The Hope That Starts (paperback)

You can never have too much music... or mayonnaise. It's sort of been Harrison O'Neil's credo for the better part of his life. At least since he first discovered his love for playing the guitar and developed a taste for gourmet sandwiches. He couldn't pinpoint which one happened first, and it didn't matter to him. Food and music have always been equally important. If there's one thing Zelda Fitzpatrick is good at, it's fandom. She can out-nerd the nerdiest, her devotion knows no bounds. Her love is true, her motives pure. Oh, and she's also a talented freelance photographer, newly hired to go on the road with her favorite band, Double Blind Study. All she has to do is not ruin this opportunity with her plethora of Tolkien references or the fangirl inside who has a mind of her own. And she definitely shouldn't fall madly in love with lead guitarist... This story is an ode to a fangirl. PG 16 for language, light steam, and geek speak.

Chapter 1
Under Pressure


Zelda Fitzpatrick could think of a hundred other things she would rather be doing at that moment. She started to list them off in her head.
Clean out her car. The rust bucket wouldn't notice the difference, but she should really try to find that smell that had been haunting the interior for the past two weeks.
Wash the windows in her apartment. A thin film of brown dirt had collected after being blown at her building from the steady stream of cars on the busy street where she lived.
Wash her yoga pants. She was running low. She had approximately eighty-seven thousand pairs, but she'd only managed to find one this morning. Not even a pair she kind of liked. They were the gray ones she'd bought on impulse at a dirt bike convention.
Yoga pants at a dirt bike convention should have been her first clue that there was going to be an issue. But her addiction to soft spandex caused her to look past the obvious. Predictably, the pants were awful— they pinched her lady parts in a horrible way, making her wish she was a little bit dead.
She should probably just throw them out.
But... they were yoga pants.
“Miss Fitzpatrick?”
Zelda's head jerked up from her lazy sag in the corner. Whoops, she'd almost fallen asleep. That would look good during the interview.
“We tried to offer you a job, but it was difficult with all the snoring and... spittle,” she could already hear the pity-laced apology. Because she did snore. And she drooled.
Taking a deep breath and putting on her best smile, she stood up. The receptionist returned her smile and ushered her into a large office. Zelda hadn't noticed the last applicant leaving, though to be fair, she'd been busy making a chore list in her head. She had been the only one left in the waiting area. That didn't bode well for job offers. At this point, they had probably already made their decision and were just following through on formality.
Oh well, it was still a good experience, Zelda decided.
“Nothing's final until you're dead,” she heard her dad's voice in her head, and she held her shoulders a little straighter. She was going to give this interview everything she had.
She needed this job. Her rent was due yesterday, and while her landlord was sweet and patient, she hated paying for things late. Besides, it's not like Matt would have any money for it. As usual.
Even if she didn't get the job, she still had time to call Cassandra and see if she could pick up an extra shift tonight at the bar.
The office was nice. A lot nicer than the few she had seen. Big windows, big desk, big chairs.
A bald gentleman in a suit was coming around the big desk with his hand extended, while another man remained seated in one of the client's chairs. His brow furrowed, contemplating the L.A. scenery outside, one ankle propped on his opposite knee—wearing jeans, work boots and the most impressive scowl Zelda had ever seen.
“Zelda Fitzpatrick,” the bald man greeted her, “I'm Jerry Douglas.” He waved a hand at Scowly. “This is Carl Darrow.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Zelda greeted them as she took her seat. Mr. Douglas went around to his side of the desk again and picked up her resume.
“Were you aware that you come with a very high recommendation from Simone Evans?” he asked curiously.
Zelda felt her lips twitch. “No, actually, I was not. I only worked with her once.”
Simone Evans, photographer extraordinaire, was the person Zelda aspired to be. A couple of months ago, as part of a charity fundraiser contest, she'd been selected to be Simone's second camera on a public works project.
The day had been amazing. Zelda had tried to absorb all she could from the talent she was paired with, while also trying to not embarrass herself terribly. She hadn't exactly succeeded on the last part.
On her last shot of the day, she'd fallen off of an embankment and rolled down a slope covered with duck poop. The shot she'd taken right before that moment had been the best one of the whole roll. But it had come with a price.
Jerry continued. “She sent over a fax this morning that said: Zelda Fitzpatrick is one of the better talents I have come across in the industry. She is polite, professional, and brilliant. If you don't hire her on the spot, your photos will be second rate, hideous, and embarrassing.”
Zelda shifted in her chair. As far as compliments went, that one took the cake.
“Would you agree with her assessment?” Jerry asked.
Zelda wondered who on earth would ever agree with being considered brilliant. Wasn't it human nature to argue with such accolades?
“Considering that the one and only time I worked with Simone Evans, I ended the day covered in bird feces, I think she's remembering me incorrectly.”
The man with the scowl snorted a quiet laugh, but otherwise didn't say anything.
Jerry smiled politely and looked back to the fax. “She went on to say: As an aside, maybe keep her away from waterfowl.”
Scowly barked a singular laugh and shook his head, still looking out the window. Zelda glanced at him a little sideways, swallowed, and redirected her attention to Jerry.