Chapter 1
The papers fell to the floor, one by one, and dropped precariously. I didn’t care that I had written nothing in the past forty-eight hours that was of any substance, but the deadline, which I had written in thick black marker on a post-it note, loomed over my already cluttered desk. March 28, 2018, the note read. Today, the 20th, marked the second consecutive day I had come up with nothing, and my head ached. Where was the imagination I needed?! I felt so hopeless I could hardly think. “Think Sydney think,” I scolded myself inwardly.
Let me start from the beginning. My name is Sydney Lillian Combs, and I live in New York City. I am a freelance writer who works for the New York Times. The last five years have given me opportunities galore to write fascinating articles about many different situations in New York that are truly noteworthy. Living in this bustling city, I have inspiration flying at me from every angle. Just the other day I saw a woman pushing a pug in a stroller while walking through Central Park, catching glimpses of ribbon dancers cascading their beautiful streamers amongst the flowers and trees. It was definitely a bizarre, yet fantastic, sight. This city is where I have settled, and as they say, “If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere.”
I came here fresh out of college with a few pencils in my back pocket and a dream, a dream to be a published author. I remember the day like it was yesterday. I came from a small town in South Georgia, Cordelle to be exact, and my southern draw was as thick as molasses. Stepping off my plane, my first interaction with a New Yorker happened to be with a man I would later address as sir, otherwise known as my boss, Mr. Watley. Now I can tell you, I am a pretty sexy girl. With red hair and a slim body, men normally take a second look at me walking down the street, but I never mind their stares. What sets me apart from my generation is I have standards. My momma raised me to believe a man can only have the milk after he buys the cow, and I have lived according to that philosophy my whole life, with fantastic results.
The airport was pretty quite for it being 8:00 am. I walked along and unintentionally twisted my ankle. I was carrying in my arms a substantial stack of folders and notebooks. These contained the beginnings of a new novel I was working on. The same moment I twisted my ankle I lost balance and my work toppled out of my arms. I was surprised and a little in pain, but quickly recovered.
A handsome stranger appeared out of my peripheral vision. Six foot two, strapping, brown-haired, and hazel eyed with a hint of caramel in the pupils, this man was a true specimen. When I saw him, I immediately knew I was in over my head.
The man exclaimed, “I am so sorry, miss, please forgive my clumsiness.”
I responded, “It’s okay. I am just thankful we didn’t cause a scene.”
At that point, the airport was almost vacant. Also, no one was there, which was odd, considering it was so early in the morning. We started talking, and I told him I was coming to the city to find a job as a writer. He then smiled quietly and started blushing.
“You won’t believe me when I tell you that I am looking for a writer for the newspaper I work for. Honestly, even though we just met, I can already tell that you are an honest worker, and I would like to offer you the job.”
Without even knowing who this man worked for, my mouth opened up super wide and my eyes almost popped out of my skull! I could not believe what I was hearing! Without making a complete fool out of myself, I calmed down and responded,
“You are a generous man, and yet, I still do not know your name,” I said with a hint of sarcasm in my tone. One thing my momma always told me was to never let a man get the wrong idea about your intentions. She would tell me on more than one occasion, “Some men are pigs, and some men are princes.” In retrospect, I can now see my interactions with this man were ones that would change my life completely, but I am getting ahead of myself.
He responded, “My name is Joseph Ivan Watley and I am the Editor in Chief of the New York Times Newspaper. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Miss...?” As his voice inflected I realized I had not introduced myself.
“Oh, pardon me! My name is Sydney Lillian Combs, and I am from Cordelle, Georgia. The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Watley.” As we shook each other’s hands, a warm sensation filled my body that I had never known before. As I looked into his deep hazel eyes, I knew this would not be the last time I would see this man. As butterflies filled my stomach, I knew this man might be the one who would call me his forever, but you will just have to keep reading to find out what came of me and Mr. Watley.
