Chapter One
Sometimes Hollyn Tate pretended she was in a movie. She had the script. She knew her lines. Her curly blond hair was blown out to perfection and not frizzing like crazy in the New Orleans humidity. Her heart wasn’t pounding too hard in her chest. Her facial expressions were totally under her control and appropriate for the situation instead of her Tourette’s calling the shots. She was a confident chick in the city on the way to the rest of her life.
Her big career break was just around the corner. Her gaggle of whip-smart, funny friends was texting her about meeting up for drinks and gossip after work. The future love of her life was waiting to bump into her and knock her bag out of her hand—the perfect meet-cute. She was Carrie in Sex and the City. She was Meg Ryan in anything. She was Mary Tyler Moore throwing her hat in the air. She was that girl. The camera would zoom in on her as other people strolled along the streets around her, their presence only a blur in the background. This was her day. Her world. She was owning it.
Hollyn tried to imagine the scene playing on a movie screen as she walked, seeing this better, bolder version of herself navigate the uneven city sidewalks with grace, the brightly painted storefronts the perfect pop of color in the background. If this woman bent down to snag one of the clovers pushing through the cracks in the pavement, it’d have four leaves. Hollyn tried to believe the image, believe that this woman existed. The mental movie got her through the walk to work.
Sometimes.
Today, the fantasy was faltering, her lack of sleep making her extra jumpy. She turned the corner, and the bright-blue, four-story WorkAround building split the sun’s morning rays, scattering the light. The converted warehouse took up the entire corner, and the sign advertising Office Space for the Creative that hung from the second-floor balcony swayed in the humid breeze coming off the Mississippi River. She took a cleansing breath and worked to unclench her fingers.
Even though she didn’t get the overwhelming nausea she had suffered during her first few weeks at WorkAround, her stomach still roller-coastered and her neck muscles balled up like fists. The image of that confident, camera-ready woman slipped away from her like a rogue spirit escaping its temporary host. Another ghost haunting the streets of New Orleans.
She rehearsed her plan for the morning in her head. She’d tried to memorize the people who usually worked on her floor each day so that she knew who to give a quick good morning to (those who responded with a nod and polite smile) and who to avoid (those who wanted to do the dreaded water-cooler chat—even though WorkAround would never have something as gauche as an actual water cooler). But the nature of the coworking space meant the faces were always changing. People renting hot desks on the first floor didn’t tend to last long. Those renting actual offices like hers had a little more staying power.
She checked the time on her phone, comforted that it was still early and that most of the people at WorkAround wouldn’t be in for at least another hour or so. One of the perks of working for herself was making her own schedule. Most of her coworkers took advantage of that benefit, rolling in around nine or ten and heading straight to the in-house coffee bar where Jackee, a woman with green hair and zero customer service skills, would take your order with a grunt and unceremoniously plunk your coffee or fancy tea in front of you without a word. Hollyn loved Jackee. Coffee and no expectations. Her kind of person.
She dropped her phone into her bag, and her thumb tapped each fingertip on her right hand in a familiar back-and-forth rhythm. One two three four. Four three two one. A little twinge of relief went through her at the ritual. She punched in her access code and opened the glass door, which was already covered in dewy condensation, and the blast of frigid air-conditioning hit her along with the sound of fingers on keyboards. She inhaled deeply as she stepped inside, trying to center herself. There was the scent of burnt toast in the air from someone’s failed breakfast mixed with one of the “curated” aromas that were pumped into the building to “heighten creativity and productivity”—jasmine today, from what she could tell. Lucinda, the owner of WorkAround, had the aromatherapy on some undecipherable schedule—probably in tune with the moon phases or something.
Hollyn did a quick scan of the main floor. A few of the hot desks were taken—desk being a flexible word. Any flat surface with a chair or couch next to it could be rented as a hot desk. The first floor of WorkAround catered mostly to one-person operations—writers, bloggers, online shop owners, app developers. People rented desks so they didn’t have to work alone at home—or, worse, from their parents’ house—and they could socialize with others from different backgrounds and jobs. Like paying for your favorite spot at Starbucks or the library to guarantee it would be there waiting for you every day.
But unlike a library, there was nowhere to hide in this setup. It was an extrovert extravaganza. The first floor was wide and open with high ceilings, exposed red brick, shiny ductwork, and tall windows lining the back wall. Blue, yellow, and gray couches were set up in groupings to encourage collaboration and socializing. Potted ivies and succulents dotted the tables to make the room feel less industrial. Everything was designed just so. This view was the snapshot WorkAround sold to people online. Look how modern and hip and social this place is! Why work at home when you can be part of something bigger?
The photo of this floor had originally made Hollyn want to bow out of this experiment completely. She’d been ready to dismiss what her online therapist, Mary Leigh, had suggested could help Hollyn work through some of her social anxiety. At the time, Hollyn had been so freaked out that she’d barely left her house for a month, but maybe becoming a shut-in wasn’t all that bad after all. Because an open floor plan full of chatty strangers and nonstop collaboration? Hell and no and What kind of monster designed this madness? But then Hollyn had seen the private offices, had imagined working in a space so bright and modern, and had fallen in love with the idea of getting a little slice of normalcy—an office to go to each day. The price was that she had to get past this part—the good-morning gauntlet.
She hitched her laptop bag higher on her shoulder, doing her finger-counting a few more times, and headed toward the coffee bar with her I’m-busy-don’t-bother-me walk—her only defense against getting pulled into anxiety-inducing small talk. She could’ve stuck earbuds into her ears, but Mary Leigh had insinuated that doing so would be cheating. As if Hollyn’s mental health was something that had an answer key.
A few people smiled her way or said a generic “morning,” and she responded in kind, but she didn’t pause. Most of them didn’t really want to talk anyway, especially not this early. Eye on the prize, she made it to the coffee bar in the back corner of the main floor as if someone was clocking her speed. She stopped at the counter with a sigh of relief and dug in her bag for her WorkAround card, which got her two free beverages a day. A sharp bang had her attention snapping back upward.
“Motherfluffer,” a female voice said through what sounded like clenched teeth. More metallic banging ensued, and Hollyn leaned over the counter to see what was going on. A woman with dark-red hair—not Jackee—was crouched in front of a low metal cabinet, her back to Hollyn, yanking at the door with a surprising amount of force, considering her small frame. “Why the hell would they lock this up? Are we really going to steal industrial-sized bags of dark roast? It’s not even that good.”