The lobby was deserted when I got there. It was nearly eleven, that quiet time before the lunch rush, and I had the place all to myself. I rang for the elevator and started rehearsing my opening greeting.

“Hello, Mr. McCormick,” I said to the elevator doors. “I’m Jaine Austen.”

Nah. Maybe “Mr.” was too formal. These ad agencies were hip, happening places.

“Hey, Stan. Jaine here.”

No, no, no! That was way too familiar. I wanted to be his writer, not his golf buddy.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. McCormick,” I tried. “I’m Jaine Austen.”

Suddenly a voice came out of nowhere.

“A pleasure to meet you, too, Ms. Austen.”

I whirled around and saw a tall guy in his late forties, graying at the temples, in khakis and a cashmere blazer. He wore tinted aviator glasses and carried an attaché case that cost more than my Corolla.

Dear Lord, I prayed. Please don’t let him be Stan McCormick.

He smiled a craggy suntanned smile.

“Hi. I’m Stan McCormick.”

Great. My would-be employer saw me talking to myself. Just the impression I was going for. The Recently Released Mental Patient Look.

The elevator, which had taken its sweet time showing up, finally dinged open, and we both got on.

“This is so embarrassing,” I said. “Not exactly the way I was hoping to start my interview.”

“Interview?” He blinked, puzzled.

“I have an appointment to meet with you at eleven this morning.”

He still looked puzzled.

“I answered your ad for a freelance writer. Remember?”

“Damn,” he said, slapping his forehead with his open palm. “Now look who’s embarrassed. I forgot all about it. Completely slipped my mind. I’ve been down in Newport all morning with a client.”

The elevator doors opened onto the Rubin-McCormick reception area, a stark white expanse with nothing on the walls except the Rubin-McCormick logo. A cool, blonde receptionist fielded phone calls behind a wraparound desk.

“Actually,” he said, waving to the receptionist, “I’m starving. How about I take you to Westwood Gardens and we have our interview over an early lunch?”

My spirits perked up. Lunch—along with breakfast, dinner, and brunch—happens to be one of my favorite meals. What’s more, he was taking me to Westwood Gardens, one of the best restaurants in town.

“Sounds wonderful,” I said, as we started back down to the lobby.

“Mind if we take your car?” he asked. “I just dropped mine off with the valets to be detailed.”

Drat. I’d sweated bullets putting together my Prada–Manolo Blahnik ensemble, hoping to pass myself off as an A-list writer. What would he think when he saw my geriatric Corolla, littered with McDonald’s ketchup packets?

“I don’t mind,” I lied. “Not at all.”