“Shhh…Here comes Celeste.”

Heath and Celeste had a boring discussion about the economy, a topic that always disheartened Annabelle. If the economy was good, she felt as though she wasn’t taking proper advantage of it, and when the economy was bad, she couldn’t see how she’d ever get ahead. She let the discussion drag on for the full twenty minutes before she put an end to it.

After Celeste left, Heath said, “I wouldn’t mind hiring her, but I don’t want to marry her.”

Annabelle didn’t think Celeste had liked Heath all that much either, and her mood brightened. Unfortunately, only temporarily, because her next candidate, a public relations executive, showed up right on schedule.

Heath was his normal charming self—respectful, interested in everything she had to say, but unwilling to take it any further. “Great taste in clothes, but I make her nervous.”

For the rest of the week, Annabelle pulled out the stops, introducing him to a filmmaker, a floral shop owner, an insurance executive, and Janine’s editor. He liked all of them but wasn’t interested in dating any of them.

Portia got wind of the dating blitz and sent two more socialites. One drooled all over him, which he hated but Annabelle got a kick out of. The other disliked his lack of pedigree, which infuriated Annabelle. Next Portia insisted on setting up an introduction at the Drake for morning coffee. Heath finally agreed, so Annabelle took advantage of the time slot to schedule a former classmate who taught adult night school.

Annabelle’s candidate was a dud. Portia’s wasn’t. Portia had insisted on the morning meeting, Annabelle discovered, because she’d lined up WGN-TV’s newest evening anchorwoman, Keri Winters. Keri was gorgeous, accomplished, and polished—too polished. She was Heath’s female counterpart, and together they were slick enough to float an oil tanker.

Annabelle tried to put an end to the agony after twenty minutes, but Heath shot her the evil eye, and Keri didn’t leave for another half hour. When the coast was finally clear, Annabelle rolled her eyes. “That was a waste of time.”

“What do you mean? She’s exactly what I’m looking for, and I’m asking her out.”

“She’s as plastic as you are. I’m telling you, it’s a bad idea. If you ever have kids, they’ll come out of the birth canal with Fisher-Price stamped on their butts.”

He refused to listen, and the next day, he called Ms. News at Nine to set up a dinner date.

Chapter Eighteen

Two weeks passed. Between getting ready for her wine and cheese party and brooding about Heath and Keri Winters, Annabelle lost enough weight to zip up the periwinkle blue mini she hadn’t been able to wear all summer. “Go put some clothes on,” Mr. Bronicki growled the night of the party when she came downstairs wearing the mini, along with a slinky ivory top.

“You’re the hired help,” she retorted. “You’re not allowed to criticize.”

“Showin’ yourself off like a hussy …Irene, come out here and look at this.”