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would often leave him sticky notes on his pillow, windshield, bathroom mirror, etc. So in a feeble attempt at irony, I called the cards Honey Notes. I hadn’t told anyone about them yet out of fear of being ridiculed.
     
    WAVERLY’S HONEY NOTE IDEAS—NOT TO SHOW TO ANYONE OUT OF FEAR OF BEING RIDICULED
     
    Front: So, he dumped you?
    Inside: Honey, he was ugly anyway.
     
    Front: Why is it so hard not to think about a boy when he’s the one thing you’re trying not to think about?
    Inside: Honey, for some questions there just aren’t answers. But there’s always chocolate.
     
    Front: Can’t take another blind date?
    Inside: Honey, if you take a few tequila shots before them, they’re a lot less painful.
     
    Front: Know that overwhelming feeling of inertia that kicks in when you’re thinking about getting up and going to the gym?
     
    Inside: Honey, where the hell is that inertia when you’re thinking about getting up and going to the refrigerator?
    Front: Is it okay to have really long hair in your 30s?
    Inside: Honey , HELL YES !
     
    (I wasn’t 30 just yet, but I was getting way too close.) I typed in the following idea:
     
    Front: So, the ex is getting married, and you’re still on the market?
    Inside: Honey, think of yourself as a prime piece of real estate—your value is only going up.
     
    I scrolled through the rest of the list and bit my lip. It sometimes hurt to write them, but I thought the cards were funny. Would anyone else, though? I had clearly lost all perspective.
    I closed my eyes to rest, and before I knew it the plane began its descent.

    Pink, pink, pink. Not sure who had designed my room, but it was the hotel industry’s equivalent of a chick flick. I set my suitcase down and looked around. A vase of pink flowers on the desk. Light pink-and-white sheets. Pink roses in the wallpaper and carpet. Pink soap in the bathroom. There was so much pink that I suddenly felt myself craving cotton candy. But I really couldn’t complain, because the room was truly gorgeous. JAG was taking care of us.
    I walked over to the window and opened the drapes. I gazed down at the beautiful swimming pool twelve stories below and wished it were summertime. How I longed to lounge by the artificial waterfalls with a good book and a margarita! The only times I ever stayed at fancy hotels were when I was working or when I’d been with Aaron, and when I was working I never had much time to enjoy them. And as for the times with Aaron, well, enough said.
    I walked back across the room and opened up the closet.
    Ahhh, there it was.
    The Robe.
    Fluffy, white, usually priced around $150.
    I loved lounging around in The Robe.
    I looked across the room. On top of the TV was a basket full of fruit, nuts, and candies topped off with, surprise, a pink bow. I opened the card from Penelope French, the firecracker of a woman in charge of JAG’s trade show logistics.
    Hi Waverly!
    Some energy snacks to get you through a crazy week. Good luck!
    Penelope French and JAG
    Wow. In total there would be about fifty people representing JAG at the show, and in addition to handling all our travel and accommodations, plus the thousands of details involved in getting the booth together, Penelope had taken the time to send out goodie baskets with personalized cards.
    I opened up a bag of cashews, kicked off my shoes, and tried to convince myself it was going to be a fun week.



CHAPTER FOUR
    The next morning, I received a wake-up call at 6:45, which was hell enough, but given that my West Coast body thought it was 3:45 a.m., I seriously thought I was going to die. Thank God I’d preset the fancy coffee maker the night before, because the smell of caffeine was the only thing that got me out of bed.
    I flipped on the lights and turned on the TV as I stumbled toward the pot. A hot shower and two very strong cups of coffee later, I was ready to face the day. As I got dressed, I listened to Matt Lauer and Meredith Vieira discuss their favorite