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for yet?”
    She laughed. She knew me well enough to know I was just trying to deflect attention from the real issue. It was my oldest trick.
    “I wouldn’t exactly recommend wearing this to dinner with the other partners, Harp,” she deadpanned. “I think that falls into the category of time off from The Blonde Theory in the interests of keeping your job.”
    “Great,” I said, rolling my eyes at her. “Lucky me.”
    Not that it mattered. If I couldn’t find a date—which was beginning to look like a distinct possibility—I’d be ostracized like a leper anyhow. Seriously. I had tried going stag before, and the stigma still hadn’t worn off. The implication, of course, when you showed up alone was that you were not actually capable of getting a date. In my case, this was true. But it’s not like I wanted my co-workers to
know
that. It was one thing to
be
an undatable loser. It was quite another to have the entire office
know
you were an undatable loser.
    “Besides, stop changing the subject,” Emmie said, swatting me lightly as I turned to look over my shoulder at myself in the mirror. “This is about the dress you have on, not about your firm dinner. We’ll get you a date. And right now, you look hot.”
    Okay, so I did look hot.
    If you were into that whole slutty look.
    Which I wasn’t.
    But who knew I could pull off trampy so well? Hmm, this was a new side to myself.
    “I looked hotter in my Armani suit,” I said antagonistically. Besides, what did she mean when she said she’d get me a date? So now she was my stylist
and
my pimp?
    “Well, I think you look a little masculine in your Armani suit,” Emmie said with a grin. I frowned at her. “Besides,” she added, “you look
dumber
in this, and that’s the key.”
    “For what it’s worth, I think you look hot, too,” said a deep voice from the direction of the door. Emmie and I both whirled around, startled.
    Framed in the doorway stood Matt James, one of the big-name stars of the show, a thirtysomething actor with jet-black hair, sharp green eyes, a strong jaw, and boyish dimples. He played defense attorney Patrick Carr, the embattled Good Samaritan whose plotline currently had him embroiled in some sort of conflict with the mother of his identical twin brother’s baby. I’d never admit it to Emmie, but I didn’t catch
The Rich and the Damned
often, even with my new ability to TiVo it and watch it at night. I just found soap operas far-fetched, melodramatic, and boring. Imagine that.
    But the actors on them sure were cute. I had the uncomfortable suspicion that I was blushing.
    As for Matt James in particular, I was embarrassed to say that I’d had a bit of a crush on him—inconceivably illogical as that was—since we’d first met at one of the show’s wrap parties just after Peter and I had broken up. I had still been deep within my post-Peter depression and hadn’t been looking to date anyone at all, but I would have had to be blind to have not noticed Matt. I mean, obviously, a guy who plays a hunky lawyer on a daytime soap is going to be attractive. All of Emmie’s co-stars were. But there was something about Matt that struck me so deeply from the beginning, I turned into a blushing fool nearly every time he was around. And that was
so
not me. I usually stayed cool, calm, and collected no matter what. Matt somehow always seemed to turn my brain—and my knees—to mush just by existing in my general vicinity.
    Unlike the other actors on the show, most of whom struck me as stuck-up and kind of empty-headed, Matt had always seemed to have an unexpected depth. He sounded intelligent when he spoke. His eyes sparkled intently, and he tilted his head thoughtfully when he listened. He had a smile for everyone. His happiness and kindness appeared genuine.
    Then again, as I constantly reminded myself whenever I saw him, he was an
actor
. It was his
job
to make people think he was a genuinely good guy. I wouldn’t be fooled. There was no