Page 6 of Mid-Thirties Slightly Hot Mess Female Seeking Billionaire

"Do you think I’m eligible?" He winks at me and then tilts his head down and spins around. "Before you answer that and offend me, I must go…" He looks back at me. "What’s your name?"

"Sarah," I say breathlessly.

"Nice to meet you, Sarah, in copywriting." He heads out of the office, and Dave, Ginger, and I stare at each other for a few moments before Dave starts singing "Moon River" in a very off-key voice.

"What was that all about then?" Ginger asks, ignoring him and looking at me with narrow eyes. "You trying to reel yourself in a big fish?"

"No." I roll my eyes at her and then take my glasses off to clean them on the hem of my shirt, which I know is a bad idea, but I always forget to bring my lens-cleaning cloth with me to work. "Why would you say that?"

"You were all over Ethan." Dave stops singing, and there’s a slight sulk to his tone as he realizes that neither of us is paying attention to him. "I’ve never seen you smiling like a vulture before."

"What?" I glare at him, annoyed. "I was not smiling at him like a vulture, plus, vultures don’t smile."

"Sure they do. And when Ethan wasn’t interested, you went for Jackson, who obviously wants to bed you," he says, and heads back to his desk before I can argue with him. I shake my head and try not to fume because the fact of the matter is, I had been smiling with all my might, but the great and mighty Ethan had not cared in the least.

* * *

Ilook down at the half-eaten ice cream tub on my lap and feel guilty for all of ten seconds. The chocolate fudge brownie ice cream certainly isn’t going to help me look like a cover model forSports Illustrated, but at least it’s saving me therapy money. I lean back on my comfortable leather couch, pull my cream cashmere throw over my body, and reach for the remote control. Johnson, my mini golden doodle, jumps up and settles on my lap, his little nose twitching as he inches closer to the ice cream tub.

"Nope." I tap him on the nose, moving the ice cream out of his reach. "You can’t eat this, Johnson." Johnson was named after Lyndon B. Johnson because he came into my life after reading his biography. I’m a bit of a history nerd. But I don’t tell many people that. Not when I already look like Harry Potter’s older sister. Being a nerd is only cute when you could also be a supermodel. No one cares if you’re just a regular nerd.

Johnson gives me a dissatisfied look, jumps off the couch, and heads toward his bed to do who knows what. I pick up my phone and call Isabel, who doesn’t prefer to go by Izzy, even though I’m trying to make it happen after being a latecomer toGrey’s Anatomy. She answers after one ring.

"What are you up to, Sarah?" she asks as if there is a possibility that I could be up to something amazing. Sadly, we both know that’s highly unlikely.

"Oh, you know, just getting ready to head into a sex club with my dominatrix, Arnold." Johnson stares at me with judgmental eyes, and I avert my gaze. I will not let my dog make me feel like an idiot or a hoe. He, better than anyone, knows I’m not. I haven’t had a man back in the apartment in years.

"Oh, you’ve gone back to the Austrian?" she asks with a giggle, then pauses. "What happened to Ricky?"

"Ricky, who?" I wonder if there’s a Ricky I’ve forgotten about flirting with? It’s unlikely, but not impossible.

"The hot Puerto Rican guy that was a world-famous singer—"

"If you’re talking about Ricky Martin, it turns out he doesn’t want me. He’s gay."

"But she bangs…" she interrupts her own sentence by bursting into laughter. I listen and shake my head. Isabel is much younger than me, but we get on like a house on fire. I think that’s because I am still young at heart. And when I say much younger, I mean more than five years, though it’s not anything either of us thinks about.

"Have you heard from Ella?" I ask, bringing up our other best friend. "Is she still in Paris?"

"Nope, the lucky bitch is in London now," she says, and we both sigh in happy jealousy for her good luck. Ella is now dating her brother’s best friend, Colton, who is also her boss, and he has decided to take her to Paris for their first date. A place I have never been to but want to go to so badly. I can picture myself eating croissants while flirting with a hot French man or two.

"Wow, when is she back?" I ask, not because I envy her dating a billionaire but because I miss her and our weekly girls’ nights.

"I think she said she’s back next week unless Colton surprises her with another destination." Isabel half laughs, and I know she’s on the same page as I am. We’re happy for our friend, but we want love, as well. Frankly, I would settle for good sex. But I’m not going to advertise that fact. I know if I create a dating profile saying I’m looking for good sex, I’d have ten thousand applicants. And not because they were good in bed, no, but because men have super huge egos, and they all think they’ve made you have the best orgasm of your life, even if you barely even felt them inside of you.

"Awesome. She’s living her best life," I say and then let out a deep sigh. I am not living my best life whatsoever. "You wanna go for a drink tonight?"

"Don’t you have work tomorrow?"

"Yeah, and what is your point?" I retort without even an iota of guilt. My job sucks. My work as a junior copywriter in the marketing department of Rosser International means nothing. I am a peon in a conglomerate, and I hate my job. I don’t get to write cool copy for ads or anything. No, I write copy to send in press releases to market and sell the thousands of crappy products we sell. Not that I would say that out loud to anyone out of my small friend group.

No one else at the company feels the same way though. Everyone else drinks the Kool-Aid that Ethan Rosser, the CEO, is distributing. Not that he’s ever distributed any to me. I’m not important enough at the company for him to know I exist. Even though I have been in the same room as him twice, he hasn’t acknowledged me properly once. Today didn’t really count.

I cringe and die inside a little bit when I think back to earlier in the day when I tried to give him my best flirtatious smile. I do not want to remember that moment though. Even if Dave and Ginger won’t let me forget it.

It’s slightly embarrassing how hard I was staring the man down without even one flirtatious smile or admiring glance in response. And when I say slightly embarrassing, I mean a momentous amount of embarrassment. He most probably thought I was after him because of the article. The joke’s on him, though, because I also think the article is trash.

"You want to get drunk on a work night? I mean, I’m down, but I’m just checking. I know you work in corporate."

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