Chapter 1: Eight Days Until Certain Humiliation

"Scotch and soda, please."

The deep voice catches my attention immediately. I look up from my gin and tonic and sneak a peek at the man who just sat down beside me at the bar. He's a little older than me - maybe early thirties - and he has dark blond hair and a sexy spread of stubble across his jaw. As my eyes travel lower, I notice a little bit of a gut beneath his button-down shirt, but I tell myself that his broad shoulders balance out his shape quite nicely.

In any case, he's worth a shot.

I take a big gulp of my drink and turn toward him before I can chicken out.

"Scotch and soda," I say. "Good choice."

He looks over at me in surprise, as if he hadn't even noticed me sitting here. His eyes flick down to my drink - which is clearly not a scotch and soda - then to my body. I can't tell what he thinks. I'm definitely not a supermodel or anything, but I'm not completely atrocious, either. When I bought this top, my friend Amy assured me that I looked hot. But I'm not used to being "hot" - or even trying to be. Or whatever it is I'm doing right now.

"Do you like scotch, then?" he says finally.

"Actually, I've never had scotch," I blurt without thinking. When I realize I've just undermined my whole pick-up strategy, I rush on. "I mean, I've had whiskey. That's like scotch, right? Or..." Oh shit. What am I even talking about? "Or is scotch the same thing as whiskey? Or just whiskey that comes from Scotland? I know bourbon and whiskey are the same, and I like bourbon, and..." Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.

The man looks less than impressed with my babbling, but he hasn't walked away yet, so there's that. My introduction might have been less than stellar, but this could still be salvageable. I take a deep breath - and a drink - and then turn to the man again.

"I'm Felicia," I say, flashing what I hope is a flirtatious smile.

The guy clears his throat. "Nice to meet you."

Before he can say anything else, the bartender arrives with his drink. I wait until the man's taken a couple of sips before I prompt, "And you are...?"

He pulls his glass away from his lips and gives me one more once-over, as if making a decision.

"I'm going to go sit with my friends," he says. And with that, he slides off his stool and heads off through the crowd.

Fair enough. Maybe he came here for an evening out with the guys. My optimism lasts for about half a minute - right until I notice him sliding into an empty seat at the far end of the bar. No friends in sight. And to top it off, it only takes him about ten seconds to start chatting up the girl to his left. The bartender shoots me a look of pity as he wipes down the bar in front of me.

Ugh. It's bad enough getting shot down, but having a witness definitely adds to the humiliation. I almost think about calling it a night and just heading home, but I can't. I'm desperate. Desperate and more than a little tipsy. Aren't I the catch of the day? But I can't help it. I only have eight days - eight measly days - to get my shit together before I must declare myself Completely Pathetic. Okay, so maybe that's a little melodramatic. But there's more than just my dignity at stake here. My job is on the line. My dream job - as a staff writer at Celebrity Spark magazine - which I only got after years of "paying my dues" as an underpaid intern.

I take another long sip of my drink. I've never liked gin, but drinking it makes me feel more sophisticated. And much braver than my usual beer ever seems to. I need every bit of bravery I can get tonight.

I close my eyes as the alcohol burns its way down my throat. Eight days. I can still do this, assuming I don't wuss out now. I just need to up my game.

Three stools down from me, I spot a guy in a navy sportcoat. He looks young - not too young, but probably fresh out of his MBA program - and he's tapping his glass and looking around as if he doesn't know what to do with himself. Briefly, his eyes meet mine, and I glance quickly away, trying to be coy. That's how this flirting thing works, right?

I stare at my glass and count to three before shooting another glance in his direction. He's not looking at me. He's staring at some blond woman farther down the room. She laughs at something the man beside her says, and her perfectly-highlighted hair catches the light. She doesn't seem to notice Mr. MBA, so after a moment his eyes begin roaming again.

This time, when his gaze lands on me, I smile. Only for a second, but long enough that I hope he gets the hint. I was too forward with the first guy. This time, I'm going to let Mr. MBA come to me.

I look back at the bar and take another drink. God, I hate gin. It tastes like I'm sipping the blood of a Christmas tree. When Mr. MBA gets over here, maybe I'll ask him to order me my usual lager.

But a full minute passes, and no one appears at my shoulder. I glance down the bar again. Mr. MBA is still drumming his fingers against his glass, and now he seems to be studying the rows of bottles behind the bar.

Maybe he's waiting for someone, I tell myself. A friend. Or a woman.

Or maybe my smile wasn't clear enough. One of those articles on flirting I read this afternoon mentioned that the "rules" of seduction have changed so much in the past two decades that modern men aren't likely to approach a woman unless they have some overt encouragement. Maybe I haven't been obvious enough.

I try to watch him without being completely creepy. I just need him to look my way again. One look. One more smile from me. Easy peasy.

But as the minutes tick by and he doesn't even turn his head my way, I'm forced to consider that I might need to find another target. If he were the least bit interested, he'd at least glance my direction, right? I take another drink, and in my frustration it turns out to be a bigger one than I intended. I cough, nearly choking as my throat burns with the fire of a thousand angry fir trees, and somehow my hacking gets Mr. MBA's attention. He looks over, and I wipe the tears away from my eyes and fight back my coughs, trying to look sexy again. This is my chance, and I won't blow it. As soon as I have everything under control, I shoot him another smile. A big one this time. My eyes lock on his, hopefully making my intentions more than clear.

My throat still burns. Another cough tries to weasel its way out of my lungs, but I swallow it back. Mr. MBA hasn't looked away, so I keep smiling at him, even though it feels like he should have gotten the hint by now. He can't have any doubts that I'm interested in meeting him. So why is he still in his chair?

Maybe I should go over there. Maybe he still wants me to make the first move, I tell myself. But the other part of my brain is quick to talk me out of it. I've already made the first move. I'm smiling at him, aren't I? If he's interested in pursuing more, then he will.

Hopefully before my cheeks start to hurt.

But just when I think he's about to slip off of his stool, I'm suddenly aware of someone behind me.

"You're going to scare him off if you keep grimacing at him like that," says a deep, familiar voice in my ear.

I drop my glass. It hits the bar and tumbles over, spilling gin everywhere - including down the front of my shirt.

I jump up and spin around, but I don't have to look to know who sneaked up behind me. It's none other than Roman Everet, my boss and the whole reason I'm doing all of this in the first place.

He's not supposed to be here, in this bar. Sure, we're only two blocks away from the Celebrity Spark offices, but this place is about as hole-in-the-wall as bars come on this side of town. And Roman Everet is not a hole-in-the-wall kind of guy. He's a designer-suits kind of guy. A Ferrari-and-mansion-in-the-Hills guy. Which means he should be somewhere swanky rubbing elbows with other Hollywood bigwigs.

But he's here. And I can tell by the way he's looking at me that he's seen more than enough to convince him I'm screwed. So I do what any self-possessed twenty-seven-year-old does when she realizes every last shred of her pride is on the floor.

I let out a squeak and run to the bathroom as fast as my discount-rack stilettos will take me.

And now, as I'm locking myself in a stall and trying not to hyperventilate, I guess I should probably explain what of all this is about.