“You — you bet on my feelings for Carrie? Like the Final Four?”

“Odds are 78 to 1 you’ll never man up and tell her how you feel.”

“78 to 1!” That’s less than 1.3 percent. Damn.

“Once I tell everyone you braid her hair while you’re watching Naked and Afraid, those odds will plummet even further.”

“You’d seriously use what I tell you in private as leverage for a work betting pool?”

“Do you even know me?” He laughs. “If it ups the size of my payout, shit yeah.”

“You bet against me?”

He shrugs. “Turns out I’m right.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Prove me wrong, then.”

Chapter 3

CARRIE

Radio silence from Jamey is like the air being turned off. He said he’d text me “tomorrow,” and here it is. Tomorrow.

No Jamey.

On a normal workday, he texts me like fifty times. He can do this because he's an associate professor, so unless he's giving a lecture or in a meeting, his time is pretty much his own.

Then there are his Snapchat photos. He spends his days in Harvard Square, so there's no lack of visual interest. Tats, burkinis, seven tour buses of Japanese families all taking pictures, virtuoso street musicians, fringe political protests, the limo of a visiting head of state. And that's on a quiet day.

If no head of state that day, I get photos of his manicure (no polish, of course), a shirt he might buy, a shirt he might buy for me, his sushi lunch, his cat Ina Garten.

It's a constant stream. And that's not even counting his Facebook posts or his tweets. I wait all morning for something to come in.

I am not going to call him. He said he would call. He will call.

“Carrie?” Chloe walks into the office, the very image of polished perfection. She’s so smooth. I mean literally smooth. You know how everyone has stray hairs that glow in backlighting? Not Chloe. You know how everyone has that weird skin tag, or a mole in the wrong place, or a slightly asymmetrical smile?

Not Chloe.

She’s dressed in this skin-tight gray crepe top paired with a prairie skirt and beaded shoes.

“Nice look. Retro,” I muse, looking her over. “Retro with a disco flair and a western feel.”

“Too much?” Her eyebrows go up slowly, face neutral. Chloe only gets nervous for two reasons: her boyfriend, Nick and her toddler daughter, Holly. Otherwise, Chloe is the epitome of cool.

She’s my mentor. If I can cultivate one tenth of her sophisticated polish, I’ll be lucky.

“There’s a touch of MOMA in here, too,” she adds, pointing to the beaded shoes.

I squint. “Is that de Kooning? In beads? On shoes?” I’m breathless now.

Her right eyebrow goes up even higher, which means I’ve impressed her. “Good call.”

I shrug. “Twentieth century art history classes.” But I’m secretly pleased. When you’re a relentless people pleaser, praise is like crack.

She beams. “I know you just graduated last year. All that work paid off.” She plops a folder on my desk. “We have some local beadmakers working with artisanal cobblers to come up with unique shoes we can market to clientele. All profits from these go to charity. This is a prototype. We need to work on rights acquisitions before we proceed.” As she lifts her knee to show off the glittering shoes, Ryan appears in the threshold.

“Hey,” he grunts, suddenly shy, clearly flummoxed by Chloe’s presence. His eyes skitter to her leg, which is high enough in the air to show off substantial skin. Meanwhile, he’s showing even more skin, dressed in skin-tight black leather shorts, wearing a policeman’s hat and holding a riding crop. The hallway lighting highlights all the oil on his bare pecs.

Just another day at work.

“Hi, Ryan,” she says calmly, then turns to me with an expectant look. I still can’t read her, even after working here for two years. She’s either pissed we’ve been interrupted, inviting Ryan to join our conversation, or…

But my reaction is the same. I get nervous. When I can’t read people, I assume the worst. I give Ryan a long, slow look to distract myself, but all that does is make heat pool in parts of my body that need to remain cold and dry for my professional life to function properly. The oil makes all the hard lines of his muscles stand out.

So does the tight leather. He, um, dresses left. Far left.

So far left, I think parts of his body might cross the international date line.

“I can come back later,” Ryan says quickly, his eyes on Chloe’s foot. “Nice shoes. They look like earrings for your feet.” He gives me a strange look, then retreats like he’s on fire.

“Does Ryan have a problem with me?” Chloe asks, puzzled. Then her face morphs into marvel. “Earrings for your feet! Love it! I’m stealing that phrase.” She pulls a phone out of thin air and begins tapping the screen.

My own phone buzzes with a notification. I let out a long breath, not realizing I’ve been holding it. That has to be Jamey. Has to.

“What? Ryan? A problem with you?” I’m split in three, thinking about Jamey, Ryan, and Chloe at the same time. A tiny headache, a pinch really, forms at the bridge of my nose. I’m also caffeine deprived. That’s the easiest issue to fix.

“Yes, Ryan.” She straightens herself — as if she needed to be even more smooth — and gives me a serious look. “He runs away every time I appear.”

I actually know why Ryan does that, but I can’t tell her. Meanwhile, I need a cool drink to quench this strange burning feeling pulsing through me after looking at Ryan. I really need sex with Jamey. I am just a walking ball of libido lately.

“He’s busy. Ryan, I mean. Trying to do a good job. You know.” I am a terrible liar.

Chloe knows I’m a terrible liar.

We stare at each other in perfect harmony, both silently agreeing that I am really, really bad at lying. There’s a reason why I changed my college major from public relations to design.

“Okay,” she says in a clipped voice, smiling and frowning at the same time. “I came in here to ask about the phone tree again. Everything’s on track?”

“Yes, including the new sex toy help desk.”