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madly in front of two young hired hands in coveralls. A stack of wooden crates sat on the ground between them.
    Clara’s smile grew. “Let those dreary literary types enjoy their party. I can’t wait to see their faces when they realize we stole the most exciting part of their evening right out from under them!”
    Even as she spoke, she knew the prank wouldn’t dim the sting of the earlier rejection. Deep down, Clara knew that bouncer had been right. She wasn’t a real writer. She wrote biting but meaningless stories that only pleased people as boring and empty as Clara had become.
    If you want to write, write about something that matters , Marcus’s voice rang through her mind. If you want to write trash, then find someone else to love, because I won’t be waiting around .
    Ever since Clara had written about Gloria and had seen what an effect a real story could have, she had wanted to write about more than catty fights between teenage heiresses.
    Clara had thought about asking her editor if she could switch to writing something else, but she was sure he’d say no. Parker bragged to everyone who would listen about how Clara’s column had helped to make the Manhattanite the most popular gossip rag in town.
    Maybe her articles about her cousin had been a fluke. Maybe salacious drivel was all she was really capable of. Andyet Clara was beginning to realize that she wanted to go to college, where she could hone her skills. She wanted exactly what Marcus had wanted for her. He’d been right about everything, and she couldn’t run into his arms and tell him so because his arms were full—with another girl.
    She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned. Standing next to her was easily the handsomest man in the room. He wore a tan pin-striped suit and a pale blue tie. Even with a healthy dose of Brilliantine, the soft waves in his dark brown hair were visible. His strong jaw was the sort a girl always wanted to run her hands over, and his bright green eyes oozed intelligence and charisma. Most girls would consider Parker Richards, the young and attractive editor of the Manhattanite , one of the biggest catches in town.
    But those girls weren’t fresh off losing the loves of their lives. And Parker Richards also wasn’t their boss.
    “Coco and Julia, you go find Leelee and the boys waiting outside. And Nellie, you go tell Arthur and Maxie the plan, and invite their new friends, too. We don’t want to burn the yacht down trying to set those fireworks off on our own. I’ll meet you out there in ten.” Clara turned to Parker. “Now, what can I do for you?”
    “What are you and that gang of hooligans up to now?” Parker asked, squinting through the arched windows.
    “Well, we couldn’t get into the Round Table party next door, so now we’re stealing their food and their yacht. And hopefully some fireworks.” Just then, she heard a loud boom .She looked to see Arthur, Maxie, and Nellie running through the courtyard with crates in their arms, smoke wafting in their wake, and what looked to be hotel security guards running after them.
    “Looks like the fireworks are a go,” Clara said.
    Instead of congratulating her on what a fantastic Manhattanite column this would make, Parker shook his head. “Clara, that’s a terrible idea.”
    Clara’s anger was sharp and immediate. She jabbed a finger into Parker’s chest. “I’m doing exactly what you wanted! You said if I wanted to work for you, I needed to dance on tables and lead toasts with my flute of champagne! Or don’t you remember? ”
    A few guests looked in their direction.
    Parker straightened his tie and took a step back. “Yes, but you’re talking about theft, Clara. Theft from people who matter . Your articles helped keep that cousin of yours out of prison! Now’s the time to be careful with your reputation—you should be trying to impress the folks at that other party, not rob them.”
    Parker was right, Clara realized. What would this stunt do other