right gave me a glimpse of a formal dining room.

I perched myself on the edge of one of the sofa, peering around in curiosity. Several moments later, I heard the sound of voices and then footsteps coming down the stairway. Scott came first, wearing a pair of jeans and a dark blue polo shirt and loafers, sans socks. He smiled broadly when he saw me, and I nodded, keeping my expression cool, as we had agreed.

Behind him came his fiancée. I spied jeweled sandals, then slender white legs, and then the hem of a simple, fuchsia-pink sundress. Around her wrists dangled thin gold bracelets. While I certainly didn't consider myself overweight, she was one of those women, like many I saw at the farmers’ market, who could easily fit into a size zero outfit. She looked a bit younger than Scott, although I'd never been good at judging people's age.

I stood as they entered the living area, hands clasped in front of me, offering a smile. Kristin took one look at me, gave me a once over, and only then glanced at my face. I pegged her. A snob. I kept my smile pasted on my face, telling myself to relax my shoulders, to not react, to resist the urge to give her the once over. I kept my eyes riveted on her face. After she had carefully examined me from top to toe and then back again, she stared at me, unsmiling.

"Hello, Megan, it’s good to see you again," Scott said, offering his hand.

"Hello, Mister Holbrook," I murmured. I took it briefly and then retrieved my hand. I paused, waiting for Kristin to offer hers, but she didn't. Oh, how many of this type I had worked for! Stay at home moms with rich husbands, pompous housewives, always competing with their neighbors, valuing things and appearances, clothes and cars more than their children, or even their husbands. The rich ones could either be the nicest or the worst. It was fifty-fifty. It didn't take me long to realize that Kristin was the worst kind.

Scott stepped back, gestured for his fiancée to sit down, and she did, oh-so-properly, while Scott sat on the same couch, but not particularly close. I wondered about that as I sat down, hands once again clasped on my lap. Without further ado, Kristin spoke.

"You will report to me at nine-thirty every morning, every weekday unless otherwise specified, no sooner and no later. I will have a list made up of your duties and responsibilities, and my expectations." She waved a hand, gesturing toward Scott. "He informed me that he told you that you will mainly be serving as my wedding planner, and I expect you to take care of most of the details, as I just don't have time…"

She droned on, and I half-listened, offering a nod every once in a while. The woman was gorgeous, and she knew it. I could tell just by looking at her that she was going to enjoy having a peon like me working for her, ordering me around, and I prepared myself for her holier than thou attitude. After she finished her spiel, she excused herself and headed back upstairs. Scott turned to me. Before his fiancée was out of earshot, he spoke.

"I'll give you a tour of the house. You should become familiar with the general layout. Kristin plans on having a few get-togethers here prior to the wedding, including a bridal shower, so it's best you get familiar with the place before then."

He stood, and I stood as well, glancing quickly after the disappearing Kristin. I kept a respectable distance from Scott as he gave me a house tour. I murmured polite comments as he guided me into the dining room, around the eight-place solid wood dining table surrounded by upholstered chairs, and then down a narrow hallway into the kitchen, which literally had me feasting my eyes on the most gorgeous kitchen set-up I'd ever seen. A huge center island topped with genuine marble, with a four-burner inlaid stove at the far end. Two conventional ovens sat beneath a set of arched windows across from the end of the island, the same applying to a double sink and plentiful, wrap-around counter space. The ceiling of plaster was interspersed with wood beam rafters, evoking the ambiance of old Spanish colonial style. I would give my eyeteeth to have a kitchen like that someday.

In a small alcove through an arched and open doorway at the far side of the kitchen was a small nook. A fireplace stood in one corner, a small round table surrounded by five wood chairs for less formal dining taking up the rest of the small room. A beautiful and understated chandelier mimicking faux grape clusters complete with leafy grape vines stamped in antiqued metal completed the look.

"It's absolutely gorgeous," I breathed.

"Thank you."

We continued the tour, winding our way through a small sitting room and then upstairs to the bedrooms. All I kept thinking was gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. Why, one of the master bathrooms alone, its glass-enclosed shower, wood beam ceiling and marble sink tops and semicircular windows, was probably more than half the size of the apartment I shared with my mother.

By the time we finished the tour of the upstairs and we returned to the downstairs foyer, I felt my heart thumping. My mouth felt dry. I blinked back dismay, hoping that Scott didn't notice. It was hard not to feel left out when you saw a home as gorgeous as this. Not that I would've wanted to own something this fancy; why I couldn't even imagine what the electric bill cost, but still, it just brought home my failures; my inability to be a success and to achieve my dreams.

Even the nice home that I had lived in before my father's death wasn't even close to this. Neither had Scott's home, which I had been in a few times prior to my leaving the private school. But this… and all for one person?

From what I had noticed, Scott didn't have a pompous or stuck-up bone in his body. While he took obvious pride in his home, he wasn't obnoxious about it. I had a feeling, however, that Kristin wouldn’t be the same. I knew she was going to be difficult, and it would take every fiber of my being to keep my mouth shut when she started ordering me about, which I knew would happened, but then again, I had to remind myself that beggars couldn't be choosers.

I needed the money. I needed it not just for myself, but to give my mom at least a mental sense of relief. She couldn't quit her job; it wasn't that much money, but we could tuck a good portion of it into a savings account. It would be nice to have a real safety net, as ours rarely exceeded a few hundred dollars.

Yes, it would be a long six months, but then again, I had never been one to walk away from a challenge.