I straighten my spine. “What is my type of journalism?”

“Long, detailed, thoughtful, analytical . . .”

I don’t know if that was a compliment or a backhanded-AF compliment. I play it calm as I reply, “Long or short, the goal is always to be fair, to get it right, and to go the extra mile when asking questions.”

He rolls his eyes, and now I know he wasn’t complimenting me at all.

“Why would you think that’s not a good approach?” I ask.

He leans in close. “Because you’re sucking up to me at a party, that’s why.”

“I’m not sucking up to you at all,” I say defensively. I’d really like to give him a piece of my mind.

“Then why don’t you tell me what you could really bring to the table? Tell me why I’d want you on my network, and don’t give me a canned answer.”

I’ve faced off against CEOs, corporate executives, and douchebag billionaires who flaunt their McLarens like the car is a ticket for a woman to drop to her knees. This life-size puppet doesn’t scare me. “No, Kermit, I meant it. I wasn’t sucking up to you. I believe in being relentless and being fair. That’s why I do what I do. I’m not giving you a canned answer because I’m not sufficiently interested in sucking up to lie. Either you like my style, or you don’t.”

His eyes narrow. “I believe in taking risks. Being scrappy. Going for broke. That’s what I do, and that’s who I want to work with.” Before I can answer, his eyes drift across the room, and he speaks again. “I need to talk to someone. I’ll catch you another time.”

Kermit, who is aptly costumed tonight, turns away, his cloak trailing behind him.

As he exits, I’m unable to make heads or tails of that interaction, though it’s safe to say there won’t be any work coming my way from Kermit the Douche.

I head to the nearby bar, so I don’t look like I was ditched by a frog. I spot a button on the floor, like the kind you’d use to make eyes on a sock puppet. It’s bright red, with the word start on it in black marker. Grabbing it, I tuck it into my clutch in case I come across someone missing a button.

As I wait at the bar for the bartender to pour my champagne, I watch the crowd. Some people are dancing, most are mingling, and even though my phone hasn’t rung, it’s still a good night.

I’ll drink this champagne then get out of here. I could probably make some headway on a new minidress I want to make from some emerald-green velvet I snagged at a thrift shop. Hell, if I play my cards right, I can catch a subway in ten minutes, spend some time with my Singer, and brainstorm story ideas to pitch to Henry and Caroline.

Sounds like a good end to a decent night.