Keen Masters is the male version of Miranda Priestly from The Devil Wears Prada.

You know who she is—the control maniac who rules her empire with an iron fist. Okay, so how do I get that role?

Ha, just kidding.

But really, if it turns out Keen has a dog, and asks me to take it to the vet, I am so going to punch him right in the nuts. No, better yet, I’ll take his car. And the best part is, I don’t know how to drive stick.

Just as long as the little doggie doesn’t get hurt.

“When will the spring ads run?” Jordan asks me.

Since Simon Warren has been running on a skeleton budget since Cam took it over last summer, I am the sole fashion merchandiser right now. Before I started, the position was unfilled, the girl who held it having left before the takeover.

Addressing Jordan, and only him, because ever since the little coffee accident this morning Keen hasn’t looked at me once, I answer, “They are scheduled to go up in billboard form on March first and will start running in the fashion magazines on March fifteenth.”

Keen taps his pencil on the pad of paper in front of him. I can’t see it from where I’m sitting, but I bet he’s drawing pictures of girls’ boobs all over, or something like that. “In what markets are the billboards and which publications are the ads running?”

Jordan turns toward me.

I once again address only Jordan with my response.

You see, fashion merchandising involves developing campaigns, displays, and advertisements, all of which I have been preparing over the last two months for the fall collection.

Jordan’s head volleys back and forth between Keen and myself, both of us refusing to look at each other.

Apparently Jordan’s neck must be bothering him because he stands up and says, “What do you say we go to lunch?”

“Sounds great,” Keen and I answer at the same time.

“Super fantastic. You two decide where you’d like to go and meet me out front in five minutes—I have a few calls to return,” Jordan tells us as he hurries out of the room.

Realizing this little war between Keen and me isn’t helping the greater good, I slip gracefully from my chair and circle around the table, where I stop right beside Keen’s chair. “What do you like to eat?” I ask sweetly.

See, I know when to cut the shit. I’m professional like that.

Keen turns in his seat, and when he sees me standing there with my legs slightly parted and a smile on my face, he practically falls out of his chair.

Now, I also know how to attract a man.

Not just him, but all men.

One word—sex appeal, or is that two words?

Well, whichever. You know what I mean.

Anyway, regardless of what we decided this morning, I can see the heat in his eyes.

The attraction is still there.

He wants me.

I want him.

The difference between him and me is that I can easily dispel it. All I have to do is think back and remember those long days of unanswered messages.

So that’s what I do.