Monday morning. It’s only nine o’clock and I’m already thinking about tearing my hair out when Ryan, my admin, pokes his head in the door. His office is between mine and the hallway, like a little antechamber you might find in a pyramid.

I guess I’m a Pharaoh in this scenario. Fanciful!

Anyway, because you can’t get to my office without going through his, he’s excellent at preventing interruptions. Actually, I’m surprised to see him interrupting me himself, especially when I’m on the phone.

Then he hands me a yellow message slip, and everything makes perfect sense. Apparently my boss, Ben, just called to set up a meeting with me before lunch. As if I’ll have time to see him this month, let alone today. I’ll have to see him and then work through lunch to catch up. I hate my job.

No, I don’t. I love my job. But right now I’m on semi-permanent hold for Aiyana, our Creative Director, and I’ve got three new pieces of collateral material to review. Also, I’ve had to pee for twenty minutes.

I nod and wave Ryan away. He gives me a thumbs-up and disappears back into his office.

Aiyana finally comes on the line. “Jenna!” she says. “I’m sorry you had to wait. I was getting the same old song and dance from Web Development.”

I laugh. Aiyana and I have been working together two years now, which is a long time when you consider how fast people in marketing burn out. It helps that we both have the same intense attitude, and we’re both good at seeing the big picture and the little details.

“I assume you told them no frills?”

“Yeah,” she says, “but they actually made a compelling case for a more sophisticated design. We’re talking about college kids here; they’re pretty internet-savvy. So I’m letting them dummy up some stuff for me and we’ll go from there. How’s your end?”

“I’ve got Ben having eight heart attacks a day because I don’t have a working brochure yet. I’m running a little behind on that now, and I have to have the design so we can see what kind of space we’ll have for text. When can you send it up?”

She pauses. “I sent that up a week ago.”

That can’t be right. “I don’t have it.”

“I gave it to … what’s her name? Melanie?”

“Melody?”

“Yeah, her.”

Now I know this can’t be right. Melody, who is technically a Marketing Associate but is in reality kind of a glorified intern, has only been with us a few months, but she’s already become my right-hand man—woman—and she never misplaces or forgets anything.

“I definitely didn’t get it,” I say. “Can you send another copy?”

“Of course I can. I’ll send someone up.”

“Thanks a bunch. I’ll be looking for it.” I hang up and look at the phone for a minute, then pick it up and dial Melody’s extension.

She picks up on the first ring. “Melody here.”

“Mel, did Aiyana give you the mock-up for our in-lobby brochure?”

“Sure,” she says cheerfully. “Last week, sometime.” I can hear her flipping through her planner. “Monday.”

“Well, what did you do with it?” I ask.

She pauses long enough for me to realize my tone is more than a little testy, then says, “I gave it to you to approve, and you said you’d give it back to me this week.”

Now why the hell would I have said that? Giving it back this week puts me a full week behind schedule. Okaying the brochure design should have taken about twelve seconds, at which point it should have been in the hands of the copywriters. “I don’t have it. I had to ask Aiyana to send up a new one. Will you be on the lookout for it?”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks.” I hang up, perturbed. It’s not like me to misplace something. I have systems, and schedules, and lists—so many lists. I don’t screw up. Ever.

But then I think back to last week, most of which was consumed with thoughts of the upcoming party, and how Drew would look, and how I would look, and how Gertrude might look. I was completely preoccupied. I’ll be lucky if I didn’t overlook ten other important details.

I pick up the phone to try to postpone my meeting with Ben, but before I can finish dialing, Ryan pokes his head in again. “Kari’s on line three.”

I consider for about a nanosecond. Ben’s not going anywhere, and I probably shouldn’t try to put the meeting off anyway. Hopefully I’ll have the dummy brochure in hand before it’s time to talk to him.

So I pick up line three, which is what I wanted to do anyway. “Hey, lady! How’s it going?” I gave myself a stern talking-to last night, and now I’m rooting for her and Mitch. Or trying to. “How was the rest of your day?”

“I seriously can’t even believe we’re about to have this conversation,” she says, and I can hear the laughter in her voice.

“Hey, if this is going to be one of those grossly detailed TMI kind of things, feel free to skip it.” There’s only so much my newfound resolve can take. “I’ve got plenty of disasters here to occupy me, Lord knows.”

“What’s going on?”

“The usual. I supervise; my minions work … until I do something dumb like lose an important item that’s central to the whole campaign.” I sigh, turning in my chair to look out my office window. “I was really distracted last week, and it’s showing.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

“Never mind. I’m sick of thinking about it, and I’m sure you didn’t call to talk about me.”

This time, she actually does laugh. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, after you beat feet out of Dot’s like your ass was on fire, Mitch and I had a very pleasant breakfast.”

“I fail to see how this is about me, but okay.”

“I’m getting to that,” she says. “And over said breakfast, what do you suppose we talked about?”

Well, that’s an easy one. “Probably Midnight Confessions.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. I did bring it up a few times. And he shot me down every time. The guy’s buttoned up like … something with buttons. I don’t know. A coat. Whatever.” She laughs again. “What we talked about, my dearest BFF, was you.”

I marvel at—and then ruthlessly squash—the tiny thrill of excitement this brings. “About me?”

“About you.”

“What—” Where is this going? “What about me?”

“Oh, you know. Had I known you long. Oh, how interesting that we grew up together. When did we move to the city. How long have you been broken up with Drew.” She pauses. “Are you currently single.”

This is so unexpected that my mouth literally hangs open for a second. I’m quite sure I misheard her. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He asked me if you were seeing anyone right now.”

“Why on earth would he ask you that?”

“He said he was normally the sort to ask directly, but you keep running off.”

I do keep running off, that’s true. If he didn’t make me get all flustered like a teenage girl, maybe I wouldn’t have to.

“I don’t know what to say,” I tell her.

“I told him that yes, you were single, if that helps.”

That most decidedly does not help. “Kari!”

“Well, you are.”

“Why would you do that?” I ask. “I thought you liked him.”

“Well, I’d like him to give me some goddamn spoilers, but beyond that? Seriously, you can have him.”

“You liked him first,” I say. “You take him.”

“That ship has sailed, pal. We had our chance, and then you came over and ruined everything.”

“Are you—”

“If you actually ask me if I’m serious,” she says, “I’m going to come over there and slap your lips off your face. Of course I’m not serious. I gave him your number. I think you should go out with him.”

“But I don’t want to go out with him.” Much.

“Because…?”

Lord have mercy. I would do just about anything to stop having this stupid circular conversation. “I told you. Not my type.”

“And I told you, shut up with that. You and your issues.”

“I just like a certain type of guy.”

“You like Alan Rickman, for God’s sake.”

“He was Colonel Brandon!”

“Listen to me,” she says. “The guy is objectively hot. I mean, smoking hot. You had your eyes all full of Drew and whatsherface, so maybe you didn’t get a good look.”

Oh, I got a plenty good look. And then another one yesterday morning. But I’m trying not to think about that. “I saw plenty. Kari—”

“And,” she says, “I confess, it’s not entirely altruistic.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“I was just figuring, if you went out with him, maybe he would spill some interesting tidbits. About work.”

There I go, hanging my jaw open again. “You want me to go out with some random guy so that you can get soap opera scoops?”

“You don’t have to make it sound so awful. I’m sure you’ll like him. You might want to date him more, even.”

“And pass on even more scoops?”

Apparently she misses the sarcasm dripping from every word because she says, a little too eagerly, “Well, only if you wanted to.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” I say. “If you want some kind of insider info, get it yourself.”

“Oh, like I haven’t tried. He’s not spilling anything because he knows I watch the show—but you don’t. I bet he’d talk to you. You’re my in.”

“I am not your in. I’m your best friend.” This is an enormous tactical error, and I know it as soon as the words leave my mouth.

“Exactly,” she says. “You’re my best friend, and if you can’t ask your best friend for a favor, who can you ask?”

“This is a pretty big favor, Kari.”

“Oh, yeah, do your friend a favor and spend lots of time with a hot guy.” I can practically hear her rolling her eyes on the other end of the phone. “My heart just bleeds for you. So will you do it or not?”

I sigh again. Kari’s done a lot for me since we were kids—lots of big stuff but lots of little stuff too, the stuff that really makes a friendship. And even though I’ve already established he’s not my type, he is kind of electrifying to be around.

This is insane.

“Okay, fine,” I say, and even as I say it I can’t believe the words are coming out of my mouth. “I’ll do it.”

She squeals in glee. “Thank you, thank you! I will never be able to repay you for this.”

“Settle down a minute,” I say. “I have some conditions.”

“Anything.”

“Okay, I’m only going out with him the one time, I swear. That’s going to have to be enough.”

“Oh, that,” she says breezily. “I’m sure he’ll be so charming you’ll want to date him lots of times.”

“I’m serious. And I’m not going to sneak around trying to trick him into spilling secrets. If he lets something slip, it’s all yours, but I’m not some kind of soap opera Mata Hari. And anyway, I wouldn’t even know what to ask.”

“I’ll tell you what to ask.”

“No, you’re not listening. I’m not kidding. I’ll pass along anything he happens to mention, but that’s it.”

“My pals are gonna die.”

Thinking about her online soap friends raises another question for me. “Is this going to get him in trouble? I don’t want anyone in trouble.”

“Oh, goodness no,” she says. “Leaks are all over the place, and any info you get is pretty much something that a lot of people know—all the actors plus the crew plus the soap magazines. And we’ll be careful.”

“You didn’t know he was going to be working at Midnight Confessions, remember?”

“Yeah, every once in a while they really lock something down. That was top-secret stuff. I think they honestly didn’t want anyone to know until he showed up one day.” She laughs. “Of course, everyone knows now. The message boards are freaking out.”

“So he must be a pretty big deal then?”

“Seriously, Jenna—getting him is a huge deal for MC. His DN character was supposed to be a bad guy for a six-week arc, and he turned it into eighteen months of some of the best work I’ve seen in daytime. He is just phenomenal.”

Lord, she’s going to start waxing eloquent. He’s a soap actor, for crying out loud. I head her off at the pass. “So you already gave him my number?”

“Yeah, just your work number though. I knew you’d have my back. You’re such a good friend.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says. “Let me know when he calls.” Then—of course—she hangs up without saying goodbye.