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“Because his opinion doesn’t matter,” I said, tone cross.

A moment passed, and he opened his mouth tentatively, like he thought he might regret his next words. “It…kind of seems like it does.”

My tense posture deflated at once. “It does, but I don’t know why.”

Ravi squeezed the bridge of his nose. “You know earlier when I said I figured you were over it?”

I shoved some bruschetta into my mouth. “Yeah.”

“I changed my mind.”

“What? Why?” I mumbled between bites.

“Because you look like a kicked puppy again.”

My voice went borderline shrill. “I do not!”

“Shh,” he hissed. “Okay. Fine. You’re a strong and dispassionate woman. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Alright. Why do you think Vanessa Shepherd wants to have tea with me?”

He shrugged, perusing the menu as if he might choose something other than his typical chicken piccata. “Could it be as simple as…she likes you?”

“No.”

“Of course not,” he muttered under his breath.

A sudden, terrifying thought occurred to me. “Oh my god!”

Eyes wide, his searching gaze flew over my face and body. “What’s wrong?”

“What on earth am I going to wear to a tea with Vanessa Shepherd?”

He froze, staring, then rolled his eyes and went back to his menu. “When is Maribel getting here?”

I threw a diced tomato at him.

Fourteen

On Wednesday, I drank my mysterious macchiato with gusto as I contemplated the list of ideas I’d been working on, none of them as good as my original. Under the assumption that the men in my department were predictable, I pursued the most sexual one: Woman enjoying the hell out of Henley’s cinnamon whiskey. Henley Heat. Unless it’s Henley, I’m faking it.

My favorite idea played off the #WhiskeyWomen campaign. Man and woman sit beside each other at a bar. Bartender hands her a frilly drink and him the Henley. They look at each other and switch drinks. Text overlay: Women drink whiskey too.

My hopes weren’t high that either would be received well, but I worked on them regardless. During breaks, I ran analytics on which Henley ads had been most successful with women in the past. Unsurprisingly, the most popular product with women in the last year was Honey—the only product I apparently couldn’t advertise. In a moment of despair after someone—definitely not me—drank all my coffee, I checked the city website again. My application status was still Submitted.

Perhaps I should call them…

Again.

Ivy, dressed in a charming burnt orange A-line, propped on my desk in Bennett’s usual spot. “Need a break?”

I glanced down at my scribbled notes, then threw my pen down. “Yes.”

She looped her arm around mine and directed me toward the elevator. “How’s it going, darlin’?”

“Uh, the truth?”

“God’s honest.”