Samantha is my name.

Sam for short, I suppose, is what most people who know me call me. Sammy, if you're mum, dad or my little brother Dave. Sometimes my best friend Lindsey calls me that too.

Lindsey and I met in high school when she transferred over to Stella Maris High in eighth grade. I'd never really gotten along with most of the vapid girls at my school until Linds came along. She walked in with her long brown hair and high striped socks not giving a damn about what the other girls thought or did and after only the first day we were joined at the hip. It's been like that ever since.

Even when her dad died.

Even when my rotten high school boyfriend of four years, Mark, dumped me last month.

Even now, when I've taken a job five hours away and she moved an hour the opposite direction to be closer to the beach. We still call each other every night.

I mean, if I'm being totally honest, my new job isn't the only reason I moved to the city.  The stupid rotten ex also kind of had a little something to do with it. But there is the fact that the town I've lived in all my life barely produces any events that you could successfully categorise as actual, legitimate news.

Robertson has a robust population of exactly 1865 people. The front of our paper last week featured a story on Mabel and her husband Frank's new tractor.

And I've always wanted to be a journalist. Ever since I was a little girl.

My parents got me a play microphone and tape set for my birthday one year and I used to take it around the house, along with pencil and a pad, and interview the inhabitants and the neighbours. Any story would do.

There was the report on who was leaving the little plastic thingy off the bread wrapper every morning.... cough, dad. The article on who kept unravelling the hallway toilet paper - turned out the culprit was our dog Henley. That wasn't a long investigation by the way.

After high school I studied journalism at university externally. Who would have thought it would be so hard to find a job after you finished the degree? Especially of course living in the happening Robertson... not me, of course. Cough. Eye-roll.

I had to take a meaningless secretary job three cities away just to get in the door of the industry. Which, to be entirely fair, was entirely fine with me if it meant getting away from the drizzle that is the Roberston Post and seeing Mark-stupid-Hammond's face around town every day.

Monday Magazine was my answer, owned and operated by Strickland Industries. It's a weekly publication filled to the brim with complicated financial talk, a property section, share market evaluations, business innovations and entrepreneurial activities as well as current high-end fashion and make-up trends.

I was fortunate enough to get a secretarial position there when I graduated. It's not like I would be writing my own articles. But hey, my dad always said a foot in the door is a foot in the right direction.
I told myself that once again now, as I stood outside the towering shimmer of a glass building that was Monday Magazine at seven o'clock in the morning. I looked up and gave a sigh. A silver insulated cup of coffee was warm in my hand.

I could totally do this. First day, here I come.

I smoothed down the loose blonde hairs behind my ears that had escaped my low bun and pushed my way forward and in through the large rotating glass doors.

I knew where to go at least, thank god, seeing as I'd looked around a little bit when I first had my interview.

The large marble foyer was nearly empty. I pushed the button for the elevator and waited. Soon it politely dinged and I stepped inside.

"Hold the elevator," a voice called.

"Oh," I said as I hit the button to hold the doors.

A dark trench coat stepped in through the opening. The figure sent a cool breeze of ocean scented laundry detergent my way. I looked up and met the gaze of a man.

He seemed to double take for a moment. His eyes settled on mine.

"Hello. I mean, uh, good morning. How are you?" I stammered. I tried to smile as his dark eyes gazed at me. The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement and his gaze flicked away.

"Good morning," he said abruptly. Then added, "thank you for holding the elevator."

"Oh, no problem," I replied, but he was no longer looking at me. He checked his watch as the elevator rode up in silence. I felt a static energy building in the quiet. I felt like saying something but instead I kept my lips firmly shut as I surveyed him out of the corner of my eye.

His dark navy coat looked expensive. I could see a crisp tailored white shirt underneath the coat. His dark brown hair stuck out in contrast. I tried to stand a little straighter and taller, realising he was a full head taller than me.

His gaze dropped out of the corner of his eye to where I was standing. I looked up at him and smiled.

"I'm Sam, by the way. Sorry, Samantha. I'm Samantha," I held out my hand to the man. What was I doing? Why was I acting like a stammering idiot? The first person I'd met on my first day probably thought I was a weirdo.

The edge's of the mans lips twitched at the corners again. He held out his hand and shook mine, warmth spreading across my palm.

"It is nice to meet you, Samantha. I'm..." he hesitated momentarily, "Max. Are you new?"

"Yes, today is my first day actually," I blushed. "I'm a little nervous."

The corner of the man's mouth turned upwards in the smallest of smiles. "Don't be. I'm sure you will do great. What is your role here?"

"Oh, I'm Mr. Oakvale's new secretary."

He raised an eyebrow. "I see."

I turned back to face the elevator doors, not sure what else to say. Max checked his watch again.

"You're a little early, I think," he said.

"I like to be early," I shot him a small smile. "So I can be prepared."

He watched me for a moment longer then nodded and looked back at the elevator. It gave a small ding and opened and I realised we were at my floor. Max started to move out of the elevator as well.

I curiously followed behind him, unsure of whether we were going to be working together seeing as he got out on the same floor.

The corridor was wide, more like a foyer, with glass panels on one side giving a considerably large and breathtaking view of the city. There was a door at each end that led to offices. One of the doors was labelled with gold lettering that read Tyronne Oakvale.

I turned to head that way, realising the little reception area out front would be my work space. There was a large mahogany desk, a dark velveteen blue couch and some expensive looking gold potted plants. The marble floor clicked as my heels crossed it.

I furrowed my brows and turned around to the other end.

I saw Max standing in front of a similar desk with a similar set up to mine, talking to a pretty brunette woman, then he disappeared inside the office door beyond. The letters on the door were gold and read, Maxwell Strickland, CEO.