I send him a quick text.

Sabrina: Is your nose in Spinoza and stuff? :)

Kevin: No, it’s in classical theories of religion. Geez. Can’t you remember my schedule? Also, I’m in the library right now, studying.

Sabrina: Prove it. Send me a picture.

Five seconds later, a close-up of his big blue eyes and floppy blond hair in front of shelves of tomes pops onto my screen.

Kevin: You should have been a lawyer. Always asking for proof. It’s impressive.

Sabrina: It’s called being skeptical, even of my favorite person.

I add a zebra for no other reason than I like emoticons of animals.

I bound up the steps that lead into my building in the East Village as my phone rings. I gasp quietly at the caller ID. It’s the main line for Up Next, the most prestigious magazine in the country. I submitted my best articles there the second I was canned.

I answer with the speed of light. “This is Sabrina Granger.”

A deep male voice barks at me. “Bob Galloway here.”

I gulp. The Bob Galloway? He’s the top editor at the magazine. “Hello, Mr. Galloway.”

“I’m calling because I read your clips and we might have a story for you.”

I nearly break into a tap dance, and I don’t even know how to tap-dance. “You do?”

“I wanted to see what your availability is in the coming week. We’re looking for someone who knows business and knows how to write a goddamn feature. Seems damn impossible these days for those skills to reside in the same person, but you appear to be able to both write and make sense of a P and L sheet.”

“Yes, I’m absolutely available,” I say, loving that he already knows what I’m good at.

“Great. Let me finalize some details. I’ll be back in touch later tonight. If you don’t answer, I’ll assign it to someone else.”

Damn. He works round the clock, and he’s tough as nails. Works for me.

“My phone is literally glued to my hand.” I cringe at my incorrect usage and quickly correct. “Well, not literally, of course. But I’ll be a quick draw.”

He manages a small laugh. “Good to hear. But keep the other hand ready to write with.”

“Yes, sir.”

I release a huge, happy breath when he hangs up. Maybe my luck is truly changing. All I have to do is hold on to this phone at the party like my life depends on it.

Because it does.

* * *

An hour later, I finish my costume. I try it on, turn in front of the mirror, and slide on my mask.

It’s perfect. It’s sexy and smart, and I’ve always wanted to wear a mask like this.

Confession—I love masquerade parties.

Addendum—I haven’t been to many masquerade parties.

In my mind, I’ve attended countless soirees and balls. I’ve dressed in elegant gowns, worn satin gloves up to my elbows, and descended grand staircases wearing a butterfly mask or a black satin one with silver and red feathers rising high on the side.