I stood in the lobby of the ultra-modern skyscraper, surrounded by glass and steel, super glad that I had decided to wear my lucky thong that morning. The stone-faced security guard didn’t take his eyes off me as I signed in, and took a little longer than necessary to check my ID. Not that I blamed him. Anyone could see that I didn’t belong there. Everything in the building – from the décor to the guard’s uniform – emanated a stark, almost space-age vibe. I did…not.

Catching my reflection in the shiny, metallic walls, it was glaringly evident that I was completely out of place. My curly red hair – which I could barely get to behave on good days – appeared to be in the middle of a temper tantrum. It currently stuck out in all directions like an auburn thundercloud. I self-consciously gave it a pat, but it did nothing to counter my appearance as an overgrown Orphan Annie, complete with freckles and rosy cheeks. Not that anyone who looked below my chin would mistake me for a child.

Yep, my giant boobs and curvaceous ass were just as attention-grabbing as my hair, but at least I could control them. For the most part. Right now, the majority of my cleavage was concealed by a gauzy blue scarf that I had wrapped around my shoulders. It almost – but not quite – matched the yellow and green floral dress I was wearing. It definitely did not match my bag or my shoes, but it was the only thing I could find in my purse when I arrived, looked down and saw that my top three buttons were hanging on for dear life. Apparently eating chocolate chunk ice cream right before bed was not one of my best life choices.

I adjusted the scarf, wishing that my dress would have provided me with a more complimentary cover-up, but still grateful that I didn’t have to go into this interview with my more non-professional assets on display. Even though I didn’t even really what the interview was for.

“It’s a ghostwriting job,” my best friend, Georgia, told me when she set up the meeting.

“But ghostwriting what?” I had asked.

“A book,” Georgia looked at me as if I had grown a second head. “That’s what you do, right?”

“Yes. Sort of.” I had tried on numerous occasions to explain the ghostwriting process – especially since I mostly wrote project-based craft books for people who were creative but couldn’t put that creative process on the page.

Not that I blamed Georgia for not understanding the nuances of ghostwriting. She had been working for American Express since we graduated college and I still had no idea what her job entailed. But we both knew that a friendship built on encouragement and wine was always stronger than one based on a deep knowledge of your best friend’s day job. So even though I didn’t really understand what Georgia did (and often vice versa), we still knew how to support each other. And sometimes that resulted in going to interviews for jobs you knew nothing about.

“I thought you needed the money,” Georgia had said. She hadn’t been able to offer much information about the job except that she had gotten the tip from her boss who got it from a friend who got it through someone else. No one I had spoken to had been able to give me any more details except that it was more of a biography than a guide. Not exactly my strong suit.

“I do need the money.” I had lost more sleep than I’d be willing to admit worrying about paying my rent, my students loans and paying for Mr. Mistoffelees’s vet bills. I loved my cat, but at fifteen years old and with developing health problems, I was starting to wonder why I hadn’t tried to make him internet-famous so he could support me.

So I was grateful to Georgia for recommending me for this job, even though it was becoming more and more evident that I was probably the wrong person for the position. Still, I squared my shoulders and adjusted my scarf as the security guard pointed me in the direction of the elevators.

“Thank you so much,” I told him, giving him a big, bright smile.

“You get more flies with honey than with vinegar” my granny always said, and it was advice I tried my best to follow. Though it was sometimes difficult when my attempts at offering honey just got me vinegar in the eye. Or, in this case, a continued silent glare from the security guard.

I shook it off – literally – when I got into the elevator, wiggling my shoulders and flapping my hands so the negative energy wouldn’t linger. My ears popped as the elevator sped upward towards the fortieth floor. That was all the information I had been given when I called to set up the interview – just check in and go to the fortieth floor. I still had no idea who I was meeting with, which made me feel a little out of sorts. Even when I was writing craft books, I was still able to look up information on the person I would be working with. That way I didn’t go into a project – or a meeting – blind and unprepared. Exactly the way I felt now.

The elevator was like the lobby – all shiny steel – and I tried once more to make myself look a little more professional. But the truth was, that even if I had known more about the place I was going, I didn’t have anything in my closet that would have helped me to blend in.

This was even more evident when I arrived on the fortieth floor, the doors opening to a stark, clean white room with black leather furniture and gleaming silver accents. My floral maxi dress and bright red hair stood out like a busted thumb. But still, I fixed a smile on my face and approached the receptionist – who was dressed in a trim black suit – and hoped for the best.

Ten minutes later I was still sitting there in the lobby with the water offered by the receptionist, who thankfully had been far friendlier than Mr. Frowns-a-lot downstairs. Still, everything about the office screamed “you do not belong, Libby!” Even the water – which wasn’t even in a bottle, but instead in a more eco-friendly box – seemed way too fancy for someone like me.

I squirmed in my seat, my lucky thong feeling less and less lucky with each passing moment. If I was interviewing for one of my usual jobs – a crafting guide or how-to book – I would have felt perfectly fine taking out the knitting I always carried in my purse and getting a few rows in. But here, it didn’t seem appropriate at all.

“Libby Hanson?” An older woman called my name.

I shot to my feet, somehow feeling as if I was getting called to the principal’s office for yarn bombing the goalposts on the football field – which I only did ONCE.

“I’m Mrs. Reynolds.”

She looked like an older version of the young woman behind the receptionist’s desk. Both were wearing sleek black suits, impeccably tailored and wore their hair pulled back in a neat bun. Only Mrs. Reynold’s hair was a beautiful silver, while the receptionist was a brunette.

“Libby,” I shook her hand, wondering belatedly if I should have gone by Ms. Hanson in an environment like this. Not that I would have been able to pull it off. If someone called for a Ms. Hanson, I probably would have sat there until closing, not realizing they were referring to me.

“He’s just finishing up on a call,” Mrs. Reynolds told me as I was led back through a maze of cubicles.

Not that they were like any cubicles I’d ever seen before. It might have been an office building, and it might have been decorated in a formal style, but the set-up didn’t feel nearly as stiff. Employees had plants on their desks, pictures and decorations set up everywhere. The cubicle walls were much lower than I’d seen in other offices – like in Georgia’s – and it gave the appearance of a community work environment instead of distant, isolating spaces.

There was a hum of conversation everywhere, but not so much that it appeared to be distracting to the people who were focused on their computers. And even those who were glued to their monitors looked like they were enjoying themselves. Everyone looked happy. Excited. Energized.

For the first time since I had arrived for this interview, I started to think that maybe there was something I’d be able to offer to this mysterious Mr. Willis. If these were the kind of people he employed – if this was the environment he worked in – well, maybe I wouldn’t be so terribly out of place.

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll let Mr. Willis know you’ve arrived.” Mrs. Reynolds led me into a small room just outside what seemed to be a larger office.

Mr. Willis? As soon as Mrs. Reynolds left me to go into the office, I whipped out my phone and tried googling the name. Unfortunately, Willis is a pretty common last name, even among people who worked in skyscrapers in Manhattan. I looked over at the door hoping there would be a nameplate, but there was nothing.

The door was made of frosted glass so I could still see Mrs. Reynolds, but just as a skinny black blob. She walked over to another blob, larger and wider – I assumed it was the mysterious Mr. Willis sitting at a desk – speaking to him for a few moments. I heard her voice and then the low rumble of a man’s response. It sent a little unexpected jolt up my spine.

“It will just be a few more minutes,” Mrs. Reynolds told me as she came back out into the anteroom. “Can I get you anything else to drink?” she asked, gesturing at my empty box of water.

“No thanks,” I told her, thinking that if I drank any more boxed water I’d float away.

She left me there, and I watched the door, trying to identify more details on the larger blob still in the room. I tried googling Willis once again, but I still had no idea what the hell this guy did. It didn’t make for a successful search attempt, so after a few minutes of endless, useless scrolling I gave up.

I crossed and uncrossed my ankles, wishing again that I hadn’t worn such a flowy, flowery, hippie-dippy dress. It wasn’t that I didn’t like what I was wearing, it was that it didn’t fit with the environment, and as a ghostwriter, it was important to give the impression that I could mimic the voice and personality of the person I was going to be representing in print. I hated feeling unprepared, though I was pretty sure that I could have had a month to prepare for this meeting and still would have stood out as much as I did now.

And there wasn’t anything I could do about it at the moment. So instead, I sat there, and after a while, I found myself fidgeting again, my fingers automatically reaching towards my bag where I had half of a sock knitted. I wasn’t used to sitting idly like this. Even at home, while watching TV, I was knitting or crafting or doing something. I liked to keep busy. Putting my hands in my lap, I straightened my shoulders.

“You will not knit,” I told myself. “You will not knit.”

“I’m sorry?” A low, deep voice interrupted my self-chiding.

“Oh, just something I–,” the explanation dying in my throat as I looked up to find the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen standing in front of me.