My shirt is thin and my bra isn’t padded, so facing the door is a problem when it’s thirty degrees outside. My drink is most likely always empty. Is the conversation really engaging when she’s just telling me who not to look at? I’m starving and this lounge has truffle mac and cheese. I’m very good at unintentionally initiating conversations. I’m always laughing. Too much. And what’s wrong with sneakers? And bootcut jeans? And as a woman of just barely five feet, I don’t discriminate against my height bracket.

“You looked!” Bree kicks my shin with the point of her shoe.

“I’m sorry I have eyes!”

“Now they’re coming over,” she whispers. “Do you see the jeans he’s wearing? They’re from 2009. Is this a Jersey Shore reunion?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Bree.” Emanuel throws back the rest of his drink. “Get over yourself. They’re fucking jeans, not lycra shorts.”

“No one asked for your opinion.”

“I don’t think anyone asked for yours either.”

“I have ten thousand followers on Twitter who prove otherwise.”

“I have a hard time believing that ten thousand real people want to follow you.”

“Are you suggesting I buy bots?”

“I mean, who else wants to see you bitching at various companies about their customer service not meeting your tip-top standards?” he asks. “Seriously, @sephora, Kimberly at your 555 Broadway location suggested I try a FULL COVERAGE foundation and I’m OFFENDED she thinks I need one! #awful #offensive #bbcreamforlife.”

“You’re such a stalker.”

“Says the girl who routinely googles every high level exec that walks onto our floor.”

“I’m trying to network!”

“Yeah, into someone’s bed!”

Bree shrinks back. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

“I’m insinuating that you stop googling men who are married with children!”

“I’m not a mind reader.”

“He was wearing a fucking ring.”

I finish my drink and take a shot. These two are much easier to tolerate with a buzz. I should keep a bottle of vodka under my desk.

“Hey, what’s your sign?”

I look up at the guy whose eyes I caught from across the bar. He has messy blonde hair and week old scruff. He’s definitely not bad to look at. Definitely not six feet either. But that opening line… does he deserve a chance?

“Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

A blush runs from his neck up to his cheeks. “Pretty girls make me nervous.”

“Guess,” I muse.

“I’m sorry?”

“Guess my sign,” I say. “And if you’re right, you can buy me a drink.”

“Give me a hint.”

“Nope.”

He purses his lips and taps his index finger against them, like I’m an equation he’s trying to solve. Jokes on him. I’m not that easy to crack.

“Capricorn.”

I frown.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I’m drinking cosmos tonight.”