And then envelopes rain down around my feet—the invitations. The ones I had so painstakingly stacked are tumbling like a waterfall over the edge of my desk, slipping across the floor—a flash flood drowning my newfound enthusiasm. I have so much work to finish. I have a column to rewrite by the morning. I have a mess to clean. I have a thousand things more important than drinking that I have to do right now.

Rebecca's still waiting for me, so I look up into her smiling eyes. She just shrugs, completely unconcerned. "You ready?"

I look back down at the mess of envelopes circling my feet, still shifting into place. As though the world is mocking me, one last one drops, sharp point landing squarely on the exposed flesh of my upper foot, stinging so bad it brings tears to my eyes—and I decide I've had enough. Of this day. Of this office. Of my lies. And of being the only assistant left out of the fun.

I grab my purse. "Let's go."

When we make it outside to where the other assistants are waiting, Blythe raises one eyebrow in my direction, but remains silent.

Isabel on the other hand, waves enthusiastically. "You're going out with us? You never go out with us."

I choose not to point out that if they did in fact want me to come, they could have been a little more blunt about it in the first place. You know, especially after realizing that I'm socially inept. But instead, I let my mood stay light and cheery, answering with an enthusiastic, "Yup! Where are we going anyway?"

Blythe shifts her upturned nose in my direction, looking down at me from the precarious height of her four-inch heels. "To see my brother and his friends."

"You have a brother?" I blurt and then bite my lip, hoping it didn’t sound as rude as it did in my head. But really, who expects the spawn of Satan to have a sibling?

Blythe rolls her eyes. "Yes. And he's waiting for us."

Before I have time to embarrass myself further by heading for the subway, Isabel raises her hand to hail a cab. As a former model and stunning beauty, it takes about, I don't know, less than a heartbeat for one to pull up. I take the loser seat in the front next to the driver, sort of feeling more like an explorer on an expedition into foreign lands than a girl going out with friends—well, acquaintances anyway.

For fifteen minutes, Blythe, Rebecca, and Isabel discuss weekend plans, their most recent dating adventures, their latest hook ups. I subtly take a few notes on my phone in the front seat—hey, this is good stuff for my column! But when the conversation becomes a venting session about work, and the editors, and our bosses, I join in wholeheartedly, putting my phone away. And it feels sort of nice to bond with the girls over some common ground—they may all be rich and beautiful and fashionable in ways I'm totally not, but at the newspaper we're all at the bottom of the pecking order.

As a solid pack of four, we casually step into happy hour, maneuvering through the crowd in search of Blythe's brother. I can't help but notice as I look around that we don't quite fit in here. Practically everyone else in the bar is a man, and practically all of those men are staring at us, studying us, checking us out. They're young. They're in suits. They all feel shrouded in a cloud of over-confidence, at least that's what their blatant stares seem to imply. Well, either that or just total arrogance, but I'll give them all the benefit of the doubt. And as I meet a few of the roving eyes, I realize I'm one of the girls they're checking out. Me! I must be hot by association! I should hang out with models more often.

A blush warms my cheeks and I look away, focusing on following Rebecca's back as we weave in and out of people. All the way in the corner by a booth, we stop.

"Blythe!" a boy shouts, waving us over.

He's cute.

Like really cute.

Angular jaw. Straight nose. Clean-shaven. Honey brown eyes with a hint of green. Soft brown hair. Sort of the all-American boy look. And, oh man, that smile…open enough to be kind, thin enough to be mysterious, and—shoot! He caught me staring. Way to be subtle.

I quickly flick my eyes to the side, nonchalantly scanning the room. When I glance back, he's still looking, but this time that melt-your-heart smile is even wider and definitely pointed in my direction, with some blatant interest I might add.

The need to flee jets up my spine.

Run. Run.

Fast!

But I don't. And I don't look away either.

What is going on? This is so not me… But for one night, maybe it can be. You know, for the research.

"Everyone, this is Skylar," Blythe announces somewhat begrudgingly, pointing a finger in my direction. At the mention of my name, I snap out of my somewhat stalkerish trance and look around at the rest of the group. There are two other guys, both dressed in nice suits with loosened ties. But my eyes are drawn back to the boy who is now standing, opening his arms to bring Blythe in for a hug.

Are they dating? Just what I need, to land a tweenage crush on Blythe's boyfriend. But as they pull away, I realize it's much worse. They have the same profile, the same nose, the same chin…

It's not her boyfriend.

It's her brother.

"I'm Patrick Keaton," he says, extending a hand in my direction. I numbly accept, shaking, all the while trying to figure out how someone so evil could be related to someone so…not. At least, I hope not. "These are my friends Dan and Josh."

Dan reminds me of a politician, you know, with one of those smiles that's just too perfect to be real and looks more like a fancy façade hiding a well of inner disdain? One of those, complete with sparkling white teeth. And Josh looks like a player, too good-looking to be a nice person sort of thing. He also has sunglasses on top of his head even though it's after sunset, and is currently guzzling his own pitcher of beer, so there are other signs.

"Nice to meet you guys," I murmur, letting the other girls squeeze into the booth first. But they all follow Blythe and I'm left taking the seat next to Patrick, which isn’t really a bad place to be, except I'm suddenly hyperaware of really ridiculous things. Does my breath smell? Am I taking up too much room? Is my hair too flat? Am I too close to him? Should I fold my hands on my lap, or maybe put them on top of the table, or cross my arms? And then I do all three of those things…twice. Before I start to look like I'm having a seizure, I finally put one hand in my lap and one on the table as a compromise.

"So, Skylar," Patrick asks conversationally, "are you an assistant too?"

Before I can respond, Blythe chips in, "She's the sex columnist."

Josh perks up, lifting his head out of his pitcher and looking at me with newfound admiration. Well, thanks for that, Blythe.

"It’s more of a dating column," I rush to say, biting back the rest of my nervous chatter before I accidentally confess how far from a sex columnist I really am. Hey, it wouldn’t be the first time. I need to change the subject. "What do you guys do?"

"Investment banking," Dan responds.

"Ah," I sigh, looking around at the sea of pinstripes with understanding. Bankers. The unattainable group of Manhattan men single women seem to chase with total abandon—they're wealthy, good-looking, known to have a wandering eye, which in an odd way makes them all the more attractive. It seems like I've inadvertently found the jackpot—too bad those are all traits I've never really been interested in. Well, haven’t been interested in until now, I correct myself, meeting Patrick's flirtatious gaze.

"Ah, what?" he asks, the hint of a friendly challenge in his voice.