Chapter 4
When Opportunity Knocks At Noon
~REVERIE~
The phone rings.
Not the usual ringtone—the one I set for Hazel, Rosemarie, or Mila when they need me at the cafe. That one is cheerful, bright, something that says emergency croissants need frosting or we're slammed and need your chaos energy ASAP.
It's "Jingle Bell Rock" because I'm predictable like that, and it never fails to make me smile even when I'm dead tired.
This ringtone is different. Professional. The default one that plays for numbers not saved in my contacts. The generic iPhone ring that could mean anything from a spam call about my car's extended warranty to a wrong number asking if I’m still selling that dresser on Facebook Marketplace.
Make it stop. Please, universe, I'm begging you. Just five more minutes of sleep. That's all I need. Five minutes.
I groan—a deep, pathetic sound that would embarrass me if anyone could hear it—and press my face deeper into my pillow.
The fabric is soft against my cheek, worn from too many wash cycles, and it smells like the lavender spray I obsessively mist on my bedding before sleep.
Underneath that is the vanilla body lotion I slathered on last night, the kind that comes in the giant pump bottle from the drugstore because I'm fancy like that.
And there's something else too—the distinct scent of paper and ink, that particular smell of new books that I'd bottle and wear as perfume if I could.
Oh right. I fell asleep reading. Again. There's definitely a book wedged somewhere in this bed, probably under my shoulder blade based on the uncomfortable pressure I'm just now noticing.
Make it stop. Please make it stop. My brain is made of cotton and regret and approximately seventeen book hangovers.
The ringing continues, persistent and rude and completely unconcerned with my suffering.
Whoever invented phones should be forced to listen to this sound on repeat for eternity. That's my contribution to hell's design.
I crack one eye open, immediately regretting it as November sunlight streams through my balcony doors—which I apparently forgot to close the curtains on—and stabs directly into my retinas. The light is harsh, unforgiving, the kind of brightness that only exists at...
What time is it? Why is it so bright? Did I sleep through my alarm?
Oh god, did I miss my shift at the cafe?
The phone is still ringing.
I sit up slowly, every muscle in my body protesting. My neck is stiff from falling asleep at a weird angle. My eyes feel like someone replaced them with sandpaper. My mouth tastes like I licked the inside of a library and then forgot to brush my teeth.
This is what happens when you decide to 'just read one chapter' at midnight and suddenly it's 5 AM and you've finished an entire book and started the second one.
Worth it, though. That book was incredible. The secret admirer knew what he was doing with those recommendations.
Wait. The secret admirer. The gorgeous Alpha with the maple-honey scent, the soft smile, and the way he looked at me like I was something worth looking at.
Focus.
Phone.
Ringing.
Answer it before they hang up.
I fumble around on my nightstand, knocking over an empty coffee mug—thankfully empty—and finally locate my phone under yesterday's discarded sweater. The screen is too bright, showing an unknown number and the time.
12:04 PM.
Noon. It's noon. I slept until noon. I never sleep until noon.
Oh god, I definitely missed something important.
I swipe to answer, bringing the phone to my ear, and croak out, "Reverie speaking."
My voice sounds like I gargled gravel and then smoked a pack of cigarettes. Attractive. Professional. Definitely not what you want when answering unknown calls.
"Oh dear," a warm, feminine voice says on the other end, laughter threading through the words. "Did I call at the wrong time? It's noon."
I blink, my brain trying to catch up.
Noon. Yes. She's right. It is noon.
"I—" I clear my throat, trying to sound more human and less like a hibernating bear. "The dedication of reading books caught me in a spiral of staying up to finish."
Good save, Rev. Very eloquent. Definitely sounds like you have your life together.
The woman giggles—warm and genuine.
"It's nice to hear your dedication to reading the content is as strong as promoting it on TikTok."
I pause, my sleep-fogged brain trying to process this. She knows about my TikTok? She watches my content?
Who is this?
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to will my brain into functioning.
My apartment smells like coffee—stale coffee from yesterday's pot that I forgot to clean out—and the vanilla candle I left burning way too long last night. There's also the scent of the books stacked on my nightstand, that particular smell of new paper and ink that always makes me happy.
But right now, I'm too confused to be happy.
"I'm glad to know someone admires my commitment," I say carefully, "but I'd love to know who I'm speaking with?"
Please don't be a scam call.
Please don't be someone trying to sell me an extended warranty for a car I don't own.
"Oh!" The woman laughs, chagrined. "I'm so sorry. Where are my manners? My name is Charlotte Webb, and I'm calling from Evergreen Media Collective."
The name hits me like a freight train.
Evergreen Media Collective.
EVERGREEN MEDIA COLLECTIVE?!!!!!!
My eyes go wide, sleep vanishing like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.
I sit up straighter—too fast, the book under my shoulder blade falls to the floor with a thump—and my hand flies to my mouth.
Evergreen Media Collective is one of the biggest booming brands in the social media industry.
They work with top-tier influencers, coordinate massive campaigns, partner with actual celebrities.
They're the company that turned a beauty vlogger into a household name.
The ones who orchestrated that viral holiday campaign last year that everyone was talking about.
And they're calling me.
Me. Reverie Bell. The girl who lives in an attic apartment and sometimes cries over book budgets.
"Oh my god," I breathe, then immediately cringe. Professional, Reverie. Be professional. "I mean—I'm so sorry for probably sounding incredibly unserious. I was genuinely reading until dawn and—"
Charlotte laughs, warm and reassuring.
"Not at all! That's actually what we love about you. You're real. You're not trying to put on some front, and that authenticity is exactly what turns us off about so many other influencers. Trust me, if you'd answered the phone with a fake, over-the-top cheerful voice, I would have been concerned."
I'm real. They like that I'm real. I'm not getting rejected for being too much or too enthusiastic or too... me.
My heart is hammering now, but in a good way. In an oh my god, is this actually happening way.
"That's—thank you," I manage. "That means a lot."
"You're welcome." I can hear the smile in Charlotte's voice.
"Now, let me tell you a bit about why I'm calling.
Evergreen Media Collective was founded on the principle that influencer marketing should be genuine, impactful, and community-focused.
We don't just want to sell products—we want to tell stories.
Create connections. Build something meaningful that lasts beyond a single viral moment. "
I'm nodding even though she can't see me, completely absorbed. This is everything I believe in. Everything I've been trying to do with my content, even on my small scale.
"Our core values are authenticity, community engagement, and sustainable growth," Charlotte continues.
"We've been watching your TikTok lives for the past few months, Reverie.
The way you talk about books, the way you interact with your followers, the genuine enthusiasm you bring to everything you do—it's exactly what we look for in potential partners. "
They've been watching me for months. MONTHS. They didn't just stumble across me yesterday—they've been paying attention.
I'm gripping the phone so tight my knuckles are white.
"I—that's incredible. I don't even know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything yet," Charlotte says kindly. "Just listen. We have a proposal for you."
A proposal. They have a proposal. For me. Oh my god, I'm going to pass out.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. The air in my apartment is cool—I definitely left the balcony door cracked last night—carrying the scent of pine from outside and that metallic promise of snow that's been hanging in the air for days. It's grounding. Real.
This is real. This is happening.
"Okay," I say, my voice steadier now. "I'm listening."
"Perfect." I can hear papers rustling on Charlotte's end.
"We're launching a new campaign for the holiday season.
It's focused on small-town charm, authentic experiences, and celebrating local businesses during what's typically their busiest and most important time of year.
We want to showcase what makes small communities special during the holidays—the traditions, the connections, the magic that you can't find in big cities. "
Oh. Oh, that's perfect. That's literally everything I love about Oakridge Hollow.
"We believe you'd be perfect as the ambassador for this campaign," Charlotte continues.
"We'd have you participate in various Christmas and holiday activities around Oakridge Hollow—visiting local businesses, attending events, showing your followers what makes your town special.
The ice skating rink, the Christmas markets, the local shops, holiday baking, tree lighting ceremonies—whatever captures that authentic holiday spirit. "
I'm literally living my dream. This is my dream. Getting paid to love my town and share it with people.