"I love it!" Victoria exclaims, swiveling in her chair, grinning while she reads the last few sentences of my column for next week. For a moment, I sit up higher, ears perked. And then, as per usual, she places the papers on her desk, reaches for her red pen, and goes to town.

Each swish of her hand is a dagger to my heart. The swirls of crimson ink are my blood. And Victoria, in her crisp clementine dress and floral scarf, is my executioner. Not the most obvious outfit choice for a killer, I'll admit, but the woman is heartless as she tears my work to shreds.

I sink so low in my chair that I can barely see over the rim of her desk. Once, just once, I would love to have a column I don’t need to write over and over—oh, I don't know, about a million times—before it's acceptable to print. But this week is not that week, and as she hands back her edits, I do my best not to crumple the sheets into a tiny ball with my furiously clenching fists.

I've gotten much better at doing that assistant smile the other girls do. You know, the one that says I love you and I want to kill you at the same time. You sort of grind your teeth and deaden your eyes, while also pinching your cheeks and lifting your eyebrows. Yeah, that one took me a while to master. I'm pretty sure for a week there Victoria thought I was deranged. But now all she does is return a pleasant smile of her own.

"Get me a new copy by tomorrow morning, all right?"

I take the papers. "Of course, Victoria. I'll start working on it right away."

And then she looks back down at her desk, shuffling through her folders to signal that I'm dismissed. As soon as I'm out of her office, the smile vanishes. I know it's not really her fault—she's just doing her job, and I'm a new reporter, and in the long run my writing will be better for it. But I can't help how my heart sinks when my eyes run across every red scribble decorating the page. Total overhaul.

"Oh, and Skye?"

Crap. I lift the corners of my lips—it's the best I can do at the moment—and turn. "Yes?"

"Are you going on a second date?"

"Ah, no," I murmur, not sure if I should tell her more.

"Good," she says and looks back down. But now I'm the one who's curious. Good? What the heck does that mean?

"Um…" I step back into her office. "Can I ask why?"

"Glenn, the pastry chef." Victoria shrugs and scrunches her face, not bothering to look up from her desk. "It's just not sexy enough, not daring enough to really hook readers. They want to live vicariously. You need to find someone more exciting, more alluring for the long-term."

Poor Glenn…sweet, kind, if slightly boring, Glenn. I wonder if his name has been what's holding him back all along. Something about it just doesn’t scream sexy, you know? But then the meaning behind Victoria's words really sinks in and I understand what she's really saying, what she really wants—a train wreck. Not a good guy, not a stable relationship, but drama—full-fledged, on-again-off-again, I-love-you-I-hate-you, one second we're fighting and the next we're passionately kissing, soap opera style romance. Well, I must say, it's so nice to know my boss is looking out for my well-being.

I sigh as I sink into my seat, staring at my computer screen while my mind processes all the things I need to do before I leave today. Rewrite my column. E-mail a few freelancers for status updates on their articles. Answer dating advice questions for the website—which, really, I barely feel qualified for. Oh, and shuffle through the hundred unopened event invitations on my desk—the ones carefully stacked into a very precarious column that may or may not collapse at any second.

Leaning back, I close my eyes for a moment, wishing it were Friday. I had one of those truly terrible days where I went the entire morning thinking it was Friday, only to remember after lunch that it was Thursday, and there was one more insufferable day to get through before the weekend. Ever since, my mood has been terrible. Well, truth be told, my mood has been terrible ever since the end of my date with Glenn—Ollie hasn’t texted me, hasn’t spoken to me, and try as I might to stay up really late and catch him off guard, I inevitably fall asleep before he comes home from work. I don't even know what I want to say, so really, it's probably better this way. I mean, it's definitely better this way. Maybe…

"What are you doing tonight?" I hear one of the other assistants ask behind my back, but I choose to ignore it. All four of us share a corner space, and they're always making plans and not inviting me. To go get drinks, to go to events together, to go shopping. It's nothing new. I don't really think they do it maliciously, but that doesn't mean it doesn't sting.

So I don't answer as I sit up and log into my account, ready to check the e-mails I must have received while in Victoria's office.

"Skylar?"

Huh? Is she talking to me? I glance at the twenty new messages and decide, screw it, they can wait.

"Yeah?" I ask, swiveling around in my chair, curious.

"What are you doing tonight?" It’s Rebecca. She's definitely the kindest of the three, a little more down to earth. During my first week, she gave me some shopping pointers about what colors and clothes might look good on me. Looking to either side, I realize Blythe, the obvious ringleader, is nowhere to be found. And neither is Isabel. Something strange is happening.

I shrug. "Nothing really. I'll probably stay late and get some work done. Why? Do you need me to finish something for you?"

Rebecca looks at me funny and then laughs. "No, I'm meeting the other girls downstairs in a few minutes. We're going to meet some friends at a happy hour downtown."

I nod, moving just slightly back and forth in my chair, completely unsure of what she expects me to do or say. There's a slightly elongated pause, as though we're both waiting for the other to speak. I give in. "Um, have fun?"

Rebecca purses her lips, staring at me, and then asks, "Do you have a problem picking up social cues?" Then, acting as if she didn’t just ask me a totally degrading question, she reaches for her purse and pulls a scarf around her neck, tousling her hair in a way that looks styled rather than accidental. Now that's a skill I could use.

Then I remember her question—social cues. Me. Picking them up. Okay I admit, there may be a disconnect there…a small one, minute really, inconsequential…or you know, one the size of the Grand Canyon.

"Maybe?" I answer somewhat honestly.

"Well, when I just said the girls and I are going out for drinks, it was sort of an invitation. Do you want to come?" And she stands there in her high heels, looking down at me with perfectly ruffled brown tresses and an outfit that could be torn from the pages of a magazine, and I realize something. Have they been inviting me all along? Dropping hints that I just never picked up? Do they think I'm maybe the a-hole who keeps ignoring them rather than the other way around?

Crap!

My entire life has just been brought into question.

How many times have I misread people's intentions? How many parties was I invited to in high school without realizing, all the while using Bridget as my excuse to go? How many guys have potentially dropped hints and I've been too in my own head to take notice? How many times—

"Uh, Skylar?"

Double crap! I'm doing it right now…

"Sure!" I jump out of my chair, knocking it very ungracefully into my desk. A second later, the gentle ruffle of sliding paper trickles into my ear.

No.

I sigh, knowing what's about to happen right before it does.