Page 17 of The Fake Out Flex

We're three hours north of LA, which means we avoid getting swamped with tourists on the weekends and holidays, but we're close enough to attract some mega-rich or mega-reclusive—or both—Angelinos. Rumor has it there's a two-time Oscar-winning A-lister living in the hills.

The artistic community here is thriving, we're close to the mountains—and some great hiking trails in the national parks—there's some incredible wine country farther inland, and the weather is decent for most of the year.

Why would I want to live anywhere else?

But most of all, my friends are here—Hannah, Beth, and Summer. Collectively, we're known as the Fast-Talking Four, for reasons which become evident to anyone who spends more than thirty seconds in our company. Those girls mean the world to me.

"You need more no-talking time, hon?"

I need a few more weeks of no-talking time, but I've kept her waiting long enough.

"I'm fine. Let's discuss my numbers. I'm tanking. People would rather read their phone's terms of service than watch me. But it's not personal. I know, I know. So…what next?"

We wait until Delta from accounting passes us, then Margo says, "The network execs have you on their watch list."

"I'm assuming that's as ominous as it sounds?"

"Pretty much. You've got their attention, but in a bad way. They'll be looking at your next numbers very closely, and, well…" She blows out a breath. "I'm afraid if there isn't a marked improvement over the next few months, we could be having this conversation at your desk while I help you pack your stuff."

My head drops. "Got it."

"You need a big story, Ev. Unfortunately, the last huge story you were involved with had you in the main role."

"I remember."

Oh, I remember all right.

It feels like every single media outlet in the world picked up on my very public, very humiliating dumping.

It even boosted The Morning Buzz ratings for a few weeks when I returned from my month-long off-air hiatus. People were actually tuning in just to watch my segments.

But then, like all viral fame, the interest and attention dissipated as quickly as it had come. People moved on to the next thing, and my numbers dropped again.

Margo stops by a wall of empty cubicles and leans against the partition. "I heard that nitwit ex of yours is getting married."

"He is."

"When?"

"Next month."

She cocks a brow. "And you know this information how?"

"Your honor, the prosecution is leading the witness."

Margo lifts her hands and concedes, "Okay. So I may have heard some rumblings around the office that you'll be attending. But you know me, I like to fact check thoroughly. Are you really going?"

"I really am."

"Alone?"

"Uh…"

"You have a date!" Margo raises her fists. "Fantastic. Go, you. Please tell me he's an incredibly hot, panty-melting date."

"I have a date." I look around to make sure no one's within hearing range. "But I refuse to utter the words panty-melting…Apart from just now when I said them only to point out that I will never be saying them ever again."

Margo laughs. "You're one of a kind, Evie. Who is he?"

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