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“Coffee! Where’s Black?”
    I headed for my tiny office, Remke’s monologue swirling in my mind. A sequel. Celebrity cachet. Please. Natasha was a small-time actress writing a small-time memoir about her small-time affair with an actor whoseidentity she wasn’t even allowed to reveal. Okay, so The Actor was rumored to be big time. So what? She’d milked his mystery identity and her supposed heartbreak for all it was worth. She’d sold her sob story to women’s magazines, and she’d even managed to get booked on some B-list talk shows.
    The whole thing was almost unbelievable. Because she’d stupidly signed some legal document The Actor had had drawn up, the Gnat was—by penalty of law—prevented from ever discussing or writing about the guy or her affair with him in any medium, including print, radio or television. She’d cunningly gotten around it by referring to him as The Actor and creating a buzz around who he was. That was the story, the scandal behind the scandal.
    Who really cared?
    Potentially five hundred thousand people, according to Remke. Which was why I had to devote the next two months to guiding Natasha in fleshing out her outline and writing the first three chapters.
    Morgan was returning from the kitchen with another mug of coffee for Remke. Jeremy Black was right behind her. He nodded at me and walked toward Remke’s office.
    Suddenly everything moved in slow motion, and sound was barely audible.
    The sun shining in from the windows across the left wall of the loft lit his thick dark brown, wavy hair and made his Caribbean-colored eyes even more…Caribbean-colored. Never in the history of the world had there been a better-looking man. He was honest-to-goodness handsome, movie-star handsome. James Bond handsome.
    Thirty-seven years old, six-one, 175 pounds. Harvard—undergrad and M.B.A. He was smarter and more sarcastic than he was nice, but the VP and editorial director of asmall, niche-publishing house was supposed to be a bit ruthless. He lived in a loft in Tribeca (mere blocks from where John F. Kennedy, Jr., and Carolyn Bessette had lived), worked out at the Reebok Sports Club next to people like Jerry Seinfeld and dated women who looked like models but were also vice presidents. The only thing I had in common with Jeremy Black was Posh Publishing. And that wasn’t saying much.
    I slipped into my tiny windowless office and groaned at the fresh stack of manuscripts Jeremy must have deposited in my in-box on his way to Remke’s office. Great. Just in time for the weekend. Normally Jeremy would dump unsolicited manuscripts in Gwen’s in-box, and she’d screen them for herself, then dump the losers in my in-box. So at least there was a chance for a “maybe” to be lurking in there. If I could spot a potential bestseller in the slush pile, I’d be promoted to associate editor in a heartbeat. And then my life wouldn’t be contingent on Natasha Nutley’s success.
    Fat chance of that, though. Real Life Books wasn’t just celebrity (and I use that term loosely) tell-alls. I’d had to suffer through poorly written, dull memoirs from nobodies about colon surgery (not sexy enough, per Remke), cocaine addiction (passé, per Jeremy), the I-hate-my-mother trend (whine, whine, whine, per me) and the I-grew-up-poor-and-ugly-until-I-became-a-supermodel phase (oh, please! per Eloise and her boss). Spare me. Spare us all.
    The next New York Times extended list bestseller was doubtfully waiting for me to recognize its worth in the slush pile. I’d have to rely on making my name at Posh by getting the best work out of the Gnat, not that it would thrill me to see her succeed. The woman was milking her fifteen minutes off someone’s else’s ongoing fifteenminutes! Her celebrity was fake. So why shouldn’t I milk my promotion to full editor off her?
    Was that so wrong? After all, I’d been ordered to