After researching the Anderson brothers and their firm, and getting my more important research out of the way, I decide that instead of borrowing something from Jess, I’ll go out and buy a new outfit of my own for my first day of work.

I hop into the G train subway station and give a few bucks to the man playing U2 songs on his guitar, case out and filled with crumpled bills. He’s always there, and he always sounds amazing. He has the voice of an angel and is good with the guitar, and I wonder if he ever tried to really make it, and when he stopped.

The train comes quickly and I get on. It’s crowded for a Saturday afternoon, but I get the one empty seat left near the door.

I finally get to the L train, stay on for a few stops, and get out at 14th Street to go shopping at my favorite discount designer store.

It’s a hot day, and I smile because this is always how summer comes on in New York City. Last night was freezing, and today is the day all the women trade in their boots for flip flops and their rain coats for tank tops.

It’s a city of extremes - high highs and low lows. No grey areas. No room for in-betweens. The best of times, the worst of times, and all that. Even the weather follows suit.

When I open the door to my destination, a cold, air-conditioned gust of wind hits me squarely in the face. I feel like the beads of sweat on my back freeze into little ice crystals as I trade in one form of discomfort for another.

I take my time browsing the store. I look at the shoes and settle on a pair of cute patent-leather flats. I pick up a trim little black suit with a cropped jacket and a navy blue shell. Everything looks on-trend and classic at the same time.

There’s a woman browsing the aisles near me - a really pretty, tall blonde woman. She looks familiar. I swear I’ve seen her before.

Holy crap!

Clarissa? Could it actually be Clarissa, Drew’s ex?

Why would she be shopping here? Shouldn’t she be on Fifth Avenue, shopping in some chi-chi boutique?

I try not to stare, but I need to know if it’s her.

Call it research. For my new job. I’m on my way to becoming a real journalist, after all. I shouldn’t stifle my desire to get the scoop.

Tonight at eleven: Wealthy heiress seen shopping at a bargain store. What was she doing there? Coming up after the weather.

Maybe I should go into TV journalism, instead of print.

I try to study her face, without looking too obvious. I notice everything about her - the who, what, where and why, which are the basics of reporting.

Who? I’m not quite sure. I think it’s Clarissa. I try to look for clues as to whether it is actually her or not.

The what? Shopping. It’s what lots of young women in the city like to do on a lazy, hot Saturday afternoon, maybe after some brunching. Go to one of the big makeup stores, try out some new eyeliner, and pick up a few new pieces to freshen up the old wardrobe.

But our mystery woman doesn’t look like she’s enjoying herself. She looks bored. And she isn’t studying the garments or picking anything up or comparing prices like most girls would.

Where? A big discount department store, a place where I would never expect Clarissa to be. It just wouldn’t make sense for her to be here.

And finally, the why. This is the key question. Why would Clarissa be here?

Just as I’m about to reject the idea that it’s her, a man’s voice calls out to her.

“Clarissa!”

I was right! It’s her.

Clarissa looks up and seems instantly more bored than she did a few seconds ago, when she was browsing the rack of shirts with the enthusiasm one would have when trying to decide which brand of cold medicine to get.

“Yeah?” she responds.

“Come here!”

I tilt my head down and bury my eyes in a rack of dresses, but keep stealing little glances at Clarissa and our new mystery guy.

Mystery guy is hot. He has a perfectly symmetrical and tanned face, a five-o’clock shadow, a white t-shirt, dark-wash jeans and a naughty, crooked smile. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think it was Drew.

But from my research, and from meeting Drew Anderson, I know it isn’t him. But it isn’t Robert Crandall, either.

He pulls her in tight by the waist and presses his lips onto her, giving her a short but passionate and hot kiss, his hand holding her chin softly. He’s tall, and she has to stand up on her tip-toes even though she’s wearing three-inch tall lace-up gladiator espadrilles, and the way he holds her makes them seem like new lovers.

But Robert, he is not.

That’s a cold move, Clarissa. Two-timing your fiancee with two different guys?

It would explain what she’s doing in this store - hiding out.

She pushes him away softly, like it’s just for effect and she doesn’t really want him to stop kissing her.

“What if someone saw?”

“Let them watch. I don’t care.”

She locks her hand into his for a second and then swats it away, heading toward the escalator with him following her.

Damn. She can’t even display affection for her one of many boyfriends in public for fear of getting caught, and here I am without a boyfriend at all.

It’s not like it’s anyone’s fault but my own that I’m without a boyfriend.

I wonder what it would be like to be like Clarissa for just a day.

I also wonder what it would be like to be with Drew for just a night.