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It was from the Director, the Federal Bureau’s Special Research Unit, Psychopathology.

Dear Miranda Parker,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been selected for the position of unpaid intern, and will be responsible for a variety of administrative and research duties in the Special Research Unit, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Manhattan Division. Your term will begin on Monday, January 15 and will end on July 15…

“Oh my God,” I said, totally excited, a sense of euphoria welling up inside of me. “I got it!” I checked the letter again. “I got the internship.”

“No freakin’ way,” Leah said, grabbing the letter from my hand. “You go girl. Congrats!”

We hugged and danced around

the kitchen.

“What did you get?” Steve asked, frowning.

“I got an internship with the FBI after Christmas!” I said and smiled, holding out the letter for him to see. He took it and read it over, his brow furrowed.

“This demands a celebration,” Leah said. “Milano’s tonight or bust!”

I flopped down on a barstool and took the letter back from Steve. “I’m broke. Milano’s is expensive…”

Leah stood with her hands on her hips. “We’re going. You said that either way, acceptance or rejection, we’d go. I got a hair appointment for later this afternoon,” she said and fluffed her blonde tresses, “and I bought a new dress…”

She had such a mournful expression on her face that I knew I couldn’t say no.

“I really can’t afford to go out…” I protested, opening my wallet and counting up my change. “I have a shift tonight.”

“Early shift. You’ll be off by nine and can come right home, shower and you’ll be ready for the fun to start You have to come out and celebrate!”

“I can only afford a beer,” I said and shrugged. “We’ll have to walk because I can’t afford a taxi. Room and board at The New Yorker is twenty-two grand...”

“Never you worry,” she said and pulled out her own wallet, retrieving a credit card – a VISA – and flashing it in my face. Probably from Daddykins, who was a rich investor.

“Okay,” I said, feeling like a mooch, but a girl had to celebrate, right?

“Maybe we’ll meet someone really hot,” she said, leaning forward, her voice low. She wagged her eyebrows. “That will make up for it.”

“Leah,” I said, wearily. “Seriously, I’m not looking for a man.”

“You are seriously in need of a man,” she whispered, and wagged a finger at me. Steve was behind the bar, moving around, placing bottles back on shelves. He could overhear us and I frowned at Leah but she wasn’t getting my hint to be quiet. “You are now re-virginized after a year with no sex – more, since Dan was gone for three months before…”

“Leah!”

She stopped short of saying the rest. Before Dan died.

“Anyway, you need to get out there and lose it fast. Get back in the saddle. Maybe Beckett will show up…”

“You are crazy,” I said, making a face.

“We’re going to Milano’s,” she said, her voice firm. “There’s a convention of Wall Street money managers and brokers at the Yacht Club for a retreat. You might meet a millionaire who likes his women with a bit of flesh on her bones and all your problems will be solved.”

Steve turned and watched us. “More likely to meet some hustler if they’re from Wall Street,” he said, disgust in his voice.

Leah shot him a look that could kill. Then she turned back to me and waved Steve off. She seemed so hopeful, as if Lady Luck was going to shine down on her any time.

On the other hand, I wasn’t so sure that something more in line with Murphy’s Law was more likely to be my fate. Besides, I couldn’t imagine meeting anyone more attractive and desirable than Beckett Tate. He said he was staying at the Yacht Club and was going to give a talk to a group of investors. Maybe he’d be at the club.

I thought of a little black number that hugged my curves and displayed my boobage, and decided to suck it up. I doubted I’d meet a millionaire that night, but I might have a dance or two and a drink on Leah’s credit card.