There was no doubt in my mind that mango was the superior fruit. So why Anette at Smoothie King gave me a grapefruit smoothie, I had absolutely no idea.

I wrinkled my nose at the orange-y pink liquid in the cup, the bitterness of the grapefruit overpowering my tastebuds. "This is not what I ordered," I told the employee behind the counter. "And I'm running late. So if you could remake it to what I did order—"

"We ran out of mango and haven't got the new shipment yet, so we had to change your fruit," Anette replied, her voice shrill over the sound of the blenders whirring behind her. "I can upgrade you instead to a larger size if you'd like."

And you didn't think to tell me?!

I scowled at her. "A larger size for something I didn't order? Yeah, not gonna happen, hon. You're damn lucky I'm not allergic to grapefruit."

This was the last time I trusted such incompetence. Grapefruits were meant to be healthy, but god no wonder people put so much sugar on them.

Anette's lip trembled. "I-I can remake it then?"

I shook my head, holding the offending fruit containing drink away from me. "No. Just no." A quick glance at my watch told me that if I didn't get to work soon, my boss would certainly have words with me. And not the good kind.

That was the last thing I needed today.

"I'll be having words with your boss about this." I flashed my journalist badge in her face. It wasn't my smartest move, as I never liked flaunting my minor press status in anyone's face. Writing about big chain smoothie shops was not in my wheelhouse, so it was an empty threat, but I did intend on writing a not-so-great review on Yelp.

It was the least I could do.

My not-mango smoothie and I made it with five minutes to spare through the front doors of The Smokey Tribune, home to my job as a journalist and nestled into the small town of Morganton, North Carolina.

Finally, a success from the morning. After accidentally setting my alarm to 'pm' instead of 'am', burning my toast for breakfast, and getting the wrong smoothie, this last day before my Valentine's weekend was not off to a great start. Now all I needed to do, was make it until closing without any other—

Splat.

—mishaps.

I ran smack into Hayden, my co-worker and co-conspirator of a best friend. My smoothie ran straight into me, staining pink on my white blouse.

"Dammit!"

"Sorry, Reags!" Hayden zoomed away to the kitchen that was just off of the main entrance to the building.

"It's fine," I muttered, holding my shirt away from my chest. The liquid now made it sticky, just another thing to deal with.

"One of those kinds of days, huh?" Hayden asked, handing me a stack of napkins. "Sorry about your smoothie."

"That's ok." I gratefully took the napkins from him and dabbed the best I could at my shirt. Now it looked like someone had shot me with a pink paintball. "Do you happen to have something I can borrow to wear? I swear, it's like I'm cursed or something."

"Uh, let me check my stash. Because yes, I agree, you cannot be seen in that today. Or any day."

I chuckled. Leave it to Hayden to be the fashion police.

Hayden led me over to his desk. One perk of having a best friend who wrote the fashion column was that he always knew just how to solve any fashion emergency. The hangers clanked against the metal rack that stood behind his desk, filled with samples of the latest and greatest that it was his job to review and report on for our magazine.

"Ah. Here we go. Light yellow off-the-shoulder and all you." He handed the shirt to me.

It wasn't my usual color, but it did look pretty.

"You're a lifesaver," I said. In the bathroom down the hall, I changed out of the sticky top and into the clean one. Hayden was right; the light yellow contrasted nicely against my light olive skin tone, and it paired lightly with my black pants and heels. Satisfied, I walked over to my desk which was across the floor from where Hayden sat. I shoved my ruined shirt under my desk, and logged onto my computer.

The image for our magazine The Smokey Tribune lit up on the screen. A Carolina bear with its mouth wide open, surrounded by trees and mountains in the background. As soon as the site loaded, my inbox dinged with a flood of new messages. My last story about Melody Perkins, a local singer who had been discovered at the age of thirteen at her high school's talent show, had been well received it seemed. Several people had written to the magazine, expressing interest in features on local icons, some of whom were prodigies with a knack for piano or creating comics targeted for young teens dealing with 'middle school drama'.

I smiled. These were the times I really did love my job. Of course, the positive messages weren't the only kind I received. A handful of comments were from our typical batch of complainers who wanted us to focus less on celebrities and more on the 'actual issues'.

"I don't choose who I write about," I muttered to myself, as I marked yet another distasteful comment as 'read'.

"Knock, knock." Spencer, my boss, poked his head over the top of my cubicle. "How's my favorite celeb columnist today?"

I narrowed my eyes at his grin. He was too happy for this early in the morning. "I'm your only celeb columnist, Spence," I said.

He chuckled. "That is true. Let's take a walk, Reagan."

My heart dropped to my stomach. Please let this be a good kind of walk, I thought to myself. I really didn't need to be fired for something I probably did not do.

Spencer led me to his office behind a pair of glass doors with the words "magazine editor" etched across them. He gestured to the cushy chair on the side closest to his desk. Easy access for a visitor to leave, or run away if the situation demanded it.

"First, I wanted to say that I have proof that whatever you think that I might've done, I didn't do. Probably," I blurted out.

Spencer held up his hands. "You're not in trouble, Reagan. I brought you in because I have a new assignment for you." He slid a folder across the table to me with the words "Violetta Dawson" scrawled across the top.

I raised my eyebrows. "All due respect, Spence, my vacation starts at five tonight. I'm not even bringing my work tablet with me."

"I'm aware of your scheduled vacation," he said, chewing on the words. "And you are by far one of the best employees I have ever hired. Of course, I expect you to go out and have fun this weekend. But I also know you; you'll never back down from a good story. So, go out and bring me back the juiciest mango you've ever seen."

That seemed counterintuitive. Wait, mangoes? I blinked at him. "What?"

"The juiciest mango." My boss teepeed his fingers on his desk. "Haven't you heard that expression before?"

"Truth be told, I'm not sure it is one."

He shrugged.

"Expressions can make history. Just like people. So go out and find me a story. But make sure to enjoy your vacation, too."

"I will. And I'll have my last edits on my current story to you by the end of the day," I said.

Spencer dismissed me after that, and I went back to my desk to finish my work.

"What did the big boss want?" Hayden asked, popping up at my cubicle right as I sat back down.

"Something about mangoes and work ethic," I replied, waving it off with my hand as if it were a normal occurrence. Which it sort of was. Today wasn't the first time Spencer had made some obscure fruit reference.

Hayden snorted. "You've got to be kidding me." He paused. "Oops, hold that thought. I've got to take this." He tapped his headset and started talking into it about slanty belts and sequined coats.

Shaking my head, I returned to my desktop. But instead of opening up my latest story, I clicked on the saved link for my hotel in Asheville, North Carolina. The serene view of snow capped mountains, paired with the artsy downtown, was going to be exactly what I needed to get away from deadlines and the celebrities I spent all my time thinking and writing about.

The Omni Grove Park Inn was always a favorite destination. It had the right amount of seclusion with still easy access to different activities and sights that Asheville had to offer.

On the downside, it held memories that I would much rather forget.

"You're always working!" Mari yelled, shoving clothes into her suitcase.

She never understood that a journalist's work was never done. I was always on the clock, and I wanted to quit more than once since being hired fresh out of graduate school.

"And I can't be the wife who never gets to see their partner, whose work is more important than the woman they're marrying." She lifted the diamond ring off of her slender finger. "I won't do it, Reagan. Not anymore."

And she didn't. That day was the last time Marianne and I had spoken. Two years and sleepless nights later, I hadn't changed one bit. Here I was, still working when I should've already been on vacation. It was an hour drive to the hotel, and I only had it for the weekend.

"I won't do any work on this vacation," I announced aloud to no one in particular.

This one's for you, Mari.

A glance at the clock. Nine am. Only a few more hours until freedom. I could do this

By five that evening, I was more than ready to get started on this vacation. To keep true to my promise, I left my work tablet locked in my desk before leaving and heading home to finish packing.

"You're really doing this 'no work on vacation' thing, huh?" Hayden asked when I called him from the car.

"Absolutely." I slammed my brakes and wailed on the horn at the asshole who cut me off to weave in and out between the lanes of traffic.

"And I can tell it's off to a great start."

I rolled my eyes. "I don't know what it is with people today. The full moon was last week. Anyway, enough about me. What are you and Shelley up to this weekend?"

"You forget that it's not Friday yet. Some of us still have to work tomorrow," Hayden replied with a chuckle.

"The horror."

"Anyway, Shel's been exhausted with the baby this week," Hayden said. "So we're dropping the babe off at my mom's and having a date night."

"That'll be good." I eased my way into the next lane, ready to turn into the hotel lot. "Listen, I just pulled up. Have fun with Shelley, you two deserve a night together."

"Thanks, darlin'. Have fun in Asheville." Hayden ended the call, just as I parked. I rolled my suitcase to the automatic glass doors and entered the lobby. On the wall to the left was the abstract art painting that Mari always used to comment on every time we came here together. To the right was the restaurant and bar, my first stop once I deposited my suitcase in my room.

"Miss Porter, welcome back," the concierge greeted me with a wide grin. "We have you in room seven-oh-three today. Your suite with a queen bed, futon couch. I hope you'll find everything to your satisfaction."

I smiled. "I always do, thank you."

The elevator dinged on the seventh floor just minutes later, opening up to a massive hallway with a patterned carpet.

My room was just down the hall; when I entered, I immediately breathed a sigh of relief. I was here, on vacation. My first vacation in two years, my first real vacation ever. 

The Queen bed looked extremely inviting, and the futon couch would be the perfect place for me to sit in the mornings. On the wall by the large television was a second door. The deadbolt was thrown, but knowing the setup of this hotel and its suites, it was the only separation I had between myself and the guests next door.

The balcony looked out over the mountain range, and a crisp cool air greeted me when I opened the door. I inhaled deeply. The trees spanned for miles, with the tops of the snow-capped mountains rising up beyond the horizon. The sun just started to go down, letting off a golden glow that reminded me of mangoes and cornbread.

This was exactly what I needed.

Down the road, the aroma of freshly baked cornbread wafted through the air toward the hotel. My stomach growled, indicating it was time to get something to eat. Probably a smart move considering I had worked through lunch and only drank part of my grapefruit smoothie for breakfast.

A few patrons mingled at the bar, with plates of food in front of them and fruity drinks perched between their fingertips.

"What can I get for you?" the bartender asked as I slid onto a stool at the counter.

"Make me your fruitiest margarita, please," I said. "And a plate of chicken tenders."

The bartender nodded and went to submit the ticket to the kitchen. I closed my eyes, letting my mind wander as the conversation buzz around me eased my tension.

Until, "OH MY GOD SHE'S HERE SHE'S HERE!!!"

Flashes of cameras almost blinded me as I swiveled on my stool to see what all the commotion was about. Sure enough, someone had entered the front doors, surrounded by paparazzi and a man in a dark suit. He was having one hell of a time getting the paparazzi to stay on the other side of the door while he escorted in the source of the commotion.

Violetta Dawson. Actress, singer, diva extraordinaire.