“Unconscious? Were you mugged? Kidnapped?”

“No, relax. Nothing like that, I was only drunk.”

Nikki crosses her arms over her chest, skeptical. “You’re never drunk.”

“I was last night. What are you doing home, anyway?”

Ten in the morning is too late even for Nikki to still be at home and not at least on her way to work.

“I have to catch a plane for New Orleans in a few hours, so no point in dropping by the office.”

“How long will you be gone?” I have the scary feeling I’ll need someone here to babysit me.

“Two days. We have to shoot a commercial.” Nikki works in a digital media agency specialized in video commercials. “And I leave in an hour, so you have to spill the beans now.”

“If you want to hear the whole story before I shower, I need coffee. Want some?”

“Sure.”

We move into the kitchenette. Nikki watches me expectantly as I put the water on to boil, but I wait until after grinding the coffee to launch into my tale.

Nikki asks me a million concerned questions when I explain the circumstances of my breakup with Gerard.

“A plate of spaghetti over the head was the least he deserved,” she says. “But are you sure you’re okay?”

“Nikki, I don’t know. It’s only been twelve hours, of which I can remember only three, four tops.”

“So where did you spend the night? Did you get drunk and hook up with a random guy?”

“I wish. It’s so much worse than that.”

I tell her the rest of my misadventures as we wait for the coffee to steep in the French press.

By the time I reach my morning encounter with Mr. Hot, Nikki is laughing her head off. “You seriously told this Richard guy he should wear an I’m-too-hot sticker?”

“Unfortunately for my dignity, I did.”

“So when are you seeing him again?”

I stop pouring the coffee. “Never!”

“Didn’t Mr. Hot offer you a job?”

“Yeah, he did, at an ‘online editorial hub.’ Code for startup news digest with no traffic.”

“What’s the name of the website?”

“The dude gave me a business card.” I fish it out of my bag. “Inceptor Magazine.”

Nikki grabs her laptop and we look at the homepage.

“The graphics are cool, stylish even.” Nikki scrolls through a few articles. “The writing doesn’t seem too bad, either.”

“‘Not too bad’ isn’t good enough.”

“What’s the guy’s full name?”

“Richard Stratton,” I say.

Nikki types it in the browser’s search box and Richard’s LinkedIn profile pops up first.

“Well, he’s definitely not bad. And you woke up in his bedroom! You should work for him; if it were me, I’d work under him anytime…” She waggles her eyebrows.

“Oh, stop it.” I cover my face with my hands. “You’ve no idea how humiliating this morning was.”

“Richard didn’t seem to care.”

“The guy’s desperate. Nikki, my curriculum is here”—I place my right hand level with my nose—“and his online whatever is here.” I move the hand to my navel.