I spend a week in a dreamlike daze, thinking about his offer. During the day, I do the math, rows of calculations on empty, white pieces of paper, scrawling columns of numbers with many zeroes.

With five million, I could pay for Mom's assisted living facility for years. Maybe long enough for researchers to find a cure for Lou Gehrig's disease. I'd even donate to an ALS research fund, like I've always wanted.

Rent would be paid on time. I'd eat at my favorite restaurants once again. Get back into scrapbooking, a hobby I've shelved because I need every penny for food and utilities. When I step into the craft stores, I want to weep because of all the pretty things I can't afford.

Perhaps I'd take a vacation, to have something to scrapbook about.

It's worth finding out what the bossy man has in mind. Still, I doubt my ability to write anything coherent. But I guess I should try. What's the worst that could happen?

At night, I toss and turn, feverish. It's spring in New York, which means one day is cold and the next sweltering. Regardless of the temperature, I can't get Mr. Black's eyes out of my mind. Or the way his big hands looked, those crisp French cuffs at his wrists. How his smile played arrogantly on his face, or how those cheekbones seemed like they would cut my finger if I caressed them.

I masturbate every night, thinking of him. It's the first time I've touched myself in months. During the day I walk around in a perpetual state of edginess.

On the eighth afternoon following the interview, I grab my cell. Shaking, I dial the number of Blackmoir Publishing. I need to put on my big girl panties and try to overcome my writer's block.

For Mom.

Even if I half-ass it and write crap, only to get a fraction of the money, it will be worth it. Because that thousand dollars in my bank account won't last long, and the bill from the nursing home is sitting in front of me. It's burning a hole in the kitchen table with its due date.

"Yes, Tristan Black's office." From the sound of her throaty voice, I can tell it's the efficient older secretary.

"This is Sienna Amato. I interviewed last week. I'd like to speak with Mr. Black, please."

"I'm sorry, but he's away on business. May I take a message?"

I hesitate, wondering if I should hang up. "Please let him know that I'd like to discuss his offer." I grab the bill from the nursing home as if to give me courage. "Tell him I look forward to his response."

"I will give him the message, Ms. Amato. Have a good day."

Perhaps if I meet with him, we can have a more detailed conversation about my experience and he'll hire me for another position after all. We'd had a bad start, and under more relaxed circumstances, I could make a case that I'm actually qualified for something other than writing.

Three hours later, I receive an email.

Miss Amato,

I'm glad you have reconsidered my offer. I'd like you to meet me at the Algonquin Hotel tomorrow evening at eight for drinks. I'll explain everything, and I believe it will be to your satisfaction and pleasure. Please wear the red dress, the one in the photo.

T.B.

I still have the dress, of course. It was one of the first expensive things I'd bought back when I'd gotten the advance for my book.

Those were amazing days. I'd been on top of the world. People purchased my novel, and I bought everything I'd never been able to afford as a teenager. I gave Mom all she needed and wanted. We'd even rented a five-room apartment in Williamsburg and had plans to buy a duplex so we could live side-by-side. She worked as a legal secretary, and on the weekends, we'd visit museums and bookstores, then spend hours talking about art and books in cafes.

We were a team. She encouraged me to write my novel, saying that romance was an under-appreciated genre.

I should have known it was too good to be true. A virgin who wrote an erotic book based on her fantasies was bound to come to a dismal, pathetic end.

Women like me — working class, public school education, from Brooklyn — don't get happy-ever-afters. Women like the heroine in my book — a plucky Ivy League intern in San Francisco who meets a tech genius and screws his brains out — do.

It's the night of my meeting with Mr. Black, and I'm at home, panicking about how I look. I slide the dress on and grimace into the mirror, dismayed that it's tighter than when I'd bought it three years ago.

Who hasn't gained a few pounds in three years? It's not like my diet has been the best. I stress eat a lot, especially after Mom went into the nursing home.

As I fasten my only gold necklace, I give myself a critical once-over. The dress might be a bit tight, but my boobs look okay. I turn to glance at my backside. Ass: not bad.

Wait, what am I thinking? I'm going to a business dinner. One I'm not even convinced I have any business attending. This isn't a date.

Then why is my heart racing? Why can't I stop remembering his eyes? I should focus on how bossy and arrogant he was during our interview. At what a jerk he'll be to work for, and how I'll fail miserably if I take the job.

And when I'm unable to write what he wants, I'm sure there will be hell to pay.

I sigh and swipe clear gloss on my lips. At the last minute, I sweep my hair into a messy bun. Ugh.

"Whatever," I whisper into the mirror.

I need this job, and if I don't leave now, I'll be late. Since I can't spare the extra money to spare for a cab — thanks to the taxi fare last week to the interview — I'm forced to take the subway, something that gives me a pang of dread in my stomach. It's always packed and too-hot, and I'll be covered in sweat and the subtle scent of subway grime when I arrive at the Algonquin.

I grab my purse, lock the door and head downstairs. My apartment is a small studio. When Mom went into the nursing home, I couldn't afford our larger place in Williamsburg. Still, this little flat is the only thing going right in my life. My landlady is a lovely woman named Arlene Cruz. She knows about Mom, and I suspect takes pity on me because she's always bringing over her delicious Dominican coconut cookies. She's also quick to return my calls when the air conditioner or heater isn't working, saying that I need a comfortable temperature so I can write.

Of course, temperature doesn't matter when you have writer's block.

When I'm on the street, I wave at Fatima, the florist next door. She gives me a huge smile and rushes out.

"So beautiful, Sienna! I haven't seen you look so gorgeous in years! Are you going on a date?"

I smile and shake my head. Only in an alternate universe would I be going on a date with Tristan Black. "Business dinner."

"A new job?" Fatima's eyes go wide. I'm close with many of the shop owners and neighbors on my Brooklyn street. We're like a big, diverse family, and I don't mind that they all know the details of my life. It's comforting. They've all stepped in a surrogate parents, and I help them, too, by doing errands and offering an ear when they want to chat.

"Hopefully. Think good thoughts." I hold up my hand, crossing my first and second fingers. "But I'm super late, gotta run," I say to Fatima.

By now, Carla from the bodega comes out, then the bodega kitty — I always pet Carla's cat because it's impossibly fluffy — and Jimi the accountant is returning from work, and joins us.

They all want to talk about how pretty I look tonight, and how excited they are that I'm finally doing something other than moping in sweats and schlepping to and from the corner café for the dollar-a-cup coffee.

"That company's crazy if they don't give you the job," Jimi says in his thick New York accent.

I let out a giggle, thinking of the scowling, sexy Tristan Black. He's crazy, all right.

"You guys, I'm going to be late!" I cry out, still laughing.

There's no time to take the subway now, and I accept hugs and wishes of good luck from everyone and head to the corner, where I hail a cab.

As I slide in the back of the taxi, I wonder if Blackmoir Publishing will pick up the fare. Tristan Black looks like a boss who would balk at such an expense — especially if I reject his offer a second time.

____