“This is aworkevent,” I remind her as I fish my phone out of my purse so I can test the voice recorder, which takes me a hot minute because my overstuffed tote rivals Michelle Pfeiffer’s magic bottomless bag inOne Fine Day.My sister Christine calls it my “diaper bag” despite me not having any kids.
“Not for me, it isn’t. And as the resident singleton here, you should be paying closer attention. It’s not every day you find yourself in a room chock-full of men.”
“That reminds me—one of the 125 man-trapping tips isto check census reports and move to a state with a higher male-to-female ratio. In case you were wondering, Nevada has 138 males to every 100 females. In 1958, at least.”
She grabs my arm with a gasp. “OMG! We’re totally going to try out some of those tips tonight!”
I fake-gasp back. “No, we’re not.”
“This is literally the perfect place to practice.”
“How is a room full of ourcolleaguesthe perfect place to practice?”
I spot a couple of publicist types huddled near the kitchen and make a mental note to keep an eye on the back entrance. If Olivia is planning to attend, it would make sense that she’d try to sneak in to avoid the crush of photographers out front.
“Oh please, you don’t know any of these men. A lot of them don’t even look like writers. They’re probably sports agents or batboys or something. Like...” She scans over my shoulder until her eyes brighten. “That guy over there. In the purple tie.”
I roll my eyes but indulge her, subtly spinning in a slow circle until I spot our mark: a man in a suit standing by the bar, chatting with a couple of other corporate-looking types. Brown hair, average height, nothing too intimidating about him. A nice, approachable regular Joe.
I turn back to her. “He looks like a generic finance bro.”
“Or he could be a wealthy cologne executive justdyingto meet his soul mate. Maybe he even manages the entire Coty portfolio of fragrances.”
“Or maybe he’s Eric Jessup’s even wealthier best friend,” I say with phony enthusiasm.
“That’s the spirit!”
I scoff. “Please.”
“Do I need to remind you that this story wasyouridea? You have no one to blame for this but yourself.”
As if I could forget.“Actually, I’m quite content to blame my grandmother.”
“Come on, this is going to be fun! For me to watch, at least.” She rubs her hands together like a cartoon villain. “Now, which one of the tips should we start with?”
I sigh in resignation and surrender to my fate, digging around in my bag until I come up with the plastic pages and hand them over.
She immediately starts snickering. “ ‘Cry softly in the corner and wait for him to ask you what’s wrong.’ ”
I raise a finger. “Not happening. I have my limits.”
“Probably a bit over the top,” she concedes. “How about this: ‘Walk up to him and tell him you need some advice.’ That’s perfect! Appeal to every male’s overinflated ego. And then just play dumb about whatever it is he says so he can do some mansplaining.”
I glance toward the front door, like if I just stare hard enough, Eric Jessup will magically appear and save me from this nightmare of my own making. “I’m not suremyego can handle that.”
She hums. “Alright, how about this one: ‘Stumble into him, “accidentally” spilling the contents of your purse all over the floor.’ It doesn’t get easier than that.” She stares at me expectantly when I don’t move. “Chop-chop.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I grumble, reaching into my bag and unzipping my makeup pouch so as to achieve maximum spillage.In for a penny, in for a pound.“Our mothers burned their bras so I could set us back a generation.”
Natalia inhales sharply. “Our target just left his group!He’s walking toward the bathroom. Hurry up, you can cut him off at the pass.”
“Hang on, I don’t want to drop my phone,” I tell her, tucking it into my back pocket.
“Quit stalling, he’s right behind you.Go!”
She gives me a shove, and she must not know her own strength because I go careening backward like a drunken sailor, my arms windmilling comically as I try to stay upright, but I’m no match for gravity (and neither are these heels). The ensuing chain of events registers in a slow-motion sequence: I watch Natalia’s eyes pop wide as I collide with my unsuspecting victim. I hear his surprised “Whoa” and low grunt as my body collides with his. His arms lock around me instinctively as I topple him, and I feel the blunt impact of the floor even as his body breaks my fall. And I smell... well, I only smell Force by Eric Jessup, because it’s overpowered every other scent within a five-mile radius.
As the hot flush of embarrassment sets in thatYes, I just took out a random stranger accidentally-on-purpose, I remember my original mission and mentally throw up my hands, deciding I may as well go all in—then upend my purse, sending stray pens, napkins, makeup, and assorted debris raining down upon us. From my prone position, I watch one of my lipsticks disappear underneath a nearby table and want to die.The things I do for a story.
