It would be a routine job except for one problem: the so-called Big Jackass is married to none other than Dani's mother.

YBB INC. EMPLOYEE RULE #1
Always meet in a public place.
Coffee shops are ideal.
Never go anywhere that serves alcohol.

I am a liar. My job forces me to be one.

Every day I spin falsehoods, tell people what they want to hear.

“Of course he still finds you sexually attractive!” He just finds you sexually attractive in that “we’re better off as friends” way.

“It’s not you. Yes, I know everyone says that, but it’s so not you.”

“No, he doesn’t hate you.” He just never wants to see you again as long as he lives.

“Your receding hairline and beer belly have nothing to do with why she left.”

I say these things because that’s my job, to sugarcoat the bad stuff.

I even lie to my family.

My parents have no idea what I do for a living. They think I write promotional copy for websites. It’s not that I’m embarrassed by my job, but, well, my folks are kind of old-fashioned. Especially my mother. She’s kissed three men in her entire life and was a virgin until she married, a fact she reminds me of on a semi-regular basis. If she knew I made my living busting up relationships, she’d be crushed, mortified. I made up the whole Web thing to buy time, so I could slowly introduce my parents to the idea of Your Big Break Inc. But the trouble with lying is you can’t tell just one fib and be done with it. You have to make up more lies to cover your original lie.

Long story short, I still haven’t gotten around to telling my parents the truth.

Maybe I am embarrassed.

But as crazy as it seems, I took this job because I wanted to help people. Breakups are horrific and devastating—Your Big Break Inc. makes them civilized. I do whatever I can to help people transitioning from couplehood to single life. But good intentions or not, the fact remains: I am a liar.

“Are you Jason Dutwiler?” I ask, entering the downtown Boston Starbucks and locating a forlorn-looking man nursing a cappuccino.

“I was expecting a guy,” he says, eyeing me up and down.

I clear my throat. “Jason Dutwiler?” I ask again, and he nods.

“My assistant said I had a meeting with someone named Danny,” he explains. “I thought it’d be a man.”

“Dani,” I tell him, extending my hand. “It’s short for Danielle.”

Jason is clean-cut with light brown hair and eyes. He works as a CPA at FleetBoston. According to my notes, he’s thirty-six years old, but I find that hard to believe. He looks much younger.

“I never thought Lucy would leave me for a girl,” he says, amazed.

I smile and slide into the seat across from him. I’m carrying a small, black duffel bag, which I place beside my feet. “She’s not leaving you for anyone, Jason. It’s not about that.” I pause.

“Lucy’s at a crossroads in her life,” I begin.

“Crossroads? Give me a fucking break.” He groans. “Did Lucy tell you to say that?” Before I can answer, he rushes on. “Forget it. I’ve been putting up with her BS for months now.”

He takes a sip of his cappuccino and we stare at each other.

“She used to be fun, the kind of girl you take to a Red Sox game and then down a few beers with, you know?” he finally says to me.

A CPA enjoying beer and baseball? The way Lucy described Jason, I’d expected a hardcore number-cruncher whose idea of a good time was analyzing cash-flow statements.

“Now she’s gone all Gwyneth on me,” Jason continues.

“Gwyneth?”

“As in Paltrow. Lucy’s obsessed with wheatgrass shooters and yoga and not eating meat. She wants to find herself.” He rolls his eyes. “She wants to be ‘at one with the universe.’ ”

I don’t have the heart to tell him that what Lucy really wants to be at one with is her new acupuncturist, Nate. “Jason doesn’t do it for me anymore,” Lucy had confided during our initial consultation.

“He’s too clingy. And, physically speaking, he’s not what I want. Nate, on the other hand . . . Nate’s amazing. He practices tantric sex.” And, besides, I’m not sure how much I buy Lucy’s hippie vegan routine. Last time I talked to the girl, she was preparing to become an actress.

I shake the image out of my mind. I’m supposed to be giving Jason the cold, hard facts. “Okay, I’ll be blunt,” I say, locking my eyes on his. “Lucy’s fallen out of love with you.”

He looks like he’s about to vomit.

I place a reassuring hand on his arm. “I know this is hard to hear, but, unfortunately, it’s the truth.”

“When?” he asks in a voice barely above a whisper. “When did it happen?”

“She’s felt this way for several months now.”

“My God,” Jason breathes, his body visibly tense. “And she doesn’t even have the nerve to tell me? She sends some friend to do her dirty work?” He swats my hand off his arm.

“She couldn’t find the words,” I say. “She can’t bear to hurt you.”

The truth is, Lucy’s reached the point in the relationship where all she wants is a clean break. And she doesn’t have the guts to tell him to his face. Most of our clients are cowards.

“What are you, her spokesperson or something?”

“In a way, yes.” This is always the worst part. There’s no easy way to explain what I do, so I usually come right out with it.

“Here,” I say, handing Jason my business card.

Your Big Break Inc.
“It’s not you, it’s us!”
Danielle M.
Communications Specialist
(617) 55-LEAVE

“I work for a breakup service. Lucy was afraid things might get complicated, so she hired me to help sort through the details,” I explain as Jason stares blankly at the card.

“She hired you to dump me?”

I nod. His jaw drops.

“I didn’t even know you could do that!”

“Your Big Break Inc. is one of the first companies of its kind. There was a huge article on us in The Boston Globe last month. Did you see it?”

“No, I did not,” Jason snaps. He runs his hands through his hair, the shock on his face palpable. “Let me get this straight— you make your living dumping people?”

“Yes.” And ending friendships. We’ll even quit your job for you if the price is right. Your Big Break Inc. offers all sorts of services: Breakup Recovery Kits, personally crafted Dear John letters, counseling phone calls, property and pet retrieval, and guilt gifting (the dumper placates the dumpee by sending him or her specially arranged packages of baked goods, balloons, and massage certificates). Our fees range from $25 to $350—a real bargain, if you think about it.

“This is fucking unbelievable!” Jason exclaims loudly. A few people turn to stare.

“My job is to help you two transition to single life while remaining on good terms.” He seems too stunned to speak, so I continue. “Lucy had some things she wanted to tell you, and she felt it best to put them in a letter.”

I give Jason the envelope and he sets it down on the table. “I’ll read it later,” he mumbles.

In actuality, every word of the letter was written by me. I interviewed Lucy extensively about why she wanted to end things, and then reworded her answers into what I hope is a concise, heartfelt good-bye note. It’s a tough balance. You have to be straightforward and honest, while letting them down easy. I pick up my duffel bag. “Lucy also wanted me to give you these,” I say, holding it out to him.

Jason glances at the bag suspiciously.

“Go on, take it,” I prod. “It won’t bite.” But it may sting a bit. He unzips it and peers inside, pulling out Your Big Break Inc.’s official Breakup Recovery Kit, which I prepared for him this morning. There are a few standard items that go into every box: a list of the fifty best breakup songs, a guide to Boston’s least date-friendly restaurants (the goal is to keep the dumpee away from as many happy couples as possible), a selection of counseling resources, and a mix of humorous and serious articles about getting over a broken heart.

Each Breakup Recovery Kit is tailor-made to fit the individual who’s receiving it. We add as many little extras—aka guilt gifts— as the budget allows. In Jason’s case, Lucy sprung for a pair of tickets to a Red Sox game and a DVD of Die Hard.

Jason digs through the duffel bag, locating a copy of Under the Table & Dreaming. “My Dave Matthews CD!” he exclaims. “I’ve been looking for this forever.” He retrieves a boxed set of The Sopranos DVDs, a framed photo of the once-happy couple, and a dog-eared guidebook about northern California. “This was our first big trip together,” he says, looking pained. “I took Lucy to San Francisco for her thirtieth birthday. I told her I loved her in front of the Golden Gate Bridge.” His voice is quavering.

“Jason,” I begin, “do you need me to—”

He holds up a hand to silence me. “No, I can do this.” He continues digging through the bag, taking stock of everything. “I see she’s kept all the jewelry I’ve given her.”

They always do.

Jason narrows his eyes. “You must get some sick pleasure out of dumping me. For her,” he clarifies.

I’ve heard this one before. “Believe me, nothing could be further from the truth.”

“That’s crap. Isn’t this what you do? Profit off of other people’s misery?”

“I’m a communications specialist,” I say. “I help facilitate a smooth ending to a troubled relationship.”

“And how many ‘smooth endings’ have you facilitated this month, Dani? Do tell.”

If you include all the kiss-off phone calls, e-mails, and in-person meetings, I believe the total comes to thirty-three. But who’s counting? “Jason, my intentions are to help you. Lucy still cares about you, but she thinks you’re better off as friends.”

“That’s pathetic. She’s pathetic for hiring someone to dump me.”

“Believe me, there are worse ways to break up with people.”

“Yeah, right.” He snorts. “What do you know?”

“A lot, actually. This is my area of expertise,” I remind him.

“I’ve seen people pull all kinds of breakup moves: leaving their lover on Valentine’s Day, a birthday, at Christmas.”

There are dozens of crappy ways to dump someone: via e-mail, cell phone text message, AOL Instant Messenger, postcard, or Post-It; on an answering machine; through a friend; over dinner. But by far the most popular method seems to be the duck-and-run.

“Most people pull the old ‘drop off the face of the earth’ routine,” I tell Jason. “They decide to dump someone, and, rather than tell the person, they just avoid them and hope they’ll take the hint. At least Lucy’s being straightforward.” I smile sympathetically. “I wish my last boyfriend had hired someone to break things off.”

Jason looks skeptical.

“The way he did it was publicly humiliating.”

For the first time since we’ve met, Jason relaxes a bit. “Why, what’d he do? Take out a billboard?”

“You’re not far off. He dumped me on the radio.” I’m leading into The Story—my own personal breakup horror tale that is sure to put Jason at ease. All of the employees of Your Big Break Inc. have one, and we pull them out when things get sticky. The only difference is mine’s one hundred percent true. My two coworkers embellished theirs.

“Did your boyfriend call up and dedicate ’N Sync’s Bye Bye Bye to you? No, wait, let me guess! It was Fuck Off by Kid Rock.

I give him a tight smile; that is kind of funny. “It was Ben Folds Five’s Song for the Dumped. My ex-boyfriend was a DJ at WBCN,” I say, citing Boston’s biggest rock station. “He broke up with me on-air during the drive-time show.”

In the eleven months since it happened, I must have told The Story a hundred times. Now it almost seems as though it happened to someone else. “I hadn’t heard from Garrett for over two weeks.” I lean across the table and lower my voice conspiratorially. “I’d been leaving messages at his house, calling him at work, the whole nine yards. Then I turn on my radio one day after work and—boom! There he is, talking about how he’d gotten laid the night before by some Hooters waitress.”

“He obviously wasn’t referring to you!”

My hands instinctively fly up to cover my less-than-ample breasts, and Jason’s cheeks turn pink.

“Oh, God, I didn’t mean it like that. Nothing I say ever comes out right.” He smashes his face against his hands. “It’s like my foot is surgically implanted in my mouth. That’s probably why I can’t keep a girlfriend.” He gets really quiet, and I’m afraid he might start crying.

“Everybody has failed relationships,” I say. “Think of them as practice runs. They prepare you for the real deal. Not that your relationship with Lucy wasn’t genuine,” I throw in, before I get myself into trouble.

Jason laughs. “That’d fix her, wouldn’t it? Lucy always likes to think of herself as a star player in everybody’s lives. She’s such a drama queen. She’d hate it if I considered her a ‘practice girlfriend.’”

I can see he’s starting to head off down the bitterness track, so I quickly shift the topic back to The Story. I find it calms people and distracts them. “So, anyway, about Garrett and the Hooters waitress . . .”

“Ah, yes,” Jason says, brightening. “You were getting to the good part.” Why do we get so much comfort out of other people’s misfortunes? I push the thought aside and continue. “After he made the announcement about his Hooters hookup, one of the other DJs said, ‘Dude, I thought you had a serious girlfriend.’ Garrett laughed and replied, ‘Not anymore. I dumped her weeks ago.’ Which, of course, was news to me. Then he cued up the Ben Folds Five song.”

“Ouch! What did you do?”

I shrug. “What could I do? At first I thought it was a joke, but when I talked to him off the air, I learned he was serious. I cried and screamed and shredded pictures of him. I left rambling messages on his answering machine. I even threw a drink in his face when he came over to drop off my stuff. I was totally nuts for a little while.”

“Sounds like a normal response to me.”

I could tell him about the five stages of getting dumped, but I want to wrap up this job. “Getting back to the matter at hand, Lucy gave me a list of things she left at your place.” I pull it out of my purse and hand it to him. “I’ll need to arrange a time to pick these up.”

His face falls. “She’s actually doing this, isn’t she?”

“I’m so sorry, Jason. I really am.”

“Please,” he begs. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Lucy’s mind is made up—”

“Talk to her for me!” he interrupts. “Tell her I’ll do anything!

I’ll give up cigarettes. I’ll meditate! I’ll take up Tan Chi!”

“Tai Chi,” I correct.

“Whatever! I just want her back. I’ll completely overhaul my life if that’s what it takes!”

“You shouldn’t change yourself for someone,” I caution. “It never works.”

“Dani,” he says, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening.

“You don’t understand how much I love this girl. All I want is a second chance to prove myself to her. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

“I’m afraid Lucy’s mind is made up.”

He places his hand gently on mine. “Then help her unmake it.”

“I can’t.”

Jason draws in a deep breath. “Will you at least do one favor for me then?”

“That depends.”

“My brother’s getting married in a few months down the Cape, and Lucy is supposed to be my date. If I show up alone, my parents will go ballistic. They’ll give me the third degree about why we broke up. I come from a large Catholic family—they’re already upset that I haven’t gotten married and given them grandchildren yet.”

For a brief moment, I’m worried he’s going to ask me to go with him. Not that he’s grossly unappealing, but that would be a serious violation of protocol.

“Convince Lucy to come to the wedding and pretend we’re still together,” Jason says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “One last date to really say good-bye.”

“I don’t know. . . .”

Craig McAllister, my boss and the founder of Your Big Break Inc., is always citing one of our cardinal rules to me: Do not get personally involved with a client. I can hear his voice in my head now, warning me. But how do you break someone’s heart—even a stranger’s—without getting personally involved?

I sigh. “Give me a couple of days. I’ll see what I can do.”

People always talk about the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But what’s just as common are the Five Stages of Breakup Hell: nervous breakdown, sour grapes, rebounding, backsliding, and letting go.

It’s not just a cliché: Breaking up is hard to do. And forget about the recovery rule—that the relationship mourning period lasts one month for every year you were together. That’s totally untrue. More often than not, people get it backward, taking one year to recover from a one-month fling. There’s no reliable way to measure when a broken heart will mend. Even at stage five, when the dumpee sadly accepts the inevitable, they never completely get over it. Some part of them will always be connected to the person who broke their heart.

Since Garrett dumped me, I’ve become a real pro at ending love affairs.

2. We Need to Talk

It’s eight o’clock Thursday, and I’m standing in my parents’ large, stucco kitchen, drinking red wine and watching Mom make Cajun food. My family doesn’t have a lot of traditions, but this is one of the few: We get together every other Thursday for a sit-down dinner of spicy food. My brother is usually missing in action until the very last second—he opts to hang out upstairs and watch TV instead of socializing. He rushes down just in time to eat, stuffs his face, and then bolts.

“We need to talk,” Mom says.

I cringe because, really, has anything good ever followed that statement?

“Wait, let me guess. You burned the jambalaya, and we’re having pizza for dinner,” I joke.

“I’m concerned about you, Dani.”

“Concerned?” I repeat, running my fingers through my shoulder-length blond hair. I study her face as she stirs the rice. It amazes me sometimes how much my mother and I look alike. We’re both short and slim, with good skin, green eyes, and wheat-colored hair. If it’s true what they say—that your mother is a mirror image of what you’ll look like when you’re older— then I’m pretty lucky. My mom has held up very well over the years.

She stops stirring the rice. “You’re twenty-eight years old, Dani. In two years, you’ll be thirty. Thirty!”

“Gee, Mom, thanks for reminding me.”

“When I was thirty, I was married with two children, a house, and a successful career. You’re still living in that tiny apartment in Cambridge, fumbling around, trying to get your life in order.”

“My life’s in order,” I grumble, gulping down my glass of wine and pouring myself a fresh one. The truth is, in a lot of ways I’m lucky. Your Big Break Inc. may not be the most serene place to work, but the pay is really good. And I desperately need the salary—not only did Garrett leave me with a broken heart, he left me with a drained bank account as well. I’m still paying off the debt I incurred while mourning our breakup.

“No, it isn’t. Dani, you try to pretend like you’re happy, but I can tell you’re not. These are the best years of your life. You’re in your prime!” Mom says. “You’re supposed to be out having a good time, meeting people, living it up. In a few years, you’ll be too old to have fun.”

Too old to have fun? Where is this coming from?

“You have the social life of a senior citizen,” Mom says, smiling wryly.

I gasp. “Do you want me to be immature?”

“I just want you to live it up a little.”

“What about Sean?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “At least I have my own apartment; Sean’s twenty-five and he still lives at home. And he only works part-time at Blockbuster.”

“Your brother is about to start medical school,” she counters.

“He’s saving his money.”

My brother has been “about to start medical school” ever since he graduated from Northeastern two years ago. As far as I can tell, all he does is loaf around the house, playing video games and watching TiVo.

Fortunately, my dad wanders into the room before things get hairy. “Hey, hon,” he says, pecking me on the cheek. Seeing my pained expression, he adds, “You driving her nuts again, Beth?”

“Just showing a little motherly concern.”

“Yeah, I know how overbearing your ‘concern’ can be.”

“Just doing my job,” Mom says, looking tense.

“Mind if I borrow Dani for a minute?” Dad winks at me.

“I’ve got a couple of boxes in the car. I could use some help bringing them in.”

Mom waves us away. “Sure, Paul, that’s perfectly fine.” I can tell she’s irritated that Dad interrupted her rant, but I’m relieved to make it out of there alive.

“You doing okay?” Dad asks as I follow him outside.

“Yeah, I’m doing pretty well. Aside from the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Oh, your mom?” He shrugs. “She’s been kind of stressed lately.”

I nod. “I know. Plus, she’s turning fifty-five.”

Dad opens the trunk of his Audi and begins pulling out large filing boxes.

Six months ago, my mother retired from her position as a corporate trainer and strategic analyst. I say “retired” as though she had a choice in the matter. She didn’t. The board of directors wanted to bring in “new blood.” In the process, several people, my mom included, were let go via early retirement. Mom hasn’t quite been the same since it happened.

Dad hands me a box. “Thanks for helping out.”

“What is all this?” I ask, hoisting the box in my arms.

“Clients’ files.” Dad grunts, slamming the car trunk shut.

“I’ve really fallen behind—it’s going to take me all night to go through these.” Even before my family moved to Boston ten years ago, my dad was a total workaholic. He puts in long days as a financial analyst at Merriwether Payne Investments, and frequently stays at the office till all hours of the night.

We trudge up the front steps and into the house, carrying the boxes to Dad’s small workspace off the living room.

“I could help you sort through these if you’d like,” I offer.

“Oh, no.” He shakes his head. “I’m not putting you to work.” He slings an arm across my shoulders and smiles. “What do you say you and I go catch a few minutes of the Bruins game before dinner?”

It’s not often that Dad makes time for me. He’s usually too busy working to hang out. Lately, this seems to be changing.

“Sounds like a plan.”

We’re halfway to the den when Mom yells, “Paul! Get in here a sec. This jambalaya’s a little . . . crispy.”

“Oh, brother. Duty calls,” Dad quips, jogging off into the kitchen.

“Looks like we’ll be having pizza after all,” I quip.

Fridays are generally slow at Your Big Break Inc. People like to get their relationship-ending done and over with early in the week, or else they go for one last weekend of sex before calling it quits.

“Dani, are you familiar with the term ‘binding arbitration’?” my boss Craig asks, planting himself in front of my desk. “Did you guys have that down in Louisiana?”

Craig thinks everything south of Washington, D.C., is made up of swamps, dude ranches, and farmland. Never mind the fact that I’ve been living in Boston for more than a decade, or that New Orleans—where I was born and bred—is a bustling metropolis. I toy with him. “Is that one of them fancy legal shindigs you have here in the big city?”

“Dani!” He sounds ready to explode.

I laugh and gesture to the chair opposite my desk. “Have a seat.” He thinks it over for a minute, his brow furrowing rapidly, then plops down. “All right, Craig, yes, I know what binding arbitration is. Why?”

“You know Evan Hirschbaum?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but I nod. Evan Hirschbaum is our biggest client. He practically single-handedly keeps us in business.

“Well, Mr. Hirschbaum was in the middle of binding arbitration this morning when Sophie Kennison—the girl he hired you to dump last week—barged in and started screaming obscenities at him. It threw him off so badly, he nearly blew the case.” Craig smirks. “Though, of course, he didn’t.”

“Of course.”

Craig looks at me. “Be straight with me, Dani. Did you or did you not inform Sophie Kennison that Mr. Hirschbaum no longer wants to see her?”

“Yes, I did the deed last Monday.” I sigh. “She was pretty devastated.” Devastated doesn’t even begin to describe it. Sophie didn’t stop crying for two hours. I wound up pigging out on Häagen-Dazs with her in an attempt to smooth things over. I don’t know how much more client heartache my waistline can handle.

“Well, apparently, the breakup didn’t take.”

“Apparently,” I agree.

“At any rate, Evan’s deeply upset about what happened, Dani.”

Oh, brother. I suppress a laugh. Try as I might, I can’t imagine Evan Hirschbaum shedding a tear over anything, much less one of his disposable girlfriends. The guy’s rock-solid, through and through. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Sometimes it seems like all I ever do is say I’m sorry. I say it to my boss, to our clients, and, especially, to the people I break up with. Maybe that’s what my business card should read: Danielle M., Professional Apologizer.

“You’d better get down there,” Craig instructs.

“Get down where?”

“Sophie’s apartment. The address is in your file, right?”

“You mean Sophie’s not still at the law offices?”

“No, of course not.” Craig shakes his head. “Evan kicked her to da curb.”

Craig has a habit of picking up slang that sounds ridiculous coming from a middle-aged Irish-American guy. At our office Christmas party, he kept slapping his hands together and exclaiming “True dat!” every time someone made a statement he agreed with. I often feel embarrassed for him. The poor guy means well. He founded Your Big Break Inc. four years ago after his wife left him for a fledgling musician. Craig used to be a traveling salesman, but he returned home one day to find a “Dear Craig” letter taped to the refrigerator. His ex-wife drained his bank account and broke his heart. Craig hasn’t been the same since.

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “Sophie Kennison burst into a closed proceeding today and shouted out a string of cusswords. Yet the arbitrator let her go? She’s not in any legal trouble or anything?” I don’t know much about legal matters, but that doesn’t sound right.

Craig throws up his hands. “Who knows? I’m not clued in to how the legal system works. Mr. Hirschbaum can explain it better. Speaking of which”—he rises from his chair and points to my phone—“you’d better square things away with him before you go see Sophie.”

“I’ll make it my top priority.”

“That’s the spirit! You’re going to have to do your damn best here, Dani,” he says, turning to go. “When I talked to Mr. Hirschbaum this morning, he was furious. It’s going to take a real—”

“Don’t worry, Craig,” I say, cutting him off. “I’ll kiss his ass.”

He smiles. It’s exactly what he wants to hear.

It’s Not You, It’s Me

Evan Hirschbaum is quite possibly the world’s most prolific dater.

As I sit in the reception area of Hirschbaum, Davis, and Klein: Attorneys at Law in the John Hancock Tower downtown, I mull over his never-ending list of exes.

There is, of course, Sophie Kennison, who I’m here to discuss. Last month, it was Holly O’Henry. Before her, Shiri Friedman. And let’s not forget Annie Shields, Heather Canatella, and Tina Graber. Beyond that, my memory gets fuzzy. After a while, Evan’s gal pals start to blend together. They all have similar professions (wannabe actress/model/singer), similar appearances (drop-dead gorgeous) and similar shelf lives (six weeks, max). Evan keeps Your Big Break Inc. on retainer, which basically means we—usually me—remain at his beck and call.

I’ve been waiting in the reception area for nearly forty-five minutes. I pass the time flipping through outdated issues of The New Yorker and sending text messages to my best friend, Krista Bruce, on my cell phone. Krista is the business manager for a small catering company in downtown Boston. We make plans to grab dinner at The Cheesecake Factory tonight after work, and then I put my cell phone away. I glance down at my watch again. I’m giving Evan fifteen more minutes, and then I’m bailing. I’d hoped to schmooze him via phone, but Evan’s secretary instructed me to come to the office. “This isn’t the sort of thing Mr. Hirschbaum is comfortable discussing over the phone,” she snapped.

Which was news to me.

Evan and I conducted most of our business via phone. We’d met in person only once before.

I flip open my briefcase and pull out my Franklin Covey day planner and make a quick note: Call Lucy about Cape Cod wedding w/ Jason. I grimace. That’s going to be a tough one. Lucy is going to be pretty peeved when I ask her to see Jason one last time. I should have given him a flat no, but something in his face—desperation?—really stung me. I just couldn’t bear to see him so upset. My stomach growls. It’s almost 2 p.m., and I haven’t had lunch. I’ll have to grab a quick sandwich at Au Bon Pain on my way to Sophie Kennison’s apartment. I stand up and approach the receptionist’s desk to tell her I’m leaving.

She clicks off from a call. “You can go on back now.”

I head down the hall past a seemingly endless array of conference rooms and tiny cubicles. I don’t see one person who looks genuinely happy. I make my way to Evan’s gigantic office and rap lightly on the door. His head’s buried in a file.

“Come in,” he says, not bothering to look up.

I stroll inside and come to a stop in front of his enormous mahogany desk, which is covered with hundreds of manila folders, piled in stacks. I stand there for a minute before he further acknowledges me. “Dani, great to see you!” he says brightly, standing to greet me. We shake hands, and he holds my grip for a second too long.

Evan’s tall with inky black hair and large dark eyes. He’s in his early forties and is strikingly handsome in a polished, intimidating way. When I first met him, I thought he looked like a soap-opera stud, not a Boston attorney.

“Would you care for some water?” he asks, sitting down.

I perch on the chair opposite him. “That’d be great.”

He buzzes his secretary. “Martha, bring me two bottles of Trump Ice.”

Evan Hirschbaum, I realize, is the only person I know who would actually drink bottled water with Donald Trump’s face on the side.

A pretty young woman comes bustling in a second later with two waters. As soon as she’s gone, I begin sucking up.

“Mr. Hirschbaum, I can’t tell you how sorry I am, sir—”

“None of this ‘sir’ business. It makes me sound ninety. How long have we known each other, Dani? Four, five months?”

“About a year.”

There’s a long pause, and I’m afraid he’s going to argue with me. “So call me Evan.” He smiles. “We’re on a first-name basis now.”

We are? This is news to me. Even Craig doesn’t call him Evan. “Dani, the reason I asked you here is simple. I’ve been paying for your services for a year, and I think that entitles me to a certain level of commitment.”

I hate the way he says “services.” It makes me sound like a prostitute. “You can rest assured, s-Evan”—I just called him Seven!—“you’re our top priority.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He nods. “However, I didn’t feel like a top priority this morning. Can I assume Craig brought you up to speed with what happened?”

“Yes, Craig filled me in on all the details. I understand Sophie Kennison caused some trouble for you during a binding arbitration.”

“Trouble,” he scoffs. “She completely intruded on my workspace!”

I grimace in sympathy. “I can’t imagine how horrible that must have been.”

He takes a swig of Trump Ice. “Would you like to hear my life philosophy, Dani?”

Not really, but what choice do I have? “I’d love to.”

He stares straight at me. “Everything’s business. Everything. Treat your life that way, and the world’s your oyster.”

“That’s interesting.” I take a quick sip of Trump Ice.

“The problem with people is they let their feelings dictate how they live their lives. They become slaves to emotion. Me, on the other hand—I take nothing personally.”

I’m not sure what to say to this. “That’s one way of looking at the world,” I finally offer.

Evan shakes his head. “It’s not one way. It’s the only way. Do you see what I’m getting at? How this applies to Sophie?”

He’s lost me, but I try to hide it. “I think I do, yeah.”

He leans back in his chair and props his hands behind his head. “I trust you to keep my romantic relationships in order. Ideally, I prefer clean partings. But when messes occur, I trust you to clean them up promptly.”

“I’ll handle Sophie.”

He shakes his head. “She got to me today, and I don’t appreciate that.”

“What exactly did she say when she barged in? I understand she was cursing?”

Evan laughs. “Cursing isn’t exactly the right word, though it was bordering on profane. See for yourself.” He reaches into his Cole Haan trouser pocket and pulls out a Motorola cell phone. “It’s the first text on the screen.”

I take the phone from his hands and open the message.

Evan, I miss the way you kiss me, I miss scratching my nails down your back. I miss your eyes, your hands, your tongue, your two-hour hard-ons . . .

I snap the phone shut. “I don’t really think I need to read the whole thing.”

“But you get the picture.”

Loud and clear. “So tell me about the part where Sophie burst into the room. How did the arbitrator react?” I ask, steering things onto less embarrassing ground.

“She never came into contact with the arbitrator.” Huh? “But I thought she intruded on your case?”

“It wasn’t a physical intrusion, per se.”

I wish he’d just get to the point. “What do you mean, exactly?” “Sophie sent this”—he grabs for the phone—“semi-erotic text to me in the middle of the arbitration! I made the mistake of reading the damn thing right at a crucial moment.”

“You had your cell phone on during a legal proceeding?” I ask. Surely that’s violating some law? At the very least, it’s incredibly rude.

“I’m only human.” Could have fooled me.

“And when I read Sophie’s text, I was utterly distracted.”

This from the man who takes nothing personally? “Craig said Sophie barged into the proceedings—”

“She wasn’t there, but I felt her presence quite strongly”—he glances down at his lap—“if you follow.”

Oh, Christ. I’m thoroughly grossed-out. I can’t believe this is what my life has come to. I have a master’s degree in communications from Tulane University, for crying out loud. “Look, sir . . . Evan,” I begin. “Sophie’s having trouble adjusting. She cared about you a great deal. I’ll talk to her, make sure she’s coping okay. And I’ll see that she doesn’t bother you again.”

“Music to my ears.”

I get up to leave. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll take care of this first thing.”

Evan rises from his chair. “Why the rush?” He cocks his head to the side. “How about grabbing a late lunch with me? It would give us a chance to get to know each other better. I’d like to find out what makes you tick, Dani.”

What makes me tick? Has he lost his mind?

Evan strides around the desk and touches my shoulder. “It’s really a shame we aren’t better friends.”

“Friends?” I repeat.

“Yes, you seem like someone I’d enjoy getting to know.” Oh, fuck, is Evan Hirschbaum hitting on me? I feel my face flame up. I’m not Evan’s type! As Jason Dutwiler so bluntly pointed out, I’m not exactly stacked. And for Evan Hirschbaum, that’s an important quality. His taste runs more Carmen Electra than girl-next-door.

“I’d love to have lunch, but, unfortunately, I’ve already eaten. And I could eat again, except I had such a big, big meal.” My stomach, naturally, picks this moment to growl. “I ate pasta. At Bertucci’s,” I babble.

“Do you always ramble when you’re nervous?” he teases.

Oh, fuck, Evan Hirschbaum is definitely hitting on me! “I’m not nervous, I’m just . . . full.”

“Another time, then.” He releases his grip on my shoulder.

“Yes, another time.” Not if I can help it! “But now I’d better get over to Sophie’s place.”

He shakes his head. “Sophie’s visiting her parents in Connecticut for two weeks. Which you would have known, had you read the entire text message.”

“I’ll talk to her as soon as she gets back, then.” I begin inching toward the door.

“Sophie’s a loose cannon, Dani. I don’t know what I ever saw in her in the first place.”

“Beauty. Same thing you see in all your women,” I say before I can stop myself.

Evan winks. “You make me sound shallow. As though I chew people up and spit them out.”

“You do break a lot of hearts,” I tell him, and he beams, like he’s proud of it.

“It may appear that way, but I’ve merely had a string of bad luck,” Evan says as he shows me out of his office. “Some women are too annoying, too fat, too clingy to merit a lasting relationship. I seem to know them all.”

I can’t get out of there fast enough.

I meet Krista for dinner at The Cheesecake Factory after work. I never did stop for lunch, and I’m absolutely starving. I’m about to crack a joke about how hungry I am when my cell phone starts ringing. I quickly pull it out of my purse and answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi, honey.” It’s my dad.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Not a lot. I was calling to see if you’re free to go shopping this weekend. I’d like to pick out something really nice for your mother’s birthday next week, and I could use your help.”

“Sure, my schedule’s wide open.”

He chuckles. “I find that hard to believe. I bet you’ve got a wild time planned with your friends.”

Actually, I don’t. And it’s really more like friend. Singular, no “s.” Other than Krista, I don’t have a lot of close pals. I let a lot of my friends slip away when I was dating Garrett. It’s a mistake I’ve deeply regretted, and one I vow never to repeat.

“I’m sure I can squeeze you in,” I tease Dad.

“Great! How does Sunday sound?”

We make plans to meet at two o’clock.

“Sorry about that,” I apologize to Krista as I hang up the phone. “Looks like I’m hitting the mall with Dad this weekend.”

Krista raises an eyebrow. “That’s weird. Since when is your dad the shopping type?”

“Since he needs a gift for Mom’s birthday.”

“He’s such a workaholic, I’m surprised he even remembered.”

“Tell me about it,” I begin, then think better of it. “You know, Dad’s been a lot better lately. He’s been making a real effort to spend time with the family. It’s actually kind of cool. I’ve never gotten to know my father very well. Other than watching the occasional Bruins game, he keeps to himself. But he seems to be opening up a lot more these days.”

“That’s great! I wish my parents would do the same. I barely see either one of them,” Krista says. “So, how was your day? Did you have to go see that Ethan guy again?”

“Evan.” I grimace.

“Sorry, I can never remember,” she apologizes as she thumbs through her menu.

“I wish I could forget,” I say, thinking back to our bizarre conversation.

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