Just One Week (Just One Song)
Copyright © 2013 by Stacey Lynn
All Rights Reserved.
This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permissions from the author, except for using small quotes for book review quotations. All characters and storylines are the property of the author. The characters, events and places portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of all products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks in not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing provided by Taylor K Editing Services
Cover design provided by Cover It Designs
Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
To my mom,
I’m so thankful your battle was over before it began.
For the Lord is good is His love endures forever,
His faithfulness reaches to the generations.
Psalm 100:5
To my readers,
Mia and Chase’s story did not exist originally.
Your love for Just One Song and your many requests to read Mia’s own story inspired me.
I truly hope you enjoy it.
Thank you for all your support and encouragement.
May the Lord bless you and keep you.
May his face shine on you and may He always be gracious to you.
Numbers 6:24-25
I knew today was going to be a really bad day as soon as my feet hit the floor this morning. My alarm didn’t go off, and as I rushed around my cramped one-bedroom apartment in New York City, thirty minutes late to work, I not only stubbed my toe once, but twice before I was out the door, rushing to catch the subway.
Sandwiched between a man who looked and smelled like he hasn’t showered since the new millennia and a woman whose elbow kept bumping me in the ribs every time she turned a page in the gossip magazine she was reading, I was dying for a breath of fresh air by the time the subway pulled into my stop. Unfortunately, that fresh air didn’t come as quickly as I wanted it to because as soon as I stepped off the platform, the elbow that had already bruised my ribs struck me right in the spine, sending me crashing to the ground.
The fall broke the ankle strap of my favorite navy blue Chanel sling-back wedge sandals and I had to shuffle-step the rest of the way through the Fashion District, the victim of curious glances from passerby’s who watched me dragging my broken shoe behind me so I didn’t lose it.
It wasn’t until I got to work that I realized that at some point, my navy blue and white striped skirt got caught in the edge of my belt and I walked down Eighth Avenue with my white granny panties showing for the world to see. That explained the strange looks. I took a brief moment in the bathroom to readjust myself, sighing gratefully when the water from the faucet didn’t spray all over my silky white blouse. That would have been awesome and not at all surprising.
To make matters worse, I got
the
phone call from my doctor back about some tests I had done a week ago. The message from the receptionist at my doctor’s office was quickly placed on my “call back once I get back from L.A.” list. Not because it’s not important, but because it’s on my “out of sight, out of mind” list.
By the time I got to work this morning, I was so upset and frazzled that I snapped at a new intern who brought me the wrong cup of coffee. I
never
get upset at the interns, but this one, Shelley, left with tears in her eyes and it didn’t help make me feel any better.
I don’t even like coffee.
To top it all off, I have a plane to catch tomorrow morning for my trip to L.A. to help my best friend, Nicole, marry the man of her – and every other woman in America – dreams.
I couldn’t be happier for her if I tried. I also couldn’t be more ready for a vacation, either. Today has definitely been the straw that breaks the camel’s back in my overstressed, overtired, underfed life.
All I need to do is survive lunch and my last meeting with my boss, Devan, who I not-so-affectionately call Devan the Devil for a myriad of reasons, and I’m ready to get the show on the road, so to speak.
“Seriously, why can I never find a pen when I need one?”
I shuffle a few more papers around my desk and hear my co-worker, Marcia, start giggling.
“Mia,” she says while laughing, obviously not understanding that I’m not in the mood for fun right now. “Check your hair.”
I run my hands through my hair and find it. Two of them, actually. I flash her an apologetic look as I pull them out of my hair, my blonde hair falling half way down my back.
“You okay?” she asks while walking to my desk and sits on the one clean corner. Marcia’s the first person I met when I moved to New York City about a year and a half ago. She’s also become like a second mom to me. She’s older, in her fifties, and has two kids in high school. She has the friendliest smile of anyone I’ve ever met and is also one of the few co-workers I have at Callie’s that doesn’t possess the urge to stab you in the back with their stiletto heel as soon as you turn around.
I scribble down a few notes about a new designer we’re trying to win a contract with from France, pointedly ignoring her question.
“I’ll be fine,” I say half-heartedly, pretending to be distracted by the mountains of work I have sitting all over my desk. I thought the invention of tablets and smartphones and laptops would erase all the paperwork I have to deal with, but it seems like it multiplies like bunnies every time I leave the room. It’s just everywhere.
“Still upset about that skirt thing, aren’t you?”
I press my lips together and drag my tired and embarrassed eyes to her. She’s smirking, the snot. I laugh silently, shaking my head back and forth. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“Spill it, or I’m going to tell Devan you’re skipping lunch so you can meet with her early. We know how much you love her.”
I cringe and throw one of my pens at her. Lucky for Marcia, she has two teenage boys and she knows how to catch random objects heading straight toward her.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would and you know it. Let’s get out of here and I’ll let you bitch about whatever is bothering you.”
It’s a decision of the lesser of two evils. Devan is completely pissed at me for taking the next two weeks off work. But there’s nothing that could make me miss Nicole’s wedding – not even fashion week in France, which is essentially every person in the fashion industry’s wet dream. I went last year and it was a dream come true. It sucks that the two coincide this year, but there are several other international buyers that are equally qualified, if not more so, than I am. Devan doesn’t care one little bit about who’s going with her.
Why she’s so pissed at me for taking a vacation, I have no idea. I’m not sure I care, either.
Marcia smiles because she knows she’s got me right where she wants me. With a defeated smile and an extra sigh for dramatic effect, I grab my purse and we head out of the building.
We walk back down Eighth Avenue, while I keep a hand on the back of my skirt to ensure no one else gets a free show of my panties, and head to our favorite bar and lounge, Threads.
It’s sweltering and humid out today, and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing so many people crammed together on a sidewalk. We’re like sardines smushed together, or a herd of cows being gathered for slaughter.
A model wanna-be escorts us to a booth in the lounge area of Threads where we’re sitting in a very large u-shape area. The tables are inches apart from one another. The outside seats sit against a high, black leather wall while the seats on the inside are the type of square storage ottomans you’d find at Target. They look classier, but still … the first time I was here I almost expected the hostess to lift the top of the ottoman and pull out our silverware and placemats. It essentially gives us no privacy either.
I nod my head politely, but not overly so, at the two men in business suits at the table next to us and take the outside bench. I hate sitting on an ottoman to eat my lunch. The only reason we come here is because the martinis are cheap and incredibly tasty. I’m not normally one to drink during the workday, but I quickly make an exception with the morning I’ve had.
Once we place our food orders, I overhear the men next to us talking about their plans for the weekend – which includes some unseemly behavior with one of them talking about cheating on his girlfriend. I glare at him before giving Marcia my full attention.
Sort of. Mostly, I just don’t want to talk about what’s bothering me and Marcia’s a mom to teenagers so she has a way of squeezing the truth out of you when you least expect it. When I was a kid I had a Chinese finger bracelet. It looks like a harmless tube of braided plastic, but once you put your fingers in that thing, it sucks down with a vice grip and refuses to let you go. That’s Marcia.