Page 9 of Accidentally Hitched (Unintentionally Yours #1)

Amanda

“ A re you ready to start your new job?” My best friend Iris’s smile comes through the phone.

“I still have to get dressed,” I say, pulling the towel tighter around me.

“You’re not dressed yet?” she asks as a car honks at me. The guy driving winks and waves. “It sounds like you’re outside.”

“I am,” I sigh.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“My alarm didn’t go off. And I was rushing to get ready, so I plugged in my curling iron before I got in the shower. To save time, you know? And then I smelled smoke, and I peeked out the curtain and the towel was touching the iron, and it may or may not have started a mini fire in my apartment.”

“Oh no…”

“Oh yeah. By the time I doused it, the alarms were going off and they evacuated the whole building and I’m outside. In a towel. On the street. Getting cat-called.”

On cue, I guy whistles at me. I flip him off. Unfortunately, the towel I grabbed was regular sized and not one of my luxurious sheet towels that I love and would very much prefer right now given the fact regular towels do a shitty job covering both my boobs and my ass at the same time.

Note to self: Only buy sheet towels. You never know when you might almost burn a building down and have to talk to a cop, two firefighters and a very angry property manager in a regular sized towel.

They finally clear us to go back inside, and I march towards the door. People actually clap but I doubt it’s to thank me for their morning dose of vitamin D.

“Well once you get out the door–in clothes, not a towel– I am sure you will have a fabulous day,” Iris says. She is nothing if not positive all the time. Sometimes I love it. Sometimes I could do without the sugar coating. Today, I need all the good vibes I can get.

“Thanks, girl. This job is really, really important.”

“I know it is! A big record company isn’t easy to get signed with. You’ll be writing for the stars!”

“Upcoming artists,” I correct her, stepping into the elevator and closing the door but not before a family of five joins me. I rearrange the towel and the mom, a skinny, blonde woman in skin toned leggings shields her child’s eyes.

Jesus.

“Same thing,” Iris goes on. “Like I said, you’re going to be amazing. You’ve always been amazing. Best song writer I know!”

“I’m the only song writer you know,” I say as the doors open, and I rush out, probably flashing everyone in the process.

“Which is why you’re the best!”

I roll my eyes but laugh. “Thanks, Iris. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Yes! I expect a text ASAP. I heard the place is run by two iron fisted bosses but nothing you can’t handle.”

Right.

I pull on a purple, lacey top and a black, pleather skirt.

The dress code was unclear. And by unclear, I mean, I didn’t see one.

All the jobs I’ve had before in songwriting didn’t really have dress codes.

It was more of a match-the-music vibe. But this is a major record company.

For all I know they want me in a ballgown.

I throw on a touch of makeup, just a little tinted moisturizer and some cat-eye.

Then I run my fingers through my hair, spritzing it with a texture spray.

I don’t need to dry it anymore, the outside air did that for me.

And the firefighters confiscated my curling iron.

It’s a shame too, I just bought that one.

After that, put on a small douse of perfume and head out, ready as I’ll ever be.

The building is huge. I mean, I should have known that considering I’ve seen it from a distance a hundred times.

As one of Charlotte’s tallest buildings, it’s visible from the soccer stadium, my favorite wine bar and pretty much all of downtown.

But I’ve never stood in front of it like this before and I gulp hard.

“It’s just a job. A writing job. And you are a writer,” I tell myself as I walk inside. I managed to get here four minutes before the time I am supposed to be. In my book, that’s late. But the girl at the front desk doesn’t seem too worried.

“Can I help you?” she asks with a smile. She’s a thin girl with a natural brown pixie cut. She’s wearing a red pantsuit and red lipstick and looks like she belongs here.

Do I look like I belong here? I feel lost.

“I’m Amanda Ambrose. I’m starting work today?”

“Of course! Amanda. I’ll let Mr. Hardin know–”

“Amanda.”

I turn to see a man who looks slightly familiar with shaggy brown hair and a lip ring smiling at me. “It’s alright Anne, I can take her up.”

The woman smiles at me. “Noah will take you back. Good luck!”

I follow the guy dressed in all black. He’s wearing very fitted black slacks, black boots that are dressy but untied purposely and a black t-shirt. He’s also got enough wristbands and tattoos to double as Jack Sparrow, and he looks very vaguely familiar.

He catches me staring and his lips tip in an amused smile.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “You just look…I feel like we’ve met before.”

“Wouldn’t that be funny.”

He leads me down a wide hallway lined with blown up photos of celebrities, some that I know, a few that I don’t. Mostly, I recognize people, not because I listen to their music but because I know who was involved with the writing process.

Chase Brant

Demi Reece.

Conner O’Rielly.

I swallow again as my heart picks up speed in my chest. This place only hires the best of the best. This is the kind of place I have always wanted to be. This is the dream–

“Up we go,” Noah nods as we near a giant glass elevator in the middle of an open room that appears to be a fully functioning and very busy bar. I watch as people in three pieces and women in sequin dresses drink cocktails and talk business over high top tables.

Noah notices and gives me a smug smile.

“It’s nine in the morning,” I point out.

“It’s Hardin Records,” he adds.

I nod. Yes it is.

And I’m about to meet Mr. Hiram Hardin himself.

We make our way down another hall, though this one is less lit. The walls are black and instead of posters of musicians, there are dozens if not hundreds of framed, signed, records. This is getting wilder by the minute.

“I take it this is your first time in the building,” Noah breaks into my daydream. I don’t even need a cocktail, just being here has me buzzing.

“My interview was via Zoom,” I answer, struggling to keep up because I am mesmerized by, well, everything.

“And who was your interviewer?” he asks as we near the end of the hall.

“I think his name was Mateo?”

“Makes sense,” Noah says, reaching for one of the giant gold doors in front of us. “Hardin cares more about the paperwork than the face. But if you’re here, he approves.”

Pinch me. Say that again and pinch me.

“You good?” he asks, and I realize I am hardly breathing.

“Yes. Yes, I’m good.” I smile and nod as I follow him into what looks like a recording studio. The walls are lined with every instrument imaginable. There’s also a sitting area, a table with possibly the most intense soundboards I’ve ever seen and glass windows displaying the vocal booth.

“It’s just that I can’t believe Hiram Hardin approves of me, that’s all. I haven’t wrapped my head around any of this, you know?”

I take a bold step towards a Martin hanging on the wall and resist the urge to touch it.

“Oh, Hiram Hardin has no clue who you are,” Noah says, and I turn back around to look at him, my smile dipping.

“He doesn’t?”

Noah snorts out a laugh. “Of course not. If it’s not about the profit, he doesn’t open the folder. Hiram doesn’t care what parts are inside the machine, as long as it’s smooth and keeps pumping out his paychecks.”

“So, who hired me?”

“Is she here yet? After that meeting I need a goddamn drink,” the voice booms from down the hall.

And I stop.

Because I know it.

Because it’s not necessarily a familiar voice but it’s one I have heard recently.

In a different world.

In a different setting.

In a different city.

Noah smiles, widens his eyes then nods his head in my direction.

The whole world comes to a screeching halt as the man walks around the corner, takes one look at me and stops.

“Callum.” The word falls from my mouth.

And I stop breathing.

Noah sucks in a breath through his teeth and leans forward, falling into a stride out the door.

“Wait,” Callum stops him. “How long did you know about this?”

“Only about five minutes longer than you, brother.”

Callum shakes his head and closes the door, refusing to look at me.

Thoughts rush into my head and dots begin to collect left and right. He said he works in music. Co-owns a company.

But we never exchanged last names, which would explain why I had no idea. I mean shit, had the name Hardin been dropped, I would have known immediately and most likely ran out of there and caught the first redeye back to Charlotte.

What doesn’t make sense though is how he didn’t know. After all, he would have seen my resume and portfolio. Surely my face isn’t that forgettable.

“Well, this is perfect,” he lets out, running his hand through his hair.

Hair I remember from under the stage lights.

Hair that looked too neat on the stage, that I wanted to ruffle up when we were on the date.

Hair that loosened with the night air and tousled completely after we fucked each other speechless.

“Is it?” I ask.

For the first time he looks at me.

But not with the mischievous eyes I remember from just two nights ago.

These eyes are hard. Stony.

“I was being sarcastic.”

My heart begins to sink into my stomach and with it, all my hopes and dreams from just moments before crash to the floor.

Surely this is a nightmare.

Surely it’s not real and I’m going to wake up to the sound of my alarm any second now.

I knew the whole curling iron fire slash towel on the street incident was too wild to be true.

But I’m not waking up.

And Callum is very much standing in front of me.

This isn’t a nightmare. It’s real.