Heading out. I’ll report back later.

An hour goes by with nothing from Evie, and I’ve just forgotten about it when her name pops up again on my phone.

Oh boy. Elsa LOVES you.

Oh, God.

This is like meeting a Penthouse letter in person.

She joined the firm about a year after I did.

She may have . . . known some of the men there. I am not one of those men.

Ugh I feel faintly queasy imagining what yarns she is currently spinning.

Five minutes go by, then ten. Nothing. Crap.

Evil?

I’m watching TV almost two hours later when I finally get a response.

Okay drinks are over.

And yes her stories were really oversold.

Also lol  Evil

Told you.

And my phone autocompletes it.

It’s like it knows.

I was hoping for some dirt.

Apparently you’re sweet, sexy and responsible.

Snore.

I want to point out you called me sexy.

Do you want to grab dinner next week?

Yes. Yes I do.

So of course I immediately text Michael Christopher.

ALL HAIL THE LUCKY TIE

No.

Yes.

NO!

YES!

We’re having dinner.

YES

I’M GOING STREAKING

Noooooooooooooooo

chapter five

evie

“Are you nervous?”

I look up at Daryl from where I’m currently curled in half in the leg-press machine. “For what?” My eyes go wide in fear. “Are you adding more weight?”

She stares at me, unblinking, and then looks across the gym with a pointed sigh.

“Oh. Because of Carter?”

“Yes, because of Carter,” she says, and follows it with this deep little growl. “I can’t believe you have me sucked into this soap opera. I’m basically wandering the social Sahara by myself, but I could probably recite your text messages from memory. What am I doing with my life?”

“Sorry, I’ve been trying not to think about it,” I say. “Like, if I pretend I’m hanging out with any old agent buddy it won’t be as big a deal.”

“I still can’t believe you asked him out.” She takes a drink from her water bottle. “You’re usually so good about sticking to your guns, but you folded. You’re so going to bang him.”

I cover my ears. Don’t get me wrong, I do want to bang him, but Carter and I have been texting back and forth over the last week, and with each exchange I actually like him just a little more. And this is why the nerves are really starting to sink in. It’s all well and good to have this flirtation when he’s on the other end of a screen. It’s harder to mess up when I have minutes to craft perfect witty responses. But face-to-face I’m likely to mess it up somehow, right?

As much as I try to avoid this way of thinking, it’s hard not to be cynical. Like every single woman my age, I’ve been fixed up, from the bar scene to the book club and everything in between; had plenty of spectacularly bad one-night stands; and test-driven my fair share of dating sites. Personally, I’d rather die alone in a house full of cats in tiny matching sweaters than ever attempt any of it again.

I try to ignore the pressure to be coupled up, but it’s everywhere. Romance is the subject of movies and books and practically every song on the radio. There’s my own biological clock, quietly yet persistently ticking away. My parents—who had me later in life—are nearing their seventies. They’ve long since retired from their own Hollywood careers, and when they aren’t gardening or grooming their shih tzu, they’re asking me about my dating life.

But of course there’s that niggling voice suggesting I not care about any of it, that maybe I should give in and buy the cats instead. The problem is that I don’t like them. I may be a terrible married person someday, but I know for sure I would be an even worse cat lady.

“Evie?”

“Sorry,” I say, exhaling as I push the weight up, extending my legs. “I was just trying to figure out whether I could still be a crazy cat lady without the actual animals.”

“Don’t be weird,” Daryl says. Helping me up, she reminds me, “It’s just a date. If you hit it off, you tell me every filthy detail tomorrow. If it sucks, you go home and we plan how we’re finally going to give up on this whole dating thing and just marry each other for the tax breaks.”

“It’ll be fine.” I inhale, watching as she takes my place on the bench. “Anyway, how’s your new assistant?”

Daryl lets out a loud laugh, looking up at me as she moves through her reps. “Eric? Let’s just say I probably do more of his work than he does.”

“Oh, no.”

On top of all the other weirdness at work right now, Daryl’s boss called her into his office on Monday to inform her that she’s got a new assistant on her desk: Brad Kingman’s nephew. Recently injured UCLA quarterback Eric Kingman is six foot three, gorgeous, and not the sharpest tool in the shed. It took him two days to realize that the people calling his desk and asking for Daryl did not, in fact, have the wrong number.

A little smile plucks at me. “It’s not getting any better then?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.” She sits up, shrugging as she stands from the machine. “The dryer in his apartment complex overheated and all his shirts shrank. So at least the view from my office door has greatly improved.”

I grin as we both move to the treadmills. My assistant, Jess, is a godsend, and I would cut down anyone who tried to take her. “Hot or not, I’m not trading you.”

Daryl shrugs. “He’s sweet and makes me laugh, but come staffing season I will burn the place to the ground if he still hasn’t learned how to answer a damn email.”

I’m sure Daryl will be fine—she runs with the upper middle of the pack performance-wise, but she’s undoubtedly beautiful, and charming enough that any agency would want to keep her around.

“You’re so good at this, Evie,” she says. “You’re so good at handling the stress and the personalities.” Blowing her cheeks out, Daryl releases a long breath. “Eric is probably never going to remember everything we went over this week. Hopefully Brad will eventually figure out that this isn’t the kid for the job.”

And I just hope Daryl isn’t blamed when Eric messes something up. Because it’s true that there are a million little things to remember, and when you try to make your brain roll through them like a list, they feel overwhelming. On top of that, the P&D organization itself seems to be made up of a constellation of eccentricities. Of tiny, nitpicky, really irritating eccentricities.