Chapter 6: How to lose your sanity before 9 AM

THE NEXT MORNING

It started with the coffee machine.

One moment, it was humming along,and brewing the sacred elixir of life. The next, it let out a demonic hiss, and sputtered like a dying cat, and is in a spectacular burst of steam and boiling liquid.

I screamed.

Not a dignified yelp. Not a startled gasp. A full-blown shriek as I jumped away, clutching my coffee mug like it was a newborn child. I watched in horror as my one source of happiness dripped pathetically onto the counter, gurgling its last breath.

"Oh my God," I whispered, as I stared at the destruction. "This is it. This is how I die."

But the universe wasn’t done torturing me.

Next, my favorite pastel blue dress, the one I had carefully chosen for today, fell victim to my traitorous iron, which decided to go rogue and burn a giant hole right in the middle. Then, as I frantically changed, I discovered my backup dress had a mysterious coffee stain. (How?! I HADN’T EVEN HAD COFFEE YET.)

By the time I finally wrestled on an outfit that didn’t make me look like I’d lost a fight with a laundry machine, my heel snapped clean off the moment I stepped out the door. I stood there, in my now-ruined shoe, and made a solemn vow.

“Grayson Hale did this. There was no other explanation. The man was a walking jinx. A human bad omen. A brooding black cat of misfortune. Ever since he walked into my life, everything had gone to hell. First, the headache. Then, the sleepless nights filled with stress and regret. And now? This morning from hell.”

Was it logical? No.

Did I care? Also no.

By the time I stomped into the office, I was radiating fury. Elliot took one look at me and visibly recoiled. "Whoa. Did you crawl out of a dumpster this morning, or is this just the new aesthetic?"

I pointed a shaking finger at him. "Shut. Up."

He smirked. "Ooooh, someone’s in a mood. Let me guess…ran out of coffee?"

I let out a hysterical laugh. "Oh, Elliot. My sweet, naïve little assistant. If only it were that simple." I collapsed into my chair, and rubbed my temples. "The coffee machine exploded. My favorite dress burned. My shoe betrayed me. Everything in my life is crumbling to pieces. And do you know who I blame?"

Elliot’s eyes lit up like a goblin who just found treasure. "Oh, this is gonna be good. Who?"

I slammed my hands on my desk. "Grayson. Hale."

He became silent for a moment but then he cackled like, full-body, gasping-for-air, nearly-falls-out-of-his-chair laughter.

"You—you think—" He choked on his own breath. "You think Grayson Hale cursed you?"

"Not cursed," I growled. "Jinxed. There’s a difference."

"Oh, sure, sure," he gasped, and wiped fake tears from his eyes. "So, let me get this straight, your coffee machine self-destructed, your clothes spontaneously combusted, and your shoe fell apart, and instead of blaming, oh, I don’t know, bad luck, you’ve decided that your new gloomy, broody client is somehow responsible?"

"Yes."

Elliot collapsed against my desk in hysterics.

I glared. "I hope you choke."

"You’re insane," he wheezed. "Like, actual conspiracy-theorist levels of insane. You’re two steps away from drawing a red string on a corkboard."

"STOP TALKING."

"Oh my God, you were fantasizing!" Elliot clapped his hands, delighted.

I picked up my stapler. "Say one more word, and I swear to God…"

"Relax, relax." He held up his hands, still grinning. "So, what’s the plan, boss? Are you gonna keep pretending Grayson Hale is an actual demon, or are you finally gonna start working on his book?"

I threw my head back and groaned. "Did you send me Miss Lee’s manuscript?"

Elliot rolled his eyes. "Yes, ma’am. It’s in your inbox, along with a fun little surprise."

I didn’t like the way he said that. "What surprise?"

"Oh, nothing." He tapped at his keyboard. "Just that Grayson Hale emailed you. Twice. This morning. Before 8 AM."

I dropped my head onto my desk.

Elliot beamed. "He’s eager to start your one-on-one sessions. He wants to know when you’re available."

I groaned into my desk, muffling a scream. "Of course, he’s eager. Of course, he’s already sending emails before 8 AM. Because why wouldn’t he? Grayson Hale is so important, so special, so much of a literary genius that the rest of us mere mortals have to rearrange our entire existence to accommodate his whims."

Elliot snickered. "You’re really taking this well."

I shot up, "Oh, I’m handling it, Elliot. I’m handling the fact that my life has spiraled into absolute chaos ever since His Royal Highness of Brooding and Pretentiousness walked through that door. Do you know how many manuscripts I have on my plate? Do you know how many actual polite authors are waiting for my feedback? But noooo, suddenly, I have to drop everything to cater to him, Grayson Hale, the man who probably stares at his own reflection while whispering poetry to himself."

Elliot wheezed. "Please. Keep going."

"I will!" I threw my hands up. "Because let’s not forget that this isn’t even my fault! I didn’t ask to be his editor. I didn’t ask to be dragged into his melodramatic, tortured-artist nonsense. And yet, here I am, the unlucky soul forced to fix his overwritten, emotionally hollow manuscript while he broods dramatically in the background. I swear, if I had the chance, I would tell him to his face just how…"

Elliot suddenly tensed, his eyes going wide. "Leila. Shut your mouth."

I frowned. "Excuse me?"

Elliot's expression was frozen somewhere between horror and amusement as he subtly jerked his head toward something—no, someone—behind me.