“No relation,” I threw in, with a weak laugh.

“Jaine might be taking over as editor of the Union National Tattler.”

Might be taking over? I didn’t like the sound of that.

“Why don’t you grab a seat, Jaine?”

There was only one available seat, at the far end of the table.

I sat down next to the Latina bank manager, who shot me a welcoming smile.

“Help yourself to some coffee.” Andrew gestured to a coffeepot on the table. “We had some bagels, but I’m afraid they’re all gone.”

“That’s okay,” I lied. “I’m not hungry.”

I looked at my Latina neighbor and saw the remains of a bagel and cream cheese on a paper plate at her elbow. I would’ve killed for that bagel. But something told me that reaching over and gobbling it down would not make the sophisticated impression I was hoping to impart. With a sigh, I poured myself some coffee, which I loaded with sugar, hoping that the sugar rush would get me through the meeting.

I tried to look interested and alert as the others droned on about projections and percentiles and other math stuff I studiously avoided learning in school. But my attention kept wandering. When I wasn’t gazing longingly at my neighbor’s bagel crumbs, I found myself gazing equally longingly at Andrew Ferguson.

I was in the middle of a delicious daydream involving me and Andrew and a vat of Philadelphia Cream Cheese when I suddenly realized that Sam was talking to me.

“—So I thought you could tell us your ideas for the Tattler.”

What on earth was she talking about? I hadn’t even had a chance to look at the darn thing yet.

“But, Sam,” Andrew said, echoing my thoughts, “Jaine hasn’t seen the Tattler yet.”

“Here,” she said, sliding a copy of the newsletter down to me at the end of the table. “She can see it now.

“You don’t mind giving us your ideas, do you, Jaine? I want to see how you think on your feet.”

There was no mistaking the challenge in her eyes. Was she trying to sabotage me? I wondered if she’d seen me staring at Andrew.

“No,” I said, with a sickly smile, “I don’t mind.”

I hurriedly looked at the newsletter, a skimpy four-page affair with routine news of hirings, retirements and promotions. Not exactly Pulitzer material.

“So,” Sam said, her arms crossed over her chest. “What would you do with the Tattler, Jaine?”

How generous. She’d given me a whole thirteen seconds to think it over.