Turning Point||Book 2

2: Xenia.

Bright Bird.

Those two words continued to twirl around my mind—Bright Bird Publishing—as I forced my laptop into my tote. I threw my manuscript in there, too, before finalizing my look with a vintage scarf over my head. Elegance was an important escort to a meeting like this.

I didn't know anything about the company prior to yesterday. I'd simply submitted my manuscript to five different publishing companies I'd stumbled across online and seriously considered not getting any reply. They'd proven me wrong; that an amateurish author like me could be emailed by a big company like Bright Bird.

Bright Bird; hear our voices through our fingers.

What beautiful motto, rather intriguing. Up until now, due to the burst of excitement floating around my chest, I had not yet completely read the article on Bright Bird, but had gotten some knowledge about its founders and the editor who'd sent me an email.

Vera Lenci.

I even knew — by heart — ten overly successful books that had been published under the company. I'd read six of them a couple of years ago without knowing it, and without the slightest clue that I'd someday be putting on a four-inches pair of heels and a pencil skirt in preparation to meet someone there.

It was five minutes to eight, and my meeting was at nine. Breakfast was at the bottom of my list of important things at the moment. Calling April wasn't. Her flat was directly above mine.

If I told you that her flat's location was the reason we started this "friendship," you wouldn't believe me. Her footsteps had sounded so heavy that I'd thought they were footsteps until I went up there to confront her and saw that she had a big studio set-up with LED lights and chairs. It had been an irritating experience when I tried to concentrate on a plot and would be distracted by heavy objects.

Now I'd simply smile at the sounds like they were inspirational, and would text her to know which brand she was getting ready to shoot for.

Me: Would you come see this killer outfit in person or should I take a shabby picture of it for you?

I dropped my phone on the vanity after sending the message and smoothened out my dark purple chiffon blouse.

A beep made me stretch to see what popped up on my phone's screen. It was a message from her.

April Holt (neighbor): Is that a question? I'll be downstairs in five. Don't move an inch until I'm there.

A smile lodged at the sides of my lips. I sat down at the edge of my bed and made an effort not to think of Mr. Black, Joanna, Ivan, Ice Phantom, Britain.

Those words were filled with sorrowful thoughts that I wanted no part in, not when I was an hour away from changing my life. I'd rather think of Jerry. I mean, he'd been a gentleman. He'd seen me home last night. And though his lips had almost landed on mine, I didn't think him a jerk. It could have been anyone.

What do you know about this guy, Xenia?

He's thirty six. Has a good smile and a five-minute-worth-staring-at set of teeth. Cooking, skydiving and playing the piano are hobbies. 

He was a graduate of the University of Milan. Studied journalism and mass communication.

I think the only thing I hadn't learned was where he got all that money from. But if I was still good at piecing things together, a journalist could afford a Tommy Hilfiger and that model of Toyota.

He could afford to be inside the second place he'd proposed to take me on a date. Oh, yes, I'd stupidly agreed to be there on Friday night.

The door screamed open, pushing April into my bedroom as a surprised glance traveled across the small room. I rose to my feet.