A/N: so I've gone back and re-edited all of the chapters I posted because there were still a lot of things I hadn't cleaned up. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me on this, and reviews are welcome.

Songs for this chapter: "Gimme, gimme, gimme (A Man after Midnight)"- Mama Mia!

CHAPTER ONE

Lizzie Ashton nervously brushed down the skirt of her black business suit and tucked a strand of her flaming red hair behind her ear. After taking a calming breath, she pressed her thumb against the number five on the panel of elevator buttons; it glared malevolently back at her. Lizzie set her back teeth and reached into her purse for her compact. She flipped it open and studied her reflection in the mirror. The face of a woman in her late twenties stared back: fair skin, jade green eyes that sparkled when she laughed or smiled, and vivid red hair that fell just below her shoulder blades. Lizzie tried to smile at her reflection; the result was more of a grimace.

The elevator stopped abruptly, and the door slid open. With another deep breath, Lizzie squared her shoulders and stepped out to meet her fate, feeling as though she were walking straight into the mouth of Hell. Given where she was going, that wasn't far from the truth. She'd been writing modest feature stories for the Sun-Sentinel for nearly two years, but she had spent barely a month there before discovering that her editor, Pete Anderson, was the devil incarnate. He only called meetings with members of his staff if he had a problem with their work, and Pete Anderson always had a problem. A trip to his office was about as pleasant as a dentist appointment, but at least the dentist offered something to numb the pain. The same show of mercy could not be said of Pete.

"Come in," said a gruff voice as she tapped discretely on the oak-paneled door. Her sweaty hand slipped on the metal doorknob as she turned it and stepped into the spacious office. Pete Anderson's bulk was squeezed into a leather chair behind a cherry mahogany desk neatly stacked with papers. His name plate sat directly in the center. To avoid looking into his muddy brown eyes and balding pate, Lizzie gazed out the large windows behind him, wishing she were in one of the cars speeding along I-75. Those people were going someplace, or perhaps, like her, they were just driving in circles. Pete's voice pulled her out of this musing, and she winced involuntarily as if at the sound of nails on a chalkboard.

"Ah, Elizabeth, excellent." He surveyed her like a fat frog about to devour a particularly juicy fly.

"I'm sorry I'm a few minutes late," she apologized with a forced smile. "One of my contacts for a story finally returned my call, and I didn't want to cut him off. It's taken me nearly a week to get in touch with him." Pete waved away her apology with a fleshy hand.

"No matter. We have more important things to discuss. Please, take a seat."

"I'll stand, thanks." Pete nodded. "I understand you had some complaints—"

"More like suggestions," interrupted Pete.

"Yes, well, you had an issue with the story I submitted this morning?" Pete cleared his throat, and Lizzie suddenly pictured herself a helpless fly, wings beating franticly against the mucus-lined innards of Pete's esophagus.

"Elizabeth, your piece on the budget cut for Silver Trails middle school was very well-written." The 'but' hovered in the air for several agonizing seconds. "However, I think it needs a bit of tightening." 'Tightening' was just a polite euphemism, and both of them knew it. Pete intended to cut her story nearly in half. With a deep breath, Lizzie launched into her rebuttal.

"Pete," she replied courteously. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you what an important issue this is within our local community. The budget cut is going to impact several of the school's thriving programs, including art, music, and foreign language. People's tax dollars support the public school system, and I think parents have a right to know how their money is or isn't being spent on their children's education. Don't you agree?" Pete waved his fleshy hand through the air again, pushing away her words.

"I'm not disagreeing with you, Elizabeth, but we don't have the space for such an extensive story. This wasn't an easy decision to make. I do appreciate the time you've spent on this."

'Like Hell you do,' Lizzie thought. With a smile that looked as though it caused him physical pain, Pete handed back her story; attached was the telltale sheet containing his 'suggestions'. Lizzie glanced down at it and swallowed before addressing her boss again.

"You're asking for some extensive revision here, Pete. I hope you realize this is going to take some time." Pete gave her another thin-lipped smile.

"Please have the completed revision on my desk before you leave this office today."

"But sir," she began to protest.

"By 5pm, no later."

"Please, sir," Lizzie tried again, scrambling to find level ground in the argument. "I need time to look over your suggestions. I want to give them fair consideration. Wouldn't tomorrow morning suit you as well?"

"5pm today, Miss Ashton. That is all."

"Yes, Sir." Lizzie turned on her heal and willed herself to walk rather than storm from the office. It took every ounce of strength she possessed not to slam the door on Pete's stupid, smug face.

Once safely outside, she did storm down the hallway, relishing the infuriated tap her black pumps made on the tile. Too busy fuming to pay much attention to her surroundings, she nearly collided with a tall, impeccably dressed gentleman as she stepped from the elevator on her own floor. He reached out an arm to steady her as she stumbled.

"Lizzie, sweety, what's the rush? Got a hot date?" Lizzie glanced up to find a pair of twinkling gray eyes on her and involuntarily smiled at the sight of Tim Donaldson, a photographer on staff and one of her best friends at the paper. With his wavy, charcoal-colored hair, silvery gray eyes, and dazzling smile, he was sought after by nearly every female in the office (and quite a few of the males as well). In addition to his looks, Tim was sweet, sensitive, hilariously funny, and as gay as a bag of skittles.

"Oh gosh, Tim, I'm sorry. I didn't even see you there." Tim chuckled and straightened the collar of his navy blue dress shirt.

"Obviously not. You seem a bit miffed though. What's the trouble?" Lizzie sighed.

"Miffed is the understatement of the century, but I really don't have time to talk about it. I've got a deadline in five hours, an unexpected one I might add." Tim nodded.

"Ah, another run-in with Peter, Peter Pumpkin eater? What does the old windbag want now?"

"Shh," hissed Lizzie. "Not so close to enemy lines."

"Oh hush. Don't get your bra in a twist. So, did he mutilate another one of your journalistic masterpieces? Did he just take his editorial sledgehammer and smash it to smithereens?" Lizzie felt like crying at the thought of her story being smashed to smithereens, but she smiled at Tim's antics instead.

"Yes, I'm off to mend the damage before 5:00."

"Poor baby. What did he say? Come, tell Timmy all about it."

"I really can't right now, Tim. Look at this list of revisions he gave me." Tim glanced over the sheet Lizzie handed him, and with a smirk folded and slipped it into his pocket.

"This can wait. Right now you need to talk." He gazed sympathetically down at his friend, who looked about ready to dissolve into tears.

"I can't, Timmy. I've got to finish this." Tim placed a finger over her lips.

"Sweety, you look like you're going to fall apart, and you can't do that because I don't know if I'll be able to glue ya back together." Lizzie bit her lip.

"Oh Tim," she moaned. Tim laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Hush. Chin up, Lizzaroni. No tears. You'll smudge your mascara. Let's go have lunch."

Relieved to be stepping out of Pete's sphere of influence for a little while, Lizzie accompanied Tim across the street to Panera Bred and found herself telling him everything over a tuna fish sandwich and a glass of sweet tea.

"So, what's troubling you, ducky?" asked Tim between bites of his apple.

"I don't know, Timmy," Lizzie replied exasperatedly.

"Lizzie, how many times do I have to tell you? Don't whine. It's not sexy." Lizzie rolled her eyes.

"Anyway," she continued. "I just can't figure things out. This isn't exactly my dream job, but at least I get to write. I put everything into my work, but nothing is ever good enough for the chief. Remember that piece I submitted last week? Pete knew how hard I worked on that. When he gave me the assignment, he told me I was the best woman for the job. Then at the last minute, after I'd made all of his revisions, he decided not to run it." Tim shook his head.

"Pete does that to everyone, Liz. You know that. Don't take it personally." Lizzie stared down at the remains of her sandwich, blinking back tears.

"I know, but I can't help it," she admitted sulkily.

"I bet if you slept with him, he'd let you run the place." Lizzie nearly choked on her tea as she burst out laughing.

"Timmy!" she shrieked. "Please, not on a full stomach." Tim grinned.

"I'm just kidding. I wouldn't sleep with him either." Lizzie shook her head. "Let's talk about something else though. How's your love life?" Lizzie glared at him.

"Tim, you know I haven't been seeing anyone since James and I broke up." She took a deep breath in an attempt to unravel the knots in her stomach at the thought of James.

"Exactly. That's the problem. It's been a year. You need to move on. I know lots of straight men. It's a pity, really. What can you offer them that I can't?" Lizzie smiled.

"Tim, I'm going to let that golden opportunity slip right by."

"Whatever. Just let me hook you up with someone," he cajoled.

"I haven't got time for that right now," said Lizzie. Tim arched an eyebrow.

"Sweety, there's always time for sex." Lizzie swatted his arm.

"Timmy, you're impossible."

"I know, but what would you do without me?" Lizzie sighed.

"One can only dream." She glanced at her watch. "I think we'd better be heading back. I don't want Pete to smash me into smithereens." Tim linked his arm through hers as they stood.

"If he does, I'll be there to pick up the pieces."

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At 6:00 that evening, Lizzie unlocked the door to her apartment and gratefully stepped inside. After bending to greet her cat, Colin, she kicked off her black pumps and stood rubbing each foot in turn. She threw some spaghetti into a pot and set it on the stove to boil while she sifted through her mail. Bills, bills, bills, so what else was new? She added butter and a pinch of garlic to the pasta and settled down to watch "Bridget Jones's Diary," quashing the urge to fling sharp objects at Daniel Cleaver's head for reminding her of James. As she finished eating, she contemplated soaking in a hot tub. Hmm, it'd been ages since she'd indulged in that sort of luxury, so why not? A bath, some music, and maybe even a glass of chardonnay. Hell, after the day she'd had, Lizzie felt she deserved it.

She whisked her dishes into the kitchen and loaded them into the dishwasher before going to flip through her music collection. She selected Enya's "A Day without Rain," and with wine in hand, headed into the bathroom. She searched through the cabinets while the tub filled and came up with a bottle of Moonlight path bubble bath. She sprinkled it into the rising water, pealed off her clothes, and slid into the tub with a sigh of contentment. The warm, fragrant water licked at her bare skin, and she stirred it with her fingertips to watch the bubbles bounce across its surface.

She sipped at her wine and closed her eyes, allowing her mind to wander. She'd gotten that revision on Pete's desk (at 4:59), and he'd assured her he would look it over.

"Don't think about it," she scolded herself. She took another swallow of wine to untangle the knots inside her. Damn it, it just wasn't supposed to be this way. IN her mind, she had a vivid image of herself in a crowded bookstore, seated in the center of a throng of people, the shop's front window boldly advertising a reading and book signing by Elizabeth Ashton, award-winning novelist. Yeah, right. Who was she kidding? Lizzie blew away the vision with a frustrated sigh. Ever since she was a little girl, she'd dreamed of being a novelist, and she'd naively hoped to be published before she turned thirty. Now, at Twenty-six, time wasn't running out just yet, but it wasn't going to stand still and wait for her either. However, the energy she stored up to fuel her lifelong dream was drained away by the job that couldn't quite be categorized as slave labor, only because she received a paycheck. Working herself into a good sulk, Lizzie slid a few inches deeper into the bath. It just wasn't supposed to be this way! She was supposed to love her job, and she might have if Satan hadn't decided to leave his throne in Hell and take up residence in Pete Anderson's body. If it hadn't been for that one complication, Lizzie would have considered herself lucky to be able to combine work with pleasure. She loved to write—needed to write. Each time she touched a pen or her keyboard, her fingers tingled with an electric charge as the words pulsed through them. What she didn't want—what she didn't need—was having that charge leached out of her by the monster who called himself her editor.

Lizzie refilled her wine glass before taking up the book that she always had within reach: a collection of the works of Jane Austen. She'd read it cover to cover so many times that the wrinkled pages marred with water marks, teardrops, and even the occasional splotch of wine were still intelligible to her. She thumbed through its pages until she found her favorite scene in Pride and Prejudice—the dialogue between MR. Darcy and Lizzie in Bingley's drawing-room. She'd always loved hearing from her friends that her own character was not unlike that of Lizzie Bennet (with whom she also shared a name), and she felt inclined to agree. She was intelligent, well read, highly opinionated, often unswervingly stubborn, and romantic but sensible about it. Unlike Miss Bennet, however, she had yet to find her Mr. Darcy; in fact, she seemed to have encountered more of the Wickhams and Willoughbys of the world. NO, James Walker was certainly no Mr. Darcy, neither in looks nor personality.

"Don't think about it!" Lizzie scolded herself.

Instead, she wondered what it was that made Darcy the unmatched favorite of Austen's heroes. He was dark and mysteriously moody, yes; proud, certainly; arrogant, without a doubt; yet, a finer specimen of the male species had never existed, and, Lizzie reminded herself, he didn't exist. No such man existed outside the pages of a novel, and there was no use searching for him.

A/N: I've fixed the time-line issue that several of you pointed out. As it stands now, Lizzie and James have been apart for a year. Thanks for reading.