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over at the blinking light on my answering machine and decided to take a chance.
    My heart beating wildly, I played the message.
    “Hi, Nic, it’s Beck. I thought that since the pair of us is in a boyfriend slump—yours by choice, mine, not so much—maybe we could meet up for coffee or go troll for guys. They can all be for me. Call soon or I’ll be left to my own devices—not pretty, I warn you.”
    I let my eyes shutter closed. Beck wasn’t exactly a voice of reason, but she was available, and I needed a little distance from the evening’s Snowball’s Chance in Hell. She answered on the third ring, and I determinedly stepped away from the knife drawer—I wasn’t that far gone yet.
    “Beck? Hey, it’s Nic,” I said, plowing over the frog in my throat. “Still want to meet?”
    “Definitely! How about Central Market? Good coffee and a full gamut of guys.”
    “I’m sticking with tea tonight. Meet you in the café in fifteen?”
    I didn’t respond to the muttered “party pooper” accusation.
    Hanging up, I stared down at my generic jeans, nubby sweater, and ballet flats, getting a “parent or guardian” vibe. In the interest of avoiding further name-calling, I darted back to my room for a quick fix, flipping lights on as I went, hurriedly trading my brown sweater for a sleeker black one and my flats for heeled boots. A wave of the mascara wand and a slick of lip color, and I was hurrying out the door.
    Then I remembered.
    The journal was still splayed open on the table with all that cleavage wisdom gracing its pages. I couldn’t just leave it there. The little Pandora’s book definitely needed to be relocated, and later, we needed to have a few words. Or not. I suppose that was always an option. I slid it back onto the shelf between Persuasion and Sense and Sensibility, figuring that couldn’t be any worse than shelving it with the cookbooks.
    My life had gone seriously wacko. The whole evening suddenly felt like a Vaseline-edged dream, and I desperately needed a squeegee.

3
    cleavage is as cleavage does
    I saw her as soon as I stepped into the café, her wild froth of hair bent over what was undoubtedly a decaf soy mocha something-or-other.
    Beck was the intern assigned to me at work, and also, by way of some sweet-talking, my mentee through the University of Texas Women in Engineering Program. I’d signed up for the program last spring, viewing it as one of those great give-back opportunities that fit in nicely with a well-rounded life plan. Honestly, I’d envisioned myself as sort of a big sister, dispensing life advice along with gourmet cupcakes. Beck was content with just the cupcakes—cupcakes were the one thing we had in common, other than our chosen career path.
    She had magenta highlights and a sparkly pink nose stud and a Weird shirt. Not to mention a healthy interest in all sorts of new-age stuff, a willingness to try anything once, and a never-say-die attitude. She was single-handedly turning the engineering stereotype on its head.
    Weaving through the maze of tables, I came up behind her. “I’m gonna go order,” I said, thumbing in the direction of the counter. “Back in a sec.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” she said jauntily, glancing up through her lashes at me, her eyes twinkling in amusement.
    “Don’t make me punish you,” I warned, heading for the counter. She knew I hated to be ma’am’d. I ordered a nonfat chai latte and had the barista add a pair of coconut macaroons dipped in dark chocolate to my order before turning back to the table.
    Settling myself across from her, I guarded the cookies close and quizzed her. “What’s the first rule of being a mentee?”
    “Never call your mentor ma’am,” she recited in a pseudo-sullen mutter.
    “Good girl,” I said, handing over the lumpy wax paper sleeve filled with macaroon.
    “You’re the best! Next time’s on me.”
    Scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla, and coconut swirled around us in a yummy confluence while the