Read Chapter 1 of Just Not My Type

Just Not My Type available @ https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B0DVPNS1GL

Chapter 1- The Morning

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee swirled around me as I leaned on the railing of my 30th-floor New York apartment balcony. From up here, the city stretched out like a restless ocean—horns blaring, footsteps echoing, and the faint chatter of people rushing through their morning routines, all unfolding far below me.

But me? I was a world away, lost in the swirling mess of my thoughts.

Dressed in my comfiest oversized sweatshirt and yoga pants, I embodied the ultimate irony—a woman who spent her days critiquing couture yet sought refuge in the glorious embrace of elastic waistbands. Comfort over style? Always, when it was just me and my morning coffee. Speaking of coffee, I cradled my beloved mug like it was a lifeline. It read “Fashionably Latte” and had been a gift from a colleague at The Look.

Ah, ‘The Look’. The magazine wasn’t just a publication; it was a force of nature in the fashion world. If there was a trend worth chasing, we weren’t just reporting on it we were creating it. Faster than influencers could yell ‘unboxing,’ our pages would dictate what people would wear, desire, or dream of next season. It was exhilarating, a rush like no other.

Being its editor was, without a doubt, the pinnacle of my career—a dream come true. But it had been a dream with its fair share of sleepless nights and chaotic reality. Picture this: me, hunched over layouts that never seemed quite perfect, debating font choices as if they were life-or-death decisions, and occasionally (read: frequently) yelling at printers that seemed to exist solely to test my patience.

Add to that the delicate art of convincing A-list designers that, actually, we had known better than they did. It had been like trying to tell a chef how to season their signature dish—but with fewer culinary disasters and far more ego bruises.

And, of course, there was coffee. Always coffee. My lifeline during those late-night marathons, it had been my constant companion, though it also doubled as my greatest enemy. There was a unique kind of heart-stopping terror that came with nearly spilling a double-shot latte onto a designer gown worth more than my monthly rent. Spoiler: I learned to drink with a steady hand.

No, it wasn’t glamorous behind the scenes. The pristine gloss of our covers never hinted at the chaos that birthed them.

But thrilling? Absolutely.

It was the kind of chaos I thrived on; the kind that made me feel alive.

Yet, as I sipped my coffee and stared at the skyline, my thoughts took a detour, veering away from the usual chaos of deadlines and magazine spreads. My mind wandered to a dream a slightly mischievous one, fuelled by the day-to-day reality of working with the industry's most demanding designers.

What if I—Amber Carter—had been the designer, the visionary whose name was printed in big, bold letters on the runway program? The thought had made me chuckle mid-sip. I pictured myself in a power stance, clipboard in hand, watching editors squirm as I dictated fashion trends. “No, Jessica, chartreuse is not in. And Derek, those shoes? A catastrophe. Next!”

It had been absurd, of course—just a little daydream to balance the pressures of reality. I didn’t need to dominate editors or take the fashion world by storm… well, not entirely. The truth was, I loved my job. I loved the thrill of creating something beautiful, the rush of deadlines, and the satisfaction of seeing a cover come to life.

It wasn’t always perfect, and sometimes it made me want to pull my hair out (or someone else’s), but it was mine. And to be honest, if I told designers to scrap an entire creation and start over, they did it. No questions asked. Well, maybe with a dramatic sigh or an eye roll, but they did it. After all, it wasn’t easy to argue with a woman holding a steaming latte and a deadline like a weapon.

That was the thing about dreams—they were fluid. Sometimes, they evolved into something new, and other times, they were the little fuel you needed to keep going. I might not have been the one sketching dresses at midnight, but I played a part in shaping the stories that brought them to life. And for now, that was exactly where I wanted to be.

My thoughts drifted further back to Jacob Parker. Jacob, the man who had swooped into my life like a movie hero and quite literally swept me off my Louboutins when I first set foot in New York. Oh, he had charm to spare—armed with a smile so disarming it could probably have talked a snowstorm into turning into a sunny day.

We had met at an art gallery opening—or, more accurately, while both sneaking away from the pretentious crowd to raid the complimentary cheese table. “Brie is overrated,” he had said, popping a cube of cheddar into his mouth. I had laughed so hard I snorted wine up my nose, and just like that, we were inseparable.

We built a life together—a chaotic, imperfect, and wonderfully messy life. It had been the kind of love story that felt more like a patchwork quilt than a glossy magazine spread, full of little quirks and mismatched patterns.

He would leave sweet, scribbled notes on my mirror before heading off to his demanding job, usually something like “Don’t forget to eat!” or a simple “I love you.” In return, I would stuff bags of his favourite chips into his briefcase—a little reminder that even on his toughest days, someone had his back (and his snacks).

But as the months turned into years, he grew busier with his never-ending client meetings, business trips, and high-stakes decisions. Slowly, the notes disappeared from the mirror, replaced by hurried texts. There were nights I had come home to an empty apartment, reheated takeout, and an email chain that ended with, “Sorry, I will be late. Do not wait up.”

When Charlotte, our little whirlwind of joy, entered our lives, it felt like the universe was giving us a second chance. Her tiny giggles and curious eyes brought light into the cracks of our strained relationship. For a brief moment, it was as if we’d rediscovered what had once made us so inseparable. At first, things seemed to be back on track, but over time, he struggled to make time even for our daughter, and the distance between us only grew wider.

When we finally accepted that we could not make it work, we decided to part ways. There was no shouting, no accusations, no dramatic declarations just a quiet understanding between two people who had grown apart. We made a promise to keep our paths separate, a way to protect what little peace we had left.

When it came to Charlotte, he did not put up a fight. He handed me full custody without hesitation, as if the idea of navigating the world of diapers, bedtime stories, and school projects was entirely too overwhelming for him. Parenting just was not his thing, and honestly, I was relieved. The thought of having to co-parent with someone who did not want to be involved would have been far more exhausting than doing it on my own.

Once we parted ways, we stuck to our promise. No lingering texts, no awkward calls, no accidental run-ins. It was as if we had pressed a giant reset button on our lives, erasing each other from the picture entirely.

And I was fine with that. He did not want to be a father, and I did not want to hold onto something that was not meant to be. Our clean break wasn’t about bitterness or drama; it was about clarity. It was about giving both of us the freedom to move forward instead of holding onto something that was always meant to stay in the rearview mirror. It gave me the freedom to focus on Charlotte and myself.

Life moved on, and so did we, each in our own separate directions. No looking back, no regrets, just two people closing a chapter and writing new ones on their own.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

A tiny, high-pitched voice broke through my thoughts, snapping me back to the present. I turned to see my adorable whirlwind of a daughter, Charlotte, standing in the doorway. Her curls were sticking out in every direction, and her hands were covered in what looked suspiciously like peanut butter. “Charlotte,” I said, setting my mug down, “what have you done?”

“There’s a bird!” she announced, completely ignoring my question. “And it’s on the kitchen counter!”

“What?”

“I tried to feed it toast, but it doesn’t like peanut butter!”

“There’s a bird… in the kitchen?”

“Yes! It flew in when I opened the window to yell at the taxi man!”

“You what?”

Charlotte’s big, innocent eyes looked up at me. “He did not stop at the light, Mommy. That is bad.”

I could not even be mad. This was my life now. From heartbreak to haute couture to herding birds out of my kitchen, I would not trade a single chaotic moment of it. Balancing my coffee in one hand and a towel in the other, I followed Charlotte inside to rescue the poor bird, all while she chattered away about how “maybe it’s a designer bird, look at its feathers, Mommy!”

And as I coaxed the feathered intruder back out the window, I couldn’t help but smile. My dreams were still out there, shimmering on the horizon like the city skyline. But for now, life—with all its peanut-butter-covered, bird-chasing, chaos-filled moments—was exactly where I needed to be.

The morning chaos was a regular feature in our lives and today was no exception. After our dramatic battle with the designer bird, we found ourselves, as usual, running hopelessly late.

“Mommy, we’re going to miss school!” Charlotte announced, stating the obvious with the urgency of a newscaster breaking a world-shattering story.

“Not if we move faster than the speed of light,” I replied, yanking on my office clothes like I was competing in some bizarre quick-change competition. I grabbed Charlotte’s backpack in one hand, my travel mug of lukewarm coffee in the other, and tried to maintain a semblance of calm.

Spoiler: I failed.

“Shoes, Charlotte! Now!” I barked, sounding more drill sergeant than mom.

Charlotte, of course, took this as an invitation to sit down and debate the merits of wearing her sparkly pink sandals versus her sneakers. “But what if we have gym today?” she pondered aloud. “And what if my sandals are too sparkly?”

“They’re not,” I said, throwing the sneakers into her backpack for good measure. “We will deal with it later. Move!”

Five chaotic minutes later, we were in the car, navigating New York traffic with the kind of precision that would make a NASCAR driver weep. “Mommy, I forgot my show and tell!” Charlotte announced from the backseat as I made a heroic left turn.

“What was it supposed to be?” I asked, my hands gripping the steering wheel like my life depended on it which, in New York traffic, it did.

“The bird,” Charlotte said solemnly.

“The bird that nearly turned our kitchen into a scene from a Hitchcock movie?” I asked, glancing at her in disbelief.

“Yeah,” she replied with a dramatic sigh. “But it flew away. So now I have nothing.”

I paused, trying to think quickly. “How about this? Your show-and-tell can be the story of the bird. Storytelling is important, you know.”

Charlotte perked up, her face lighting with excitement. “Can I call it a designer bird? Because of its fancy feathers?”

“Sure,” I said with a chuckle. “Just leave out the peanut butter part.”

By the time we screeched to a halt outside her school, we were both a little frazzled but victorious. I kissed her forehead, handed her the backpack, and watched as she skipped inside, sneakers still dangling from one hand. One crisis down.

Then it was my turn. Back into the sea of honking horns and red lights I went, attempting to make it to the office without breaking every traffic law in the book. I barely had time to glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror, which, judging by the peanut butter streak across my cheek, was for the best. My stomach was doing an interpretive dance, a mix of excitement and nerves, as I was going to drop a bombshell in my office.