Two hours later, my somber mood has turned to annoyance. Karen has left me in the waiting area of her office suite. It’s a very nice area, with shining concrete floors, exposed ductwork, and colorful modern art on the blinding-white walls.

There is one wall dedicated to her clients, featuring pictures of Karen laughing it up with Hollywood A listers and up-and-comers. Macon’s picture features Karen leaning on his arm, her fingers trying—and failing—to wrap around his big biceps. Macon stares back at the camera, a faint, polite smile on his face.

There is something almost chameleonlike in his looks. Sometimes, he is the dark and brooding Byronic hero; in other lights, he’s the all-American athlete; and then you look again, and he’s a marauder—intimidating and brutish. And yet no matter what, he is still Macon; the symmetry of his features, the undeniable beauty of him, is always there.

I glare at that face now, my butt sore from sitting in a leather chair so narrow I swear it’s designed to weed out undesirables based on ass width alone. There are two other people stuck here with me, a pretty young woman who’s probably no older than nineteen and reminds me of Lorde and a guy around my age who is Matt Bomer handsome. Both are tense but trying not to appear that way. Both have been waiting less time than I have.

Karen’s assistant catches my eye and quickly looks away. She’s beautiful too—must be a requirement—and wearing stilettos that are too small. I should know; I spent a good fifteen minutes trying not to stare at the toe crotch bulging from the tops of her shoes.

The fact that I’m even thinking about toe crotch settles it. Enough is enough. I can either try to get past Ms. Heels—and I’m guessing that’s easier said than done despite the fact that I’m wearing Keds—or I can annoy the hell out of Karen. Annoying Karen sounds much more fun.

I am a woman of few talents. I cook, I bake, and I know songs. I can carry a tune, but I’m not going to win any awards. But I have the ability to remember song lyrics. Dozens of them.

Setting my purse down, I smile around the room, making sure to catch everyone’s eye. Not surprisingly, they all return my look with varying levels of caution. Weird might work on Sunset but not at a high-level talent agency. Well, at least not for them.

“At first I was afraid.” Slowly I rise. “I was petrified.”

Lorde’s look-alike’s eyes go wide as I really start singing “I Will Survive.” Mr. Blue Eyes grins. And Karen’s assistant frantically picks up her phone.