Yesterday’s feat of being fired on my twentieth birthday from my first post-graduation job at Rodrigo’s Fashion Studio, which was admittedly a placeholder job until my own designs hit it big, would be hard to top, but I had faith in Murphy and his bad luck laws to bring it. I stood, dislodging onto the floor an unimpressed, stripy cat, half a packet of chocolate-coated licorice, and the dream collage I’d been working on, and answered. “Hello?” “Annalise? It’s Jake Maxwell.” My heart stopped stock-still. Unfortunately, my brain simultaneously froze, and my body gave a good imitation of paralysis. Jake Maxwell, surfing phenomenon, son of Australian rock star royalty, and my best friend’s older brother, did not call me. We’d never had the sort of relationship that allowed for phone calls. In fact, it’d rarely allowed for one-on-one conversations, which made this call all the more unexpected. Probably taking the silence to mean I didn’t remember him, he added, “Kelly’s brother.”
