I called because you”—Aimee pauses—”have an admirer.”

I nearly choke on my tongue. It’s not that I haven’t had admirers before—Jean-Marc’s good-looking in that French actor way—it’s Aimee’s tone. Aimee sounds bouncy again, extremely pleased. It’s as if I’d just been lifted off the FBI’s Most Wanted List of Underachieving Women. “Who is he?”

“Tom.”

“Tom?”

“Yes, Tom Lehman. From last night.”

I don’t remember a Tom Lehman. I barely remember last night. The music was really loud. The bar a complete crush. And I had more margaritas than I should have. Thank goodness I had the sense to cab it home instead of driving.

Too bad I didn’t remember leaving my car at work until I’d spent five minutes this morning trying to remember where I parked. By the time I’d hailed a cab, I was in a terrible mood. My mood wasn’t improved by Olivia greeting me at the door with a handful of guest passes for her gym.

“Tom’s quite taken with you,” Aimee adds.

“Tom,” I repeat.

“Lehman.”

I say nothing.

“He’d love to meet you for drinks Friday.”

“Friday?”

“Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? My brain has stopped processing language. Aimee’s making sounds, and I have no idea what she’s saying. Instead I’m trying to put a face with Tom Lehman. Tom. Thomas. Thomas Lehman. It’s a name that smacks of success. And I try to remember the group surrounding Olivia last night. There were quite a few guys...”Brown hair?” I hazard.

“Yes.”

That was an easy guess. Everybody last night was brunette—Asian, Latino, African-American, Caucasian. “Brown eyes?”

“No, blue. I’m pretty sure they’re blue.”

Brown hair, blue eyes. Reasonably attractive. “Is he tall?”

Aimee stalls. He’s not tall. “Is he short?” I persist.

“No. Not short. Just not ultra-tall.”

That means he’s short.