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in my entire career, a fact I was immensely proud of.
    “And besides, did you know we have to pay the researchers overtime if we call them in over the weekend?” Margaret added, sounding astonished. “It cuts into our bottom line.”
    She looked momentarily perturbed. She was such a cheapskate.
    “So I’m going to have Sidra DeSimon look it over instead,” Margaret continued breezily. “This will be a good chance for her to try her hand at editing.”
    I could feel my jaw fall.
    “Sidra?” I squeaked, suddenly finding it somewhat difficult to breathe. Margaret ignored me.
    “Lots of women would love to be in your shoes, Claire,” she said brusquely. “After all, Cole Brannon is the most eligible bachelor in Hollywood at the moment.”
    Which would probably translate into him being my dullest and most egotistical interview of the year so far. The glow of celebrity had long since worn off for me. I ignored Margaret’s smile, which was clearly an attempt to soften me up and convince me that we were indeed comrades.
    “But . . .” I began. Margaret cut off my protest with a single raised finger and a shake of her head.
    “Brunch at Atelier at ten a.m. tomorrow,” she said crisply. I groaned and rolled my eyes. Brunch. Fantastic. It had to be the worst meal of the day to interview people. Visions of celebs nursing hangovers while sipping Bloody Marys or gulping mimosas, barking hoarse orders at waiters about too-crisp toast or too-runny eggs danced through my head.
    Besides, I’d been hoping to spend the weekend with Tom. No one—not even I—could deny anymore that our relationship needed some serious work. I did love him, after all, even if he was being a bit odd lately. And now, I would be spending Saturday with Cole Brannon and a looming deadline instead.
    I was probably the only woman in America who wouldn’t appreciate the trade-off.
    “Of course we’ll need the copy by Sunday afternoon so that the art department can do layout, Sidra can look it over, and it can be at the printer by Monday morning,” Margaret said.
    “But Margaret, I . . .” I began. Again, she cut me off with a raised finger and a clucking sound.
    “Thank you much, Claire, darling,” Margaret said with finality. I opened and closed my mouth without a word, because I knew it would be a waste of breath. “I’ll expect that copy by Sunday afternoon. Have a lovely weekend.”
    “You too,” I muttered, defeated, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
    *
     
    “ COLE BRANNON ?” Wendy shrieked. I resisted the urge to cover my ears. “You’re having brunch with
Cole Brannon
? At
Atelier
? You are, like, the luckiest girl alive!”
    “Hmph,” I grunted. I wasn’t really in the mood to indulge Wendy, but I was beginning to realize there was really no way to get out of it. I plunked down in my chair and swiveled toward my computer in silence. I typed in my password and logged in to the news clipping service we subscribed to. I tried to ignore Wendy, who was still standing at the entrance to my cubicle, seemingly bubbling over while she waited for me to look at her. I took my time, avoided her glance for as long as I could, and typed “Cole Brannon” into the search box. Three hundred twenty-six entries in the last six months. Yikes. This guy had gotten a lot of press, which meant I would be up late doing my research so that I was fully prepared. I finally gritted my teeth and looked up at Wendy.
    “Well?”
she demanded, her eyes as big as saucers.
    “Well, what?” I asked, because I really didn’t know what she was asking me.
    “
Well,
aren’t you going to say something? What do you think? It’s
Cole Brannon
!”
    “I know,” I said. I sighed and tried not to wince. “And it’s not that I’m not excited. I mean, I do think it’s cool to meet him. And yeah, I liked him in
Goodnight Kiss.
”
    Okay, that was a lie. Actually, I’d
loved
him in
Goodnight Kiss
—it was one of my favorite movies—but that