“I think he’s hot.” Azita giggled and jumped up on my desk, so that she was sitting on the edge with her legs dangling. She was in one of her usual naughty girl outfits: a plaid Catholic girl skirt topped with a tight T-shirt. Two bouncing ponytails completed her look. All she was missing was a lollipop.

“That guy is definitely armed and dangerous. Do you think that bulge in his pants is a gun?”

“I’m ignoring you,” I retorted, turning back to my computer. “I have work to do, Azita.”

She wouldn’t be deterred. “He doesn’t give any of the girls here any notice—he just comes and goes. But the other day he was asking some questions about you.”

Damn, I was so busted. Maybe he knew my whole story about being stalked and followed had been bullshit.

Azita was picking up steam. “Well, I try to put things together sometimes, ya know? I think Mr. Armed and Dangerous thinks you are still with your ex. Maybe he just assumed you were because you were always so crazy about Dave and you’ve never really given off that vibe of being available.”

“Even I wouldn’t date someone at work. Just tell Rich that I’m dating someone but that it’s not Dave.”

“Cool, mama, anything. You want something from Starbucks?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

In our usual script meeting that afternoon, Steve wasn’t there, so I took over, giving quick, minimal notes on the latest draft of an episode helmed by one of our staff writers.

“Okay, I think that’s it,” I said. “See everyone tomorrow.” Evil Janet was out of the door in a flash, after staring daggers at me the entire meeting. The rest of the writers all exchanged confused glances about wrapping up early. They quickly grabbed their yellow legal pads and headed for the door, starting their usual late morning conversation about what they were eating for lunch.

I checked my voice mail at home every hour that day to see if Grant had called. I went over his timeline in my head, from the scraps of information I had garnered from our date. I knew he was going to wake up early and work out with his trainer. The schedule for a sitcom was pretty routine, which meant he would have to be at the office by nine at the latest. It was now 3:15. I was sure he’d had meetings. It was a Thursday—was that a blocking day for them? His hours might not be as regular if they were blocking or if it was a tape day.

We’d met on a Wednesday, which meant there was plenty of time between then and the weekend for him to make a plan with me and not seem overanxious. But he didn’t call that Thursday.

Or Friday.