Daydreamer
Brea Brown
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Also by Brea Brown
About the Author
About the Publisher
Copyright © 2019 by Wayzgoose Press. (Note: An earlier, slightly modified edition of this novel, with the same title, was originally published in 2010, ISBN 978-1484036112.)
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Dorothy Zemach
Cover design by Keri Knutson at alchemybookcovers.com
To my husband, family, and friends, who have given me unlimited support and encouragement. Thank you all.
1
Real life sucks. It’s too… real. And bound by things like physics and economics, two subjects that have always boggled my mind. And mortality, which always seems to be getting in my way. That’s why I lead a relatively active fantasy life. I think it comes from having a more-than-relatively boring real life. But who needs real life when you can have fantasies, which are, frankly, much better?
In my fantasies, I have a glamorous job that challenges my mind and fetches me a nice salary but doesn’t require me to ever really work. I live in a London maisonette with gleaming surfaces. I drive a tiny, fast car that costs twice as much as it should just because it has a recognizable emblem on its hood. But I don’t care, because I can afford it. I date (and let’s be honest, screw) a lot of famous, wealthy, and interesting men (Colin Firth and Robert Pattinson are regular boy-toys of mine on either end of the age spectrum), who think I’m oh-so-cool and irresistible. I travel to exotic locales with my money and men. We eat fancy foods and drink expensive wines. I never have to work out or iron clothes or pay bills or eat alone. I have a fabulous fantasy life.
Who needs real life?
Today, however, in my real life, a little bit of fascinating has walked through the glass and metal doors on the tenth floor, right past the cubicle I inhabit 40 hours a week.
Lisa, one of the other administrative assistants in the mid-sized architectural firm where I work, sidles up to my desk.
“Who’s the new guy? I hear he’s not from around here…”
“He’s from England,” I try to say casually, keeping my eyes on my computer monitor, where I’m supposedly filling out a PDF permit application. “Name’s Jude Something-or-Other.”
Weatherington. I know his last name, of course. But how dorky would it be to admit that?
“Jude, as in ‘Jude Law,’ sexy Brit?” She growls and paws at the air like a cat in heat.
“He looks nothing like Jude Law,” I object quickly. “He’s more like… well… I don’t know. I can’t think of anyone right now. He’s kind of unique-looking. In a good way.”
She studies me until I feel the urge to run away. “Wait a minute… Does someone have a little crush already?”
“Don’t be a moron.”
“You do!” She leans around me and hisses into the cubicle across the aisle, “Zoe, get over here. Libby seems to have found a guy who finally meets her high standards.”
Zoe scurries to my desk and looks around nervously to make sure none of the higher-ups are around to see us goofing off. “Who? What’s his name? What’s he like?”
“I don’t even know him, much less have a ‘crush’ on him.” I glare at Lisa and adjust the blouse that’s been hanging awkwardly on me all day, making a mental note to toss it in the back of the closet when I get home, ostensibly to give away to charity, but more likely for it to sit there for months until I see it and think, Oh, I haven’t worn that in a while, and wear it again for another torturous day of tugging and yanking.
I’m imagining a smarter version of me pinning a note to it so that doesn’t happen, when Lisa says, “Stop daydreaming about the new guy for a second and help us decide where to go to lunch.”
“Shhh!” I slap her arm. “Shut up!” I poke my head up like a clerical prairie dog and scan the area for him.
There he is, in his office with the door closed, blinds wide open on the windows. His back’s to me as he stands in the middle of the room, seemingly doing nothing. Except looking beautiful in his tailored suit and shiny shoes. He shrugs off his jacket, revealing the silky back of one of those vests that I thought could only look good on Simon Baker or David Beckham. Oh, was I wrong! It looks really good on him. Really good. After running his hand through his hair, he seems to regret it and spends a few seconds trying to resettle the tousled dark-honey-colored strands. Then he spins so suddenly, I don’t have time to duck out of his sight, so I simply turn slightly and pretend I’m inspecting the leaves on the potted plant on my bookshelf.
“You’re so immature,” I accuse Lisa (and myself).
Zoe disappears for a second and reappears with an armful of office supplies: a stapler, staples, tape dispenser, pens, two grease pencils, paper clips, a staple remover, a bottle of correction fluid, and a letter opener. “Here. Take these into his office for him. Strike up a conversation.”
I stare at the items, then up at her. “Zoe, he doesn’t need half of that shit. That’s what we’re here for.”
Reassessing her stash, she unloads everything onto my desk except the grease pencils, pens, and tape dispenser. “Okay, just take these then.”
Lisa says, “Yeah. It doesn’t matter if he needs them; it’s just an in to
