For the next two hours I alternate between working on my spec script and logging in to the Sweet Nothings portal. On my sixteenth try, three clients have become available, so I frantically move my cursor to click on one of the boxes but I’m not fast enough because the screen refreshes into the usual wah-wah: There are currently no ghostwriting jobs. The graphic has changed, at least, from the sexy foot to a person whispering something into another person’s ear. (Sweet nothings, one must presume.) At least the tech guys are keeping busy. It’s a much nicer look for the site. Now if only I could get a piece of the action.

I shoot another glare in Table Thief’s direction. I would’ve been quicker on the uptake if he hadn’t stolen my breakfast and workstation.

Two p.m. rolls around and he’s still there.

I mosey over to the counter—mercifully, Evelynn’s shift has ended, so I have an opportunity to seem normal to the current barista—and get a refill on my coffee. I stare longingly at a black bean and quinoa bowl. It’s the cheapest thing on the menu, but it’s still too rich for my one-client blood.

Back at my child-size table, an e-mail has arrived from Clifford. Probably another NDA to sign, or an updated protocol handbook (rumor has it he stole it from his prior company). I click the Dropbox link in the body of the text and music suddenly bursts out of my laptop speakers: The Weeknd, crooning loudly that, due to the way I work it, I’ve er-er-er-er-er-earned it.

What is happening! I stab my finger on the lower-volume key until the song is muted. The people in line raise their eyebrows. One of them shakes her head at me. And I just know Table Thief heard it, too.

Blushing, I put my headphones on, attach them to the laptop, and tentatively bring the volume back up, double-checking to make sure no one else can hear. It’s a video. Heart pounding, but convinced it will be a private viewing this time, I reload the file. Over a black screen, The Weeknd assures me again that I earned it. Then Clifford appears. He actually walks toward the camera like he’s approaching me across a room in real life.

“Greetings, Rockstar! Don’t worry, that song cost us nothing because it’s for parody purposes. But girl, you earned it.”

Does he have one auto-message for female ghostwriters and one for men? I wonder idly. And if so, is that offensive to either group?