“Right,” says Beth. She has half her hair in rollers in the time it takes me to dry off and step out of the tub. “Cause the guys all hate smart, pretty girls with big boobs.”

“I’m not saying he hates me,” I tell them, trying to push away the specter of my on-again-off-again-please-someone-shoot-me relationship with Kyle. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. I want to get my film done, and I want that job. It’s an awesome opportunity, and a way into the business.”

“So’s he,” says Beth. “An awesome opportunity, I mean.” She finishes her rollers, then hops up on the counter and starts to paint her toenails.

“There are other guys.”

“When?” asks Sky, finally pulling up her shorts and flushing the toilet. She goes over to the sink, and Beth swings her feet out of the way so Sky can wash her hands. It’s pretty impressive choreography for a seven-by-nine space.

“When what?”

“When are there other guys?” She turns to me and leans back against the counter, arms folded. “You’re letting that tool Kyle turn you into Miss Havisham.”

I laugh. “I am not Miss Havisham. For one thing, I don’t have a moldy old wedding dress.”

“Laugh about it, but you’re still letting him get under your skin.”

I want to argue, but as usual, it’s like she’s read my mind. Not that I think it’s about Kyle. Not really. We were never a good fit because he didn’t have any passion. Not for me. Not for much of anything.

But there’s something else there, something that’s kept me in a holding pattern for the past year, something that keeps chafing at me, a subtle wearing of my desire to put myself out there again.

The pebbled glass of the bathroom window flames orange as the sun crosses to this side of our building. I better get moving.

“You know what it is,” I say, just realizing it myself. “It’s the whole situation. I don’t want to have to fight for anything. I don’t want to have to sneak around or prove I’m worth breaking rules for, you know? I want someone who just wants me, without question. And I want to want him back. And just go for it.”

I don’t say the rest of it, that I want the kind of love that feels like an arrow snapping from a bow—sharp, inevitable, soaring. It’s too early for poetry, and the conversation’s already making me feel dumb and teary.

I want this job. I want to make my film. And I don’t want anyone who doesn’t know whether or not he wants me.

Simple, right?

When I arrive at Boomerang twenty minutes early, I find Ethan’s chair still empty and extend a smug congratulations to myself for beating him to work. I tuck away my purse, switch on my tablet, and sit there, staring at the space he’ll soon occupy and reminding myself to treat him like a colleague, nothing more.

I turn in my chair, and something in the movement brings a sliver of memory back to me: swiveling on my barstool, my leg brushing Ethan’s, a swooping feeling in the pit of my stomach. I taste sambuca on my lips and feel myself leaning in toward him, my hand on his thigh, my face turned up to his, and a kiss, light and warm, right there in a bar full of people.

I have a flash of pulling back and of him looking down at me with those blue, blue eyes, those long dark eyelashes, his face alive with surprise and amusement.

So, I made the first move.

Go, me.

“Now, there’s the hustle I like to see.”

I look up to find Adam Blackwood leaning against the long kitchen counter. He’s all starched luxury and twinkle, his gray suit tailored to elegant perfection. How can someone so young, just a year older than me, look like he sprang from the womb in Armani?

“Thanks.” Damn, I don’t want to let that memory go, but—reluctantly—I do. “I, um, couldn’t wait to get to work.”

Smooth, Mia.

“Excellent!” He punctuates the comment with a clap. “We’re gathered in the conference room. Want to join us?”

So much for being the early bird. “Absolutely.”

“Great. Grab your tablet, and meet me in there. I’m off to round up the usual suspects.”

He walks off, and I gather my things and head past his office to the conference room. Its walls are an opaque moss-colored concrete, and a glossy chrome boomerang serves as a door handle.

I pull open the door and find myself face-to-face with a room full of people.

And a wall-sized vista of a deconstructed pinup girl—an abstract mandala of dark hair and tawny flesh, red high heels, cherries, and sailor hats. It’s more a pattern than a portrait, but I recognize the artist and the subject.

Because it’s my mom’s work.

And the pinup girl? That’s me.

 Chapter 12

Ethan

Q: Follower or leader?

Thanks for coming, everyone.” Adam takes a seat at the head of the conference table. His smile is so genuine, you could almost believe he doesn’t pay us, his marketing team, to be at his beck and call.

Actually, he doesn’t pay me to be at his beck and call, but that’s going to change.

Day two on the non-job, and I feel a hundred percent better than yesterday. I got some sleep, I have cash in my wallet, and with Isis moving in, I might be able to stretch the money dad sent until late August, when the internship is up. Another plus was learning that Rhett lives in Brentwood, only five minutes from my apartment. I now have a ride to and from work every day, so goodbye road bike. So what if Rhett makes my ears bleed?

Things are starting to fall into place. I have a plan and it’s going to work. Land this job, pay off some student loans, apply to law school. And this whole situation with Mia is going to smooth over.

I glance to my right, taking a quick shot of her profile. Green eyes. Wild, dark hair that corkscrews everywhere, slender chin and nose. She’s prettier than I remember, and I remember her being really pretty, but that’s irrelevant now. She’s not going to faze me. She’s not going to keep me from achieving my goals. Her scent—violets, I’m almost sure—isn’t even that distracting.

“I brought you here to talk about DateCon,” Adam continues, “the largest trade show convention in our industry, which is coming up in Vegas on . . .” He glances at the agenda in front of him. “When is it this year, Cookie?”

“Third week in August at the Mirage. Like always,” Cookie adds, in a voice that sounds like frostbite.

Her whole look is sort of arctic. The pale blue shirt she’s wearing has a jagged collar that looks almost as sharp as her spiked hair, and her makeup is all thick layers of silver. She looks like one of the capitol freaks from The Hunger Games.

“Yes, August. That’s right,” Adam says. “So that gives us eight weeks to prepare for what I want to be our best show yet. To that end, I’m doubling your budget this year, Cookie. I want a new booth. I want a party—and when I say party, I mean the best party at the show. I want every single attendee at DateCon to be talking about one online dating service: Boomerang.”

“Is that all?” Cookie asks.

I don’t know how she gets away with the things that come out of her mouth. Maybe Adam’s hooking up with her? But when I weigh his easygoing attitude against Cookie’s iciness, I can’t see it. Besides, Adam strikes me as the type who practices what he preaches.

“No, there’s more,” Adam says. “I’m inviting our investors to the show. We’ll hold our annual meeting there this year, and, it’s too early to make any promises yet, but I’m looking at taking Blackwood Entertainment public next year, so it’s imperative that everything goes off perfectly. I want you guys to blow the investors away.”

He pauses and casts a relaxed look around the table that has ten times more impact than Cookie’s icy stare. Adam expects excellence—which makes me want to give it to him.

“Okay,” he says, “Cookie’s going to run point on this, so—”

Rhett pushes open the conference room door. “Sorry, Adam, but I need you.”

“Be right there.” Adam stands and smiles. “This is a big deal, guys. Boomerang is on the cusp of breaking out and showing some real market dominance. And when it does, every one of us stands to benefit. I need all of you to put your minds to this show and give me your best.”

When he leaves, Cookie takes over.

“Sadie, you’re on party planning. Don’t fuck it up, okay, sweetie? Logistics and scheduling with the venue and conference goes to you, Paolo. Do a good job and I’ll consider putting in a good word for you with the INS. Investor travel arrangements and pampering is with you, Vanessa. You’re good at kissing ass. This is your chance to be great at it. And booth redesign goes to the toads, Mia and Ethan. That’s it. Now get to work.”

The staff parts like cue balls after a killer break, disappearing through doors, but Mia and I are slower. I’m stuck replaying what Cookie said in my head to see if it makes any more sense.

Then Mia pushes up from her chair. “Cookie, do you have a minute?”

Cookie’s hand hovers over the boomerang door handle. When her head turns slowly to Mia, I tense with the urge to throw myself in the line of fire to protect her.

“I can do the booth design myself,” Mia says, “I mean—all the other tasks went to only one person.”

She’s taken the words out of my mouth; I was going to track Cookie down to say the same thing. I want a chance to shine. How the hell am I supposed to prove I deserve this job if Mia and I are working joint assignments?

Cookie takes a second to pull on a set of brass knuckles and throw down a quick shot of venom. “You are not a person. You are an intern, a toad, and so is he.” She shoots me a glare. “Together, on your very best day, the two of you might equal one capable employee.”