I frowned at my watch as my cab stopped for what seemed like the fiftieth time and I was nowhere near my destination. "Is there any other way we can get there?" I inquired through the glass that separated me from the driver. His eyes met mine it the rear view mirror and he looked half annoyed with me asking again and half sympathetic.

"Sorry, Lady," he mumbled. Just great! I fished my phone out of my purse and frantically hoped I'd saved the number into it. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. There! I flicked the call key and waited, glancing at my watch yet again as my knee bounced up and down.

"Come on, come on, come on. Oh! Hi!" I blinked in surprise when he finally answered the phone. In my eagerness to call and intent for him to answer I'd almost forgotten why I'd called. "I'm just calling to let you know I might be a little later than anticipated," I announced in my all business tone. "The traffic's killer this afternoon."

"No problem," he chuckled lightly, "I know how it is to get from where you are to the studio, especially on a Friday. No worries."

"Oh," I was slightly confused by his casual manner. "I just wanted to make sure you'd still be there. My appointment was scheduled for 4:30."

"Yeah," his tone changed a little. "I'll just reorganize my appointments. See you in a while."

Was that sarcasm? I was so used to my appointments being scheduled with impeccably tight timing. A cab and bad traffic could not be cited as an excuse, people in the publishing business didn't have the time to waste waiting around. I frowned as I dropped my phone back into my bag; I had no patience for sarcasm.

When the cab finally pulled up at the studio, it was an hour past the time my appointment was supposed to have been. It was lonely outside the building, and I wondered if the guy had decided to be an ass and leave after he had said he'd still be here. I couldn't blame him if he'd left, it was a beautiful summer day, patio weather and all. I wouldn't want to be stuck waiting for some appointment to show up. He could have at least called, I thought when I walked up to front of the building and found the door locked. My cab sped off just as I turned away from the door.

"Argh!" I shrieked. I dug for my phone again, hoping to see a missed call. Nothing. Maybe he had a good reason. I redialed the last number, and jumped in surprise as a voice yelled down at me from a window somewhere above me.

"Ruslana?" I looked up, and that seemed to be enough of an answer for the yeller as he was already pulling his head in the window again. Within a minute a short man shoved the door open,

"Ruslana Everett?" he paused for me to nod. "Sorry, we lock the doors after five. Go on up. Room three-oh-five."

I glanced at my watch subconsciously, it was 5:30. I thanked him, assuming him, by his uniform, to be a security man. When I finally shoved my way into suite 305, I was awed by the size of the large studio. I was confronted by a man just pulling a shirt over his head, unwittingly decorating his face with a streak of blue paint as he did so. He didn't know I was there yet, but I couldn't help letting him know by giggling.

"Oh, hi!" he flushed.  "The air conditioner's been acting up lately."  He didn't wait for me to respond, crossing the space to me in three even strides, something made easy by his height, "Donovan Brand."

"Ruslana Everett," I said. "But you already know that."

He nodded and motioned me to a waiting area of two very comfortable looking couches and a plain wooden block for a coffee table. I didn't take my eyes off him as I followed. There was something familiar about him. His brown hair was twisted into thick dreadlocks and he had smooth lightly browned skin offset by his startlingly blue eyes. He was kind of awkward looking, but interestingly attractive at the same time.

Why? I groaned inwardly. He would ask me a question and I'd probably gurgle and stare at him. That's when I realised he was giving me this appraising stare as if trying to assess me. I watched as he straightened himself out a little more, tugged consciously at the hem of his shirt and tried to inconspicuously nudge something out of my sight with his foot. "Can I get you something to drink, Ruslana?"

I sighed, he was treating me like I was some stuffy, uptight, literature snob, book publishing, control freak. I was, but minus the stuffy, uptight part. I suppose I couldn't really argue the literature snob part. Though I wasn't what most people stereotyped a book editor to be. "Call me Russ, and whatadaya got?"

He seemed a bit thrown off by my demeanor, "Uh, Perrier, fruit sparklers..."

"Seriously," I crinkled my nose. "Perrier and fruit sparklers? Gag me! Got any kind of regular juice or pop in there?"

He cracked a wary grin and examined me, "Are you sure you're a real editor?"

I laughed, "Yeah I'm a real editor! Just got promoted actually."

"Ah!" he said knowingly as he handed me a can of pop. "So they haven't killed your spirit yet."

"I take it you've dealt with a lot of the dead ones then?"

"Mmmm."

Abandoning all propriety, and knowing that if Ted could see me right now, he might revoke my promotion, I tucked my feet up under me on the couch. "Ah well, don't worry, we've all got heartbeats at Breakout. I made sure of that." I didn't wait for much more than a nod from him before barging on. "So anyways, I've got a couple new projects coming out and we're going to need an illustrator on board to do covers for at least three books per series."

He raised a brow, "Three?"

"For now," I sneaked a sip of my pop quickly. "That's all the authors are committed to right now. If the series are doing well enough, there might be more books. We're hoping to keep the artist the same for all the books, so if the author's contract gets extended then so will yours."

"Have you even seen my work before?" he asked skeptically.

I beamed at him, "Of course I have!"

"My real work?" he frowned. "Not the stuff I've done for books before. I don't do that anymore. I just did it to pay my way through school. Haven't done a book cover in a while."

"Why not?" I wondered.

"Just got sick of all the publishing people. No offense. It's like there's some law against using your own style on a book cover. Whatever's popular at that time is what you have to copy. Gag me!" He threw my own words back at me with a smirk.

"I've seen your real work," I assured him. He looked as if he wanted to dare me to prove it. "In a Jar at Cordon Gallery. The Fairfield Exhibition, I believe it was called Farther? Erm... Kings and Killers, I think that one was at that art and fashion showcase they had last summer, no?"

He looked shocked and then absolutely thrilled that I'd been able to quote him his collection names and the places he'd shown them at.

"Pick up your jaw, Donnie, that look doesn't become you."

He blinked twice and then slowly smiled, "You went to all my exhibitions? Oh wait, you're not one of those creepy fan girls are you?"

"What? No I just admire your work. I've actually been suggesting your work to Laken Publishing for some time now. But, like you said they always end up going with the tame artwork for book covers. Since Breakout Books is supposed to be targeted at the youth market, and my boss is well past middle aged and completely out of touch, he's trusting my judgement."

"Are you sure you want to throw my artwork into that judgement?"

I laughed at his question, "Positive. But if you want, we can start off on a trial basis. I'll send you a manuscript or brief summary, you can give me an illustration, or two, based on that, and we can see how it does with our test audience. Though," I added with a silly giggle, "I'm probably going to be a child about it and piss everyone off by picking whatever I want."

-.-

It was 8:50 when I left Donovan Brand's studio. I hadn't enjoyed talking to someone for work related purposes in a long time. I'm lying again; it wasn't all work related. After sometime in the studio, Donovan had insisted he found sitting inside too stuffy. We ventured up to the roof, where apparently he and a few other studio owners had set up some patio furniture under an umbrella for relaxing when they were working late nights.

Between the couple of drinks and the light joking conversation we were having, I'd lost track of the time. It was only when Donovan received a call that I looked at my watch again. He must have seen my panicked look when he hung up because he frowned, "Uh, where're you at?"

"Yonge and Wellesley"

"Cool. I'll give you a ride."

"No, I'm fine taking a cab!" I protested. I'd noticed the bed and IKEA wardrobe on one side of the studio, barely hidden behind a room divider; I knew he lived here.

"I've got to go near there anyways, about ten minutes away, so it's no big deal."

I didn't bother arguing again; if he was already going that way then why not?

As he pulled up at the curb in front of my building, he glanced sideways at me, "So, I'll look over the contract and give you a call to schedule a meeting."

"No problem. I would say just come on by whenever you want, but with all the stuff I've got going on, you might end up waiting at the office forever!"

"Yeah, I'll just schedule a meeting, thanks!"

"Suit yourself! Thanks for the ride!" I slid out of the car.

"No problem."

There was an awkward moment in which I wondered if I should say anything else to him. We both said it at the same time, "Goodnight."

He laughed and drove away and as I waved and watched him go, I remembered. The reason he looked so familiar to me is because I'd read a description of him somewhere. No, not just somewhere; it was in the book about my life. And then it struck me. If he was just someone I'd be working with, a filler character in my book, then why did the book offer a detailed description of his appearance?

I scrambled into my building, stopping only to wait impatiently for the elevator and jam the button repeatedly to get to my floor. The apartment was dark when I burst through the door, and I didn't even pause to think why as I yanked the book out of my Louboutin shoe box. Blake could have been having a paintball fight with his buddy Ross from three doors down in the living room and I wouldn't have cared. I just wanted to know why Donovan Brand was a significant character in my life.