The Road to Love City

Chapter 1

I promise myself NEVER to wear stilettos.

One of my heels got stuck in the grate while I was walking hurriedly down the street. The morning has already been supercharged with noisy car horns beeping in the distance, men and women in corporate attire, all with equally cool expressions that said "Get out of my way". To my right a bell chimes, a signal that the cafe nearby is preparing for Monday Madness. Everybody looks ready to take the world by storm, and here I am, trying to keep my balance as I wriggle my left foot to extricate the heel from the grate.

I glance at my watch. 8:15 a.m.

Dammit.

For months I have plotted how this morning would turn out. How I would strut my stuff in my carefully pressed chinos and slacks. How the dewy air would greet my face and make it extra radiant, putting all those face sprays to shame. How I, Steph Ortiz, would see the man of my dreams.

My boss.

But no. Today I'm sweating profusely and huffing and puffing. Not a pretty picture, thank you very much. It is not everyday that you'd have to walk around Makati in heels because the cab driver couldn't squeeze into the horrendous traffic. I tuck a few strands of wavy hair behind my ear and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. Google "haggard" and my name would probably make it to the top of the list.

There is obviously nothing sexy about this.

At last I manage to pull my heel out and regain my composure. One guy stops to ask if I need any help but I give him what I hoped to be a polite smile. In this urban jungle that is Makati, you have to be gutsy, independent, and most of all, impeccably dressed even if you feel like a raging Hulk inside.

I walk a couple of meters more and find myself standing outside our building – a looming concrete giant with 30 floors, large glass windows, and men and women walking briskly near the lobby. Our office is on the 18th floor, and I inhale deeply as I strut towards the entrance. The guard greets me with a smile, though I can't help but think it is a bit fake, like he had undergone Botox or something.

I see familiar faces on my way to the elevator, and lucky for me, it seems I'd have the elevator all to myself. My watch says 8:30 – not a good start on my first day as a digital content editor for Alpha, a magazine for men. As I am about to close the doors, a man in crisp gray slacks, a matching gray blazer, and white polo steps inside. I get a whiff of his cologne. Wood and pepper. Very manly. Very...

I look at his face.

Oh God.

Gabriel Castro. Alpha's editor-in –chief.

I have seen his picture in the magazine, a 1x1 photo with his message for the readers -- that kind of thing. His smile shows his right dimple and a row of perfect teeth. Right then and there he became the subject of my fantasies. Sometimes he would write about how Alpha has reached five steady years despite the tough competition. Other times he would reflect on feminism and what it means for men. There was also a time when he wrote a feature about cars and how the vehicle of your choice determines your bedroom performance. Hmm. I wonder what car he drives.

Suddenly I become extra conscious that there are only two of us in the elevator. Surreptitiously I take a peek sideways and admire his strong jawline and smooth tanned skin. It is so difficult to act nice and normal when there is a Greek god standing next to you. I make a mental note to write an article about keeping your hands off your boss.

The thing is, I don't think he notices me. Like he is impervious to my presence. Not that I'm expecting him to lust over me – OK, I'm dying for him to lust over me – but seriously, this guy's a statue who does not seem to breathe. I look up to check the floor we're in. Still ten floors away. Great.