I look away, back to Victoria. "Well, for the gift guides, I got assigned to gifts for style-savvy techies, so I put together a list of about twenty-five different ideas and put that on your desk to review. iPhone cases, monogram decals, adjustable camera lenses for your phone, various gadgets."

And then I wait. Because I have a feeling I know what's coming next.

"Great." Victoria nods, and for a moment I really think what I was afraid of might not happen. That I might be in the clear. But then she opens her mouth, still holding eye contact with me, and my heart sinks. "For your next column, I want you to put together a sexy gift guide. Costumes. Toys. Accessories. Things like that. Okay?"

I swallow, trying to cover the gulp. "Of course."

Ugh.

I knew it.

I knew this would happen.

I have to talk about toys. Toys? The only toys I know about are Barbie dolls and video games. And that's fine with me.

"Okay, that should be it, everyone. I'll see you all tomorrow. Skylar, can you come to my office with me?"

I subtly spit my coffee out again, holding back a sigh.

Goodbye, nutmeg.

"Sure," I mumble and then toss the paper cup in the trash, following Victoria out the door. My heart starts beating fast—Victoria wants me to come to her office. Why? Am I underperforming? My columns have gotten great traction so far. I even have a little following on a Facebook fan page I created for my penname. I mean, I wasn't going to write these under a real name! But still, the anonymous fame is pretty fun. Even if I find myself answering sex questions nonstop. Sometimes, I feel a little guilty handing out totally false advice. But I always ask Bridge for her opinion, so at least my responses themselves come from a place of experience—even if I have none.

"Skylar, I want you to look through these for your gift guide. A couple of different retailers sent them to our office as samples," Victoria says when we step into her office, and she hands me a loosely sealed cardboard box. "When you're done, just get rid of everything. I don't really find these sorts of things appropriate to keep in a newsroom."

My smile wavers.

Good god—what’s in the box?

For a moment, my fingers flinch, ready to drop the thing like it’s a bomb about to explode, but I hold on.

Stay professional.

You can do this.

"Thank you, Victoria. Have a wonderful evening," I say, doing that smile I've mentioned before—the sweet killer look.

"You too," she says, but her attention is already on the e-mails waiting in her inbox and I know I've been dismissed.

As soon as I get back to my cubicle, I drop the box loudly on my desk with a heavy sigh, and take a step back—staring at it as though it might bite.

"What's in that?" Rebecca chimes. Isabel is out today, so it's just me, Rebecca, and Blythe in the assistant corner.

"I don't really want to know," I mumble. "Just some things for my gift guide."

Rebecca immediately perks up, rolling her chair closer. "Ooh, let's take a look. This could be good."

I step back, giving her room, and she keeps wheeling slowly closer.

Okay. I'll admit it. I'm curious. Not curious enough to get any closer, mind you, but intrigued enough not to stop a girl on a mission.

Rebecca stands, slowly opening the cardboard flaps, and lets out a laugh. "Oh my god."

Blythe jumps into action, crossing the small space and taking a look. Even the permanently composed ice queen cracks a smile, glancing at me with humor dancing in her irises. Then they both look at me expectantly, waiting for me to join them. And dang it…I sort of want to. But I remain seated, holding my ground.

Rebecca breaks, reaching into the box to pull out a see-through red lace bra with a matching thong. "Patrick will love this," she says and winks.

Blythe just makes a noise of pure disgust, muttering, "Tacky."

"And these," Rebecca keeps going, pulling out a set of fuzzy handcuffs next.

My face starts to redden.

Next out is a bottle of some sort of lotion, and I don't want to know more than that.

"Oh my god, look at these," she exclaims, holding out a box of Santa hat pasties. My cheeks are on fire. Literally. I think I might self-combust in the middle of the newsroom. Just poof, vanish into a cloud of ash, dying from embarrassment.

"What about this?" Blythe remarks. And her tone is way too nice, way too cheerful to be sincere. So I jump out of my seat, snatching the cardboard flaps and slamming them closed. Blythe barely has time to jerk her hand out of the way lest it be chopped off in my speed. And hey, I'm moving pretty well for a girl with a broken wrist. But I know one thing for sure—I do not want to see whatever Blythe was about to pull out of my little box of horrors.

"Okay, time to go," I say, shutting down my computer and tucking the box safely under my desk, as far away as I can hide it.

"Are you so eager to meet my parents?" Blythe comments while buttoning her red peacoat.

"Is there any reason I shouldn't be?"

"No, of course not…" she trails off. I bite my tongue, waiting, because obviously, there's something else she wants to say. Wait for it. Wait for it. Blythe throws her purse over her shoulder and then looks back at me, smiling. Here we go… "It's just, they loved Patrick's last girlfriend. Her parents were diplomats. She graduated from Harvard last year, neuroscience major, pre-med. They were heartbroken when he ended things."

Wonderful.

I sigh.

Future doctor, phony sex columnist—those are practically on equal playing grounds, right?

Right…

Not.

I follow Blythe to the elevator, squeezing in with the crowd, thankful for the silence. Speaking on the elevator always just seems a little strange to me, awkward, you know? I mean, come on. All anyone does on an elevator when two people are having a conversation is listen in—you're stuck in a box, there's nothing else to do beside eavesdrop!

"Uh, Skylar?" Blythe calls to me when we step outside the office. I've already turned toward the subway station. But I pause, spinning. She's standing next to a black town car, shaking hands with a driver in a suit, conversing like they are best friends. "My mom sent her car to pick us up."

I mean, duh. Obviously. Why didn't I think of that?

"Thank you," I murmur to the driver as I slip through the door, which he shuts behind me. The seats are a fine tan leather. The handles are mahogany. There are even new bottles of water waiting in the cup holders for us.

I fold my hands in my lap, unsure. Blythe and I don't really do one-on-one girl time. I'm too afraid of her for that—and for good reason.

"So," Blythe chirps, bouncing on her seat to shift directions, facing me. "Before we pretend to be best friends for my parents, I just want you to know one thing. I'm on to you, Skylar."

I gulp at her ominous tone. Did I suddenly get thrown into a James Bond film? She's on to me? On to what? "Uh, I'm not really sure what you mean, Blythe."

"I've never known a sex columnist who loves to play innocent so much," she drawls.

And I can’t help it. I throw on a snarky attitude and smile. Maybe Bridge is finally rubbing off on me. "How many sex columnists do you know, exactly?"

Her eyes narrow. "You blush like a fifteen-year-old girl every time we have to discuss your columns in our weeklies. You can't even say the word sex without smiling self-consciously. And the only R-rated stories you tell are in writing. Not once have I heard you say any of this out loud, because you can't. You're just lucky my brother isn’t one to kiss and tell, or one to rat out a friend."