Kari lets me sleep till eight o’clock on Saturday. Then she starts calling—first my house phone, then my cell. I ignore each of them twice, then finally drag myself out to the kitchen to answer the phone there when it starts ringing again.

“Hi, Kari.” I open the cupboard above the coffee machine only to discover that I have no coffee. I meant to stop on the way home from my date. My not-date. My evening.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Who the hell else would call me at this ungodly hour on a weekend? Did it occur to you I might be tired from my hot date?”

“That’s why I’m downstairs with coffee.”

Oh Lord, she’s not screwing around. She knows my weak spot: Coffee. Now.

I buzz her in and move the pile of books and papers on the table over to the counter, then check the fridge for anything breakfast-like—or even food-like. No dice; I have a bottle of ketchup, a foam container of leftover Thai takeout from last weekend, and a water pitcher that’s currently as dry as the Sahara. How luxurious my life is.

I let Kari in and snatch my cup of coffee from her hand, taking a gulp. Double cream, double sugar. Perfection.

It’s too hot, of course, and I immediately regret it when I burn my mouth, then immediately regret it again when I go back for more.

“Why did you call instead of buzzing?”

“I did, like five times.”

Ugh. I’m gonna have to call the property management company and have them come to fix it, which is just about the last thing I feel like doing.

“And, I might add, I called five times as well. I was starting to think you were dead up here. Or had company.”

I roll my eyes. “I did not have company. I’m exhausted, though.”

“That sounds promising.” She sets her coffee on the table and takes a seat facing me.

I lean against the counter rather than sit. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“No problem,” she says. “So, are you tired from your hot date?”

“Actually, I was home well before ten. I just couldn’t sleep.”

“You drink too much coffee,” she says.

I nod, although it had much less to do with coffee than with thinking about that kiss at Jacks. “I had a lovely time but, as I predicted, there were no sparks.” I take the lid off my coffee and blow on it to cool it. No sparks. Yeah, right.

“But did you have fun?” she asks.

“I had a lovely time,” I repeat. “He’s very charming and funny and smart, and we talked a lot about work and stuff.”

Oops. I shouldn’t have mentioned work. His work, after all, is what this visit is about—and a topic I actually want to avoid.

But it’s too late now. “What about work?” she asks, her voice excited.

“Well, he wanted to know all about Grow,” I say, spitting the last word out. Kari knows how I feel about this name; I’ve certainly made it clear more than once. More than twice really. Probably about six thousand times.

“And?”

“And so I told him all about it, and what I was working on. We didn’t get into the stupid brochure, but—”

“Jenna,” she half-yells, and bangs the table with the palm of her hand. “You know I don’t want to hear about that right now! What did he say about his job?”

“To be honest, Kari, not a whole lot. I told you I wasn’t going to grill him.”

“Did he say anything about what his new storyline is going to be on MC?”

“He said a bunch of great stuff about the woman who plays his mom.” That seems safe to pass along. “And they’re pairing him with his stepsister. I forget the name.” That might be less safe, but it’s not like he told me to keep it to myself or anything.

“Cassie?” she prompts.

“Yeah, that’s it. He said it was scandalous.”

“I’ve seen worse,” she says, but doesn’t elaborate.

Just as well—the last thing I want is to get into a detailed discussion about some crazy soap opera plot I probably wouldn’t be able to follow anyway.

“That was all he told me about that.”

“You were with him all that time, and that’s all he said about MC?”

“It was only a few hours. And, by the way, dinner was delicious, thanks for asking.”

She throws her hands up. “I’m glad you had a nice dinner, but I sent you on a mission.”

“Do you have to be so obsessive?”

“I prefer to think of it as focused. Now, this is an exciting tidbit, but it’s not exactly going to set the internet on fire, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. I have no idea what sets your friends on fire.” At this point, I’d like to set her friends on fire. Bunch of busybodies, ruining my perfectly nice date. Evening. Whatever.

“Did he say what his mom is going to do about it?”

Well, that’s a weird question. “I don’t know if he keeps his mom updated on his storylines.”

“Not his mom mom! His soap opera mom. Lucille!” Kari has clearly had it with me. “You know, when he starts banging Cassie?”

“Oh. No, he didn’t mention it. He really didn’t say anything else.” Well, he did drop that hint about leaving the last job because something stressed him out, but unless he decides to be more specific than that, I don’t see how that can even be considered decent gossip.

Plus, there was something about the way he looked when he said it—something kind of defeated. I don’t think I want to share it with anyone. He didn’t tell me to keep that to myself, either … but I think I will anyway.

Her voice is exasperated now. “Surely he said something. You didn’t just talk about yourself all night, did you?”

“Not all night. He was just kind of close-mouthed about work. We talked about our families and school and stuff like that. Just getting-to-know-you stuff.”

Although now that I consider it, we talked about my family and my work. He didn’t tell me much of anything, did he? He was born in North Carolina, moved to LA when he was nineteen … and that’s all I’ve got. He plays it awfully close to the vest, Mitch does.

“Jenna,” Kari says sternly, “you did a terrible job. One little tidbit about Cassie isn’t going to amount to much as far as scoops go.”

“Well, excuse me.”

“When are you going to see him again? Did you set a date?”

“You make it sound like we’re getting married,” I say, and brood into my coffee.

“I should be so lucky. When’s your next date?”

“We didn’t make one. Like I said, there just wasn’t any….” I hesitate. “Any spark.”

Oh, I’m such a liar.

“I don’t care about your spark! Call him and set up another date.”

“I can’t do that. That’s so mercenary.”

I finish off my coffee and wish I had more. Kari must see the coffee-related sadness in my eyes, because she holds hers out. I’m not too proud to take it, either.

“I don’t see how it’s any different from setting up the first date,” she says. “Just this time you call him instead of vice versa.”

I sigh. The thing is, I would love to see him again. And we did decide to be friends. It’s not out of line for me to call him to get together—in fact, I’d like to call him to get together.

But do I want to do it as part of some scheme to get Kari her spoilers?

Not really. I sigh again.

“Quit sighing at me and call him,” she barks.

“Stop being so bossy,” I say. “I didn’t agree to go out with him a million times.”

“I told all my online friends that I met him and I’d be able to get good spoilers for them.”

“I thought you and your friends didn’t even like Midnight Confessions. You always made it sound like you just cared about Doctors and Nurses.”

“Well, that’s the best of them,” she says. “But I watch the others, too. And now that Mitch has switched shows, a lot of people are paying more attention to MC than they used to. Myself included. And I told them I’d get them some spoilers.”

“Hey, I told you that thing about his sister.”

“Big deal. One measly spoiler. Everyone will be excited for about a day.” She frowns. “I really want to outscoop Stace. She always scoops DN before anyone else, but if I can rely on you and Mitch, I can outscoop her for the New York soaps. Her New York source has been having a much harder time getting scripts out of the building lately.”

“Someone smuggles scripts out of the building?”

She nods. “Yeah, I don’t know who he is. Probably a janitor or something. He used to sell them on eBay but someone put a stop to that. So he just sells them direct now. He has an email list and people bid on them.”

I’m incredulous. Completely boggled. “People pay for soap opera scripts? Real money?”

“They don’t pay in rubles.”

“Have you ever bought one of these scripts?” I demand. When she doesn’t answer, it’s all I can do not to shake her. “Kari, you can’t afford that!”

Kari’s a paralegal, and still pretty much entry-level. I wish she’d gone to law school, but she says she likes punching out at five o’clock and not having to think about the office again until the next day. That’s a valid point, but it doesn’t pay terribly well. And New York is pretty expensive.

“It’s not much,” she says defensively. “And I’ve only done it a couple of times. Usually it’s Stace who gets them; she has tons of money.”

“She can’t think of a charity that could maybe use some extra cash?”

“It’s her money.” Kari sighs. “Damn it. She always knows everything first, and she’s so smug about it.”

“So you want better spoilers so you can outscoop some rich dilettante soap opera fan with more money than sense?”

“It’s not that, it’s just that she lords it over everyone like it makes her special.”

“And you want to be special, too?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Kari, you’re special for a million reasons, and none of them have anything to do with Mitchell Cole or Midnight Confessions or anything even remotely related to them.”

“I know that,” she says. “But can’t you just do this, for me?”

She looks so pitiful I don’t know how to say no. And, anyway, I kind of do want to call him. “I’ll call him on Monday.”

“Monday? Why Monday?”

“Because calling him right now, before sane people have even gotten out of bed, sounds desperate and lame?”

“If you had a good date, why wouldn’t you want to have another? It makes perfect sense to me.”

“Well, I kind of have to figure out what to say, because it won’t be a date.” I stare fixedly at the coffee cup in my hands. “I kind of told him I couldn’t date him anymore.”

“You did what?” she shrieks. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“I just—” I can’t very well tell her about the kissing. “I just didn’t want to lead him on. I told you roughly seven million times that he’s not my type.”

“He’s everyone’s type.”

“Not mine.”

She snorts. “You like Kevin Bacon.”

“He was Ren MacCormack! Stop doing that!”

“I’m just saying. You have eyes in your head. He’s hot like fire. Like fire on fire.”

I can’t find it in me to protest as heartily as I might have done a week ago—as I did a week ago. I have to admit, when I’m not in a Drew-induced funk, Mitch looks pretty good.

Great, in fact.

But I’m not going to admit that to Kari. “Look, I said I’d call him. If he’s cool with being friends, I’ll get together with him again. But you’re going to have to stop hoping for some grand romance.”

“You’re crazy,” she says, and gets up to check out what’s in my fridge.

“Quite possibly,” I agree, nodding. “Do you want me to call him Monday, or what?”

“Stupid question.” She slams the refrigerator door. “Unless we want to eat ketchup, we should probably go to Dot’s and get some grub.”

“It sounds so appetizing when you say it like that,” I say, but I head for the bedroom to throw on some clothes.

I’m sure the grilling will recommence during our grub, but she’s getting nothing out of me.

Especially not about the kissing.