It’s Tuesday afternoon, and I’m losing a battle with time to wrap up this last-minute job that Teddy—my stupid holiday-loving boss—dumped on me. I’m about to click the link for the next animal “talent” agency when my personal phone starts vibrating somewhere on my desk. I can’t see it; it must be hidden under some sheets of paper, so I ignore its insistent buzzing and let the call go unanswered. Five seconds later the vibration starts again, disrupting my concentration. If I keep ignoring whoever’s calling, then curiosity would just bug me for the rest of the afternoon, slowing my progress even further. So I unceremoniously shuffle the piles of documents aside until I find the phone.

It’s Blair.

Except for my “still alive” texts, we haven’t talked much since she’s moved out of the house, so I pick up.

“Hello?”

“Guess what I’m looking at right now?” she asks.

I sigh. “I don’t have time for games, I’m swamped with work.”

“Oh, what are you doing?”

“Watching cat videos. I’m trying to find a tabby cat that rolls on its back on command. Apparently, a monochrome gray cat doing everything exactly as it was told at every take wasn’t pretty enough for the commercial we’re shooting.”

“You’re watching cat videos and complaining?”

“It’s not the cats; it’s their trainers who drive me mad. Not to mention my creatives. So, are your eyes better occupied?”

“Oh, yeah. Right now I’m staring at the best six pack ever.”

“Is Richard performing a mid-afternoon office striptease for you?”

“No, we hired Diego for the campaign.” A vision of Diego clad only in a white towel flashes before my eyes, and I understand why Blair felt compelled to call me. Diego bare-chested is not an everyday sight. “The moment Angelika Black set eyes on him, it was game over for everybody else.”

“Oh, great.” I’m genuinely happy he got the job, and that, if nothing else, posing as my boyfriend will help his career. I guess one can’t put “played fake boyfriend for a desperate single lady over the holidays” on one’s résumé.

“So…” Blair says suggestively.

“So?”

“You’ve seen what I’ve seen?”

I can picture her waggling her eyebrows.

“Yes, it’s in his portfolio,” I lie. For some reason, I don’t want her to know I had a real-life show. Two, counting the Santa World backstage.

“And?” she insists.

“And nothing.”

“Are you telling me you’re not even tempted?”

“To do what?”

“Oh, come on… You sleep in the candy shop every night, and you want me to believe you’ve never thought of tasting the candies?”