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flattered, I thought, that someone thinks me pretty, easy, and enough of a corporate climber to be willing to sleep with me. Or maybe, more likely, I would simply do.
    Philip Hartford was that kind of clean-shaven, middle-aged handsome that Mad Men tries to convince us is common when in reality, most middle-aged office guys look more like a sitcom dad. He wore black suspenders and a blue shirt, a mute-patterned tie and a serious, quiet expression.
    â€œThank you, Lauren,” he said in a voice that betrayed no familiarity or comfort. I swallowed so hard I’m sure he must have heard the saliva hit my stomach.
    â€œJett Bennett,” he said, as though reading an imaginary file on all my comings and goings. He gestured for me to sit in a leather office chair waiting at the front of his desk. “How long have you been working here?”
    â€œSix months,” I answered, my mouth dry.
    â€œYou like it here?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œYou’re good,” he said. “Lauren says you’re always on time, your work is clean, and you get along with the others. That’s important in this line of work.”
    Was I being fired? Promoted? Propositioned? My palms were starting to sweat, leaving rings of gross on his nice chair.
    â€œI need to know that what I tell you—regardless of whether or not you decide to accept my offer—will stay between us. Can I count on your confidentiality?”
    Oh God, it was a proposition. But he was handsome, and it had been a while since I’d gotten laid. I imagined myself sauntering into the Hartford lobby in a trench coat with a red lace negligee underneath, stiletto heels clicking on the marble tile, the envious stares of Birdie and Lauren. It wasn’t my hottest fantasy—that wasthe one about eating barbecue naked with Jack McBrayer—but it would work. There were worse guys to bone on my way up the corporate ladder. Helen Gurley Brown was smiling down on me from heaven.
    When I nodded, he smiled. “Good to hear.” He reached into his wallet and pulled out a Victoria’s Secret charge card, placing it on the desk between us. A good sign. At least he would be paying for my red lace negligee.
    â€œI wear a large, an extra-large in camisoles, and I prefer bikinis, not the string kind,” he said. “I like blues and greens, no reds.”
    I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Surely, this had to be a joke. I looked for any traces of jest, a visible panty line, a hint that if I said yes, I might be fired for being a pervert, a weirdo, or just plain dense.
    Mistaking my curiosity for interest, he continued, strolling behind me at a pace that almost made me squirm. “You’ll be required to pick up and launder the dirty ones, replacing them with a fresh set. I’ll leave you some of my laundry soap; it’s a nice lavender-basil scent, you’re welcome to try a little out on your own delicates. But you cannot say a word to anyone, do you understand?”
    â€œOf course,” I murmured.
    He stopped and turned to me, smiling placidly. “When Susan calls, she’ll tell you to bring in the documents,” he explained. “You switch out the laundered ones with the dirty ones and I’ll leave a check in the envelope, plus three hours on your time card to avoid suspicion at the agency. No proofreading, just in and out and you get paid, guaranteed at least twice a week. How does that sound?”
    I couldn’t bring myself to say no. I’d rather have risked humiliating myself than insulting him. I could deal with everyone laughing, but offending him would surely end up with me looking for another job. I couldn’t deal with a murdered neighbor and getting fired from an enviable temp gig in the span of two weeks.
    He leaned down, reaching over the arm of my chair to pullthe card across the desk toward us. “Go on, take it,” he said. “And when you go out, pick yourself