“Which is good for you,” Simon added, “because I told this friend of mine that you’d have something for her tomorrow, which is when she needs it. I’ll forward you her email address. Her name is Casey Dukakis.”

“Tomorrow?” At the delicate rise of Simon’s left eyebrow, Jules pulled herself together. She’d done stuff more at the last minute than that. “I’ll have it ready. But I won’t have had time to show it to anybody else. I’ll spellcheck it, but—”

“If you can’t stand the heat,” said Simon, “get out of hell.”

* * *

She emailed Casey her article around eight thirty the next morning in between errands. She copied Simon too. She’d been up almost all night again and hadn’t put the finishing touches on the article until three. And she still felt it wasn’t good enough.

This was getting ridiculous. Casey Dukakis would either like the piece or she wouldn’t, but at least Jules hadn’t let the opportunity pass her by. Still, her hands trembled, and she was on edge all day long. Nobody would get back to her right away, but she couldn’t help it. She had to get herself together.

Tonight, though, was the night Vivian didn’t let her get away with it.

She’d stayed at the office later than usual. Around seven thirty, she called Jules into the office, gesturing for her to sit at the other side of the desk. Jules looked at her anxiously and hoped nothing was wrong.

Vivian looked pretty good today: her coloring was healthy, and she’d eaten all of her breakfast and lunch. Jules guiltily realized that she hadn’t been keeping quite as close an eye on Vivian the past couple of days. But now her article was finished, and she could stop obsessing over it. As much, anyway.

“What is it?” Vivian said.

Huh? What was what? Vivian had been the one to call her in, hadn’t she?

“What’s your problem?” Vivian clarified. “You’ve been running around like a chicken with its head cut off for days, and you look like you haven’t slept in a week.” She scowled.

Should Jules tell her? Well, why not? It wasn’t a secret. She certainly wasn’t ashamed of it. Jules had only wanted to hold off until it was more of a sure thing, until she could say, “Actually, Vivian, I’m having an article published in Salon.”

Then Jules would be on her way to becoming a person who deserved to talk to Vivian Carlisle. Someone much more interesting than a lowly assistant, someone who could bring more to the table than decaf and a schedule.

Someone who could show up at a fancy luncheon and not have everyone wonder why on earth she was there. Someone with a mind and heart to offer, not just an able pair of hands and feet.