Chapter 1

Emory-

Beep, beep, beep, beep… Beep, beep, beep, beep… Beep, beep, beep, beep. I slammed the “dismiss” button on my phone to end the aural torture. Most people set their morning alarm to some kind of preset music that gently awakens them. Me, I have to have the most obnoxious racket I can stand to get me out of bed on time or I end up having dreams about elevators and waking up late.

I don’t want to get out of bed. It’s cozy and warm, for one thing. For another, I worked out through a hangover yesterday and today I am feeling it. When I say “feeling it,” I mean I’m three painkillers away from being able to stand back up from the toilet. But I will not fail! I can’t be that person that wimps out on New Year’s resolutions in the first week. I take a look at the clock– shit, 7:15 AM already– and quickly revise my plan for the morning. 

As much as I want to call in sick, I need my job. I need it like I need to eat. Well… I need it because I need to eat. I knew better than to get an interior design degree, but I so love all the fun textures and colors, and there’s nothing I like better than transforming a space from sad and ugly into something amazing. I’m not sure how old I was when I realized, but ever since I can remember I've loved to change and rearrange rooms. That being said, I knew going in that jobs didn't grow on trees… not this kind, anyway. So when I finally, finally got hired into the design wing of Úlfur Industries, I knew I had to excel or I might as well change my name to McBoned. 

It was my determination to be the best that fueled this year's over-ambitious list of resolutions: be the top designer at my job, find myself a boyfriend that I’ll like more than a quiet night alone, and lose 15 pounds. Hopefully, only two of these would be impossible. In my determination to have it all, I decide that I'll just take a walk instead of a cab, and the stairs instead of the elevator at work. I work on the 8th floor so I feel pretty confident about counting stairs as my workout. Five times a week, baby! January 3rd, I'm coming into work with my brand new workout plan. I start my journey with the first step. 

Admittedly, my apartment complex doesn’t lend itself to optimism. My neighbors to the right are clearly nocturnal, and the hallways always smell like pee and marijuana. The carpets were probably dark blue at some point, but now they’re a grungy brown to match the walls. There’s always some kind of graffiti about the apartment manager– probably someone trying to get him to repaint– and we’ve all gotten a thousand threatening emails about dire consequences if he finds any new “art.” Once I get out on the streets of the Big Apple, I’m able to take a deep breath and find a smile. I can do this. Probably.

Nine city blocks– in a heavy coat, business casual clothes, and a pair of Louboutin shoes, no less– and five floors later, I'm a red, sweaty, mess and I'm going to be late to work. I have absolutely resigned myself to this fact. I am dragging myself up the stairs by the rail in a token resistance to finding an elevator and I don't think I'll last much longer. I've also resigned myself to the embarrassment of being caught up with and passed by the fittest man I've ever seen in person. 

Seriously, he looks like an anatomical model in a textbook, but with a chiseled jaw and dark wavy hair and, oh God, naturally swarthy skin that has that delicious tan all year long. Not that I truly notice him coming up behind me because my vision is tunneling. Maybe he's an angel, here to tell me my heart exploded and I'm not going to Hell, after all. Maybe I should lay down here and accept my afterlife. Maybe the angel will carry me to Heaven and I'll get to lay my head on his massive shoulder and see if he smells heavenly, too. Making sure not to scuff my heels as I go, I slide my ass to the concrete floor of the stairwell in total acceptance. I'm ready.