Two days later, at five minutes until nine in the morning, a perplexed Andie waited to cross the street for her interview at 6922½ Sunset Boulevard. She squinted. Blinked. Cocked her head. None of these gestures conjured a building between The Bronze Booty Boutique tanning salon at 6900 and Hooters at 6930.

Her navy blue Brooks Brothers blazer flapped open in the chill wind; brown curls whirled in her face. Capturing the mass, she twisted it into a bun, and fixed it in place with a clip from her pocket. Exhaust fumes from the morning commute filled her lungs. L.A. traffic had its own cadence of hurry up and wait, of engines gunning, brakes squealing and horns blasting.

Even though Andie never misconstrued a number, she double-checked the address on her phone. Of course she hadn't made a mistake. Andie sighed. Now she had five minutes to find a non-existent building. She didn't even know the company's name, which bothered her. She preferred to do extensive research before an interview, but the person she talked to said 'all will be revealed in time,' in a spooky oracle voice. Andie decided not to stress too much about her lack of preparation. She'd never take the job anyway, because of the whole "advertising in a tabloid" thing.

She called, and the same enigmatic lady answered before the phone even rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's Andie Bank. Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to confirm the address."

"6922 1/2 Sunset Boulevard."

"Um, uh, well, that's where I am, but there's no building."

"Are you sure, Ms. Bank?"

"Of course I'm..." Andie looked up. Gasped. A twelve-story art deco edifice stood nestled right there between the Bronze Booty and Hooters. More strangeness. The margarita cowboy from the TV was all the strange she needed for a lifetime. "I'll be right there," she said, disconnecting the call.

As she waited for the "walk" sign to turn green, through her peripheral vision she noticed a man appear on the sidewalk next to her. Something about his presence-the smell of cinnamon, the way the air around him seemed to shift and bend like it does over an asphalt road in the summer heat-made Andie turn to wrangle a better look.

She swallowed. He looked like a Greek god. But not one of those overly muscled ones who can't pass a glassy pool in the forest without flexing his biceps. He had messy, straight-as-a-stick light brown hair hanging over his eyes, and a sculpted chin with a dimple slightly off center. And his lips. Many a Hollywood actress paid good money to have lips that full. That kissable. Nice clothes too. His dark blue suit had to be custom made.

He looked into Andie's eyes, and the side of his mouth arched into a smile so dazzling her body heated despite the cool morning air. Her brain started a shutdown protocol, causing her to ignore several important things, like breathing, gravity, dignity or the bright red "Don't Walk' sign. She stepped into the road.

Brakes squealed. The air smelled like burnt rubber. She cried out as a neon yellow Hummer limo headed straight at her.

Andie prepared for death. She reviewed her regrets—not having sex since college, never traveling outside the U.S., and dying in front of Hooters, of all places.

In slow motion, the Hummer's license plate made contact with her knees. She screamed. A hot white pain exploded in her legs as she crumpled to the asphalt. But instead of being run over, a blanket of silence settled over her. Each limb weighed a thousand pounds. Andie looked up and saw the gorgeous guy pushing against the Hummer's bumper with one hand, stopping it dead.

***

"Are you all right?" Came a rich, sexy baritone from above. "Can you stand?"

"I think so." Andie's knees throbbed, she had scraped her left palm trying to brace herself from the fall, her clothes were ruined, but despite all that, she felt well enough to pretend to be okay.

The man offered her his hand. As soon as they touched, a shock of electricity coursed through her body and converged as a delicious twinge in her long-neglected nether regions. He pulled her to standing too fast. Andie's head swam, her stomach seized, and, to her absolute horror, she threw up all over his bespoke suit.

"Oh, my god," said Andie, mortified even beyond the time when her mother rushed into 9th grade gym glass with a Costco-sized box of feminine napkins, because the tarot cards had predicted this was the day Andie was to start her period.

"I am not a god," insisted the walking sculpture of Adonis, as if people accused him of being a god every day.

"I've never ... I mean how could I ...? I mean, forgive me?"

He helped her back to the curb, pulled out a handkerchief (people still carried them?) and daubed the suit. Whatever the handkerchief was made from was good stuff. The offensive substance disappeared. Then he used it to wipe off a splotch of vomit on Andie's shirt right between her breasts. He didn't even seem uncomfortable about it. Should she be offended or turned on?

Turned on, said the naughty voice in the back of her mind-the bad girl lurked there. The one Andie did her honest-to-goodness best to ignore and hide from others. The one she called "Bad Andie."

"It is fine," said Adonis. "Are you injured?" Now she could get a good look at his eyes. They sizzled like blue fireworks.

The Hummer fired its ignition, backed up, and gunned past them, crushing Andie's cellphone, and leaving tread marks on her resume and references. Andie never saw the face of the driver, hidden as it was behind an illegally tinted windshield.

"Only my pride, I think. And my clothes." Her brand new nude stockings had multiple runs up both sides; her jacket and skirt were coated with road dust. But she couldn't focus on that at the moment. This man had immobilized a fourteen-thousand-pound vehicle with one hand. "Um, can I ask how you did that?"

"Did what?" Adonis stuffed the hankie back into his breast pocket.

"That Twilight moment just now when you stopped the Hummer from killing me," Andie said.

"Twilight? But it is morning."

"You've never heard of Twilight? The movie?"

"I do not know what you mean." He pressed his temple and smiled. "Oh yes, Twilight. About sparkling vampires. Amusing. Let me collect your things." Miraculously, the 'walk' sign stayed illuminated as he picked up Andie's papers and cell phone and stuffed them into the satchel. "I think your cell phone is beyond repair."

"I believe so. But I'm curious about ..."

He lifted his sleeve. "I'm late for an appointment. Can I help you get somewhere?"

"I'm only going there." She pointed.

"Excellent." He offered her his arm. For a moment she thought she ought to reschedule, but the weirdness kept accumulating. Andie could take off the hose and jacket. Brush the dust off her skirt. And she wasn't here to impress anyone. All she wanted was answers.

"I can walk fine," she said. He dropped his arm.

"Very well."

A sign over the entrance of the Art Deco building bore the welcoming words: No Loitering, Soliciting, or Trespassing. Another said By Appointment Only. The tall, imposing double doors reminded Andie of the ones Dorothy encountered in the city of Oz. Her savior pulled on the elaborate brass art déco handle. Frigid cinnamon-scented air whipped out of the lobby and pushed against Andie's skin.

Inside, the rotunda possessed a generic, industrial, almost awkward design-twice as tall as wide, gray walls, chrome accents, floor to ceiling glass partitions placed at odd angles for no apparent reason. As if someone had read a book on office design but had never been in an office. Almost everything was gray and industrial, chrome and glass-except for the artwork.

The only color came from a painting hung on the far wall above a bank of elevators. It depicted a strange landscape of flaming oceans, fluorescent purple skies and volcanic mountains spewing acid green lava. Andie shivered and tried to look away. She had the odd feeling that if she had the right language, she could understand the story of what made the artist so sad ... and insane.

A five-pointed sunburst inlay, inscribed with the name "Emerson Lieder" adorned the center of the floor. Maybe this was the name of the company. On the left side of the room, a decorative supermodel/receptionist sat behind a crescent-shaped gray desk. The receptionist could have been Cameron Diaz's younger, prettier sister, but something about the woman's mouth reminded Andie of a piranha.

"I hope you feel better," her savior said.

She turned to thank him and ask him again about what happened with the Hummer, but he'd already gone.

"Hello?" The receptionist pursed her lips.

Andie pivoted to face the desk. "Uh, sorry. I'm Andie Bank. I have an appointment with Mr. Oliver Lieder."

The receptionist lifted an eyebrow and smirked. "I'll let his assistant know you're here."