I never did think I was anything like my mother, nor did I peg her as the main reason I didn't want children. So, despite her intent, my mother's speech did nothing to reverse my position on motherhood.

But there was still something about my mother's words that felt like a revelation to me. Perhaps because it was the first time my mother had ever apologized to me for anything. Perhaps because everyone wants her mother to be proud—and, to some extent, we can't help seeing ourselves as our mother sees us. Perhaps because it was a reminder of all that I still have in my life. I have my career, of course. But more important, I have rich relationships that I cherish. I am a good sister, daughter, and friend. My life has meaning—and will continue to have meaning—without Ben.

So it was my mother, albeit unwittingly, who helped me get to the next level of emotional recovery. Achieve that postdisaster glimmer that life goes on. I even began to think about dating again. Not so much because I wanted to but because dating is always the best inward and outward sign that you've moved on after a big breakup. In some ways, I think it might be the only way to move on.

So when Michael strolls into my office one day and says, "Guess who has you in his number two spot?" I feel a bit excited. I know exactly what he means by "two spot." Whether you're an insurance adjuster in Iowa, a schoolteacher in Florida, or an editor in Manhattan, you are familiar with the practice of gathering around the water cooler (or in our case, the automated Euro-coffee machine) and discussing who among your esteemed colleagues is most attractive. It's an exercise largely born out of boredom or long hours at the office, but it is nonetheless approached with tremendous gravity. (And is only rivaled by the list compiled by couples: "Celebrities I Am Allowed to Cheat on My Significant Other With." Obviously my cheating list is null and void—I can do what I want now without an exemption—which, unfortunately, brings me no closer to sharing a bed with (1) Sting, (2) Colin Firth, (3) Johnny Depp, (4) Tom Brady, or (5) Ed Harris.)

Of course, the problem with playing this ranking game at most publishing houses is that there are slim pickings for a woman. First, the general breakdown of women to men in publishing is about 3 to 1. And of the men, about 70 percent are gay. So you're talking a 10 to 1 female-to-heterosexual-male ratio. On top of that, aside from a few more high-profile departments like publicity, publishing is filled with a high percentage of former nerds (myself included) who spent the majority of their childhood indoors, reading books. My friend Jacqueline, for example, was featured in her local newspaper in North Carolina for reading over five hundred books in one year; she was five at the time. Not that I should talk—my greatest accomplishment as a kid was making it to the state tournament spelling bee, losing in the final round on the word precipice. This is not to say that all former nerds are unattractive. To the contrary, I think we're a great breed—quirky, smart, and far more interesting than your average former cheerleader or ex-jock. Still, the list is not about being quirky and smart or appealing in an offbeat way; the list is about being sexy.

Anyway, one of the perks of being close to Michael is that I'm always privy to the male lists floating around, which is particularly interesting on the few occasions when I've been mentioned. It works like this: Michael tells me I'm on someone's list whereupon I pretend to be some combination of embarrassed, nonplussed, or annoyed, all the while feeling secretly flattered. Who wouldn't be? Even when chosen by a downright geek, it's nice to know you rank.

But I still say, "Two spot?" because the last thing I want to appear is desperate or eager.

"You know. He thinks you're the second-hottest girl at work," Michael says.

"Who?" I say, rolling my eyes. "Gerald from the IT department?"

"Nope." I give.

"Richard Margo," Michael says smugly.

He now has my full attention. Richard Margo is our executive vice president and director of publicity and is very well-known at our house, as much for his prestigious position as his reputation for pitching in the minors for one season and for being a bit of a womanizer—not the sleazy kind, but the "never been married smooth intellect who wines and dines beautiful women" kind. He's in his late forties but, unlike many men his age who are lucky to fetch descriptions like "handsome" or "attractive," Richard can fairly be called hot. He has a very square jaw, deep-set blue eyes, and a slightly receding hairline, a combination of traits that conjures a certain rugged confidence. Even his nose—which looks as if it has been broken at least once—is sexy.

Richard has not only been on my list since I arrived at Elgin Press, but he has consistently occupied my top slot, a fact that I've only admitted to Michael and a few other close friends (with others, I hem and haw, pretend to never have considered the subject, and then issue the preamble, "Please know that they are in no particular order," which somehow makes the exercise seem less serious). In fact, Richard not only consistently tops my workplace list, but when Jude Law was caught in bed with his nanny, all his appeal went out the window, and a spot became available on my celebrity list. A spot I gave to Richard. At the time, Ben insisted that I couldn't commingle my lists, whereupon I argued that he was "famous" at work. The point did not go over so well (Ben insisted that the whole theory behind the celeb list was their unattainable nature). So I bumped Richard, replacing him with Ed Harris—who, incidentally, could pass for Richard's brother.

"Where'd you hear that?" I ask Michael, feeling somewhat shamed by my racing pulse. But in my defense, I haven't had sex in months.

"From the horse's mouth," Michael says, proudly cracking his knuckles.

"You asked your boss that question?" I say, marveling over Michael's ability to elicit illicit information from people, including higher-ups.

He shrugs. "Yeah, so what. Guys over lunch, you know. Phil Loomis and Jack Hannigan were with us, and incidentally, Hannigan had you on his list, too."

"Damn Phil screwed me out of the hat trick?" I say.

Michael laughs as I casually return to the subject of Richard. "So who is Margo's number one? Stacy Eubanks?"

Stacy Eubanks, a secretary in sales, is Beyonce's blonde, blue-eyed twin and word has it that she moonlights as a porn star. (Michael claims to have spotted her in a video called Lezzie Maguire.)

"Nope. Stacy didn't make his cut."

"Imagine that," I say, giving Richard's list even more credence.

"I know. Shocked the hell out of me, too."

"So who is his number one?" I say nonchalantly.

"That new French chick in sub rights."

"Oh, yeah. Marina LeCroy. She's very… French."

"Uh-huh. But apparently Richard's got a thing for redheads because Naomi Rubenstein is in his mix, too."

"I'd hardly call that a thing for redheads."

"Two redheads out of five definitely qualifies as 'a thing.' I mean, you all don't exactly make up forty percent of the general population."

"Fair enough," I say, wondering who the other two non-French, nonredheads on his list are.

"So what are you going to do about this?" Michael asks.

"Nothing," I say, laughing.

"Nothing? Why not?"

"Because… I'm a professional," I say in a jokingly prim tone.

"There's no antifraternizing policy here. And you don't work for the guy," Michael says. "You're not even in publicity. What's the conflict?"

"I don't know. It might show an air of favoritism. Somehow discredit my books."

"C'mon. That's a reach," Michael says.

Technically he is right. Richard runs the publicity department, and as such, has responsibility for all titles in the house. But many different publicists cover my books, and there are other checks and balances in sales and marketing, so it would be virtually impossible for Richard to make much of a single-handed impact on my career or the success of my books. Still, publicity has a huge say in book proposals and they can easily quash a book, so there could be an inference of favoritism coloring my success. Bottom line, I've never dated anyone at work, and I have no intention of doing so now. I tell Michael this and then say, "The whole discussion is moot anyway because Richard Margo is not interested in me. He was only humoring you by playing your little game."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Michael says. "Besides, I totally teed you up."

"How so?" I ask nervously.

"I told him about your divorce," Michael says. "He had no idea."

"Michael!" I say. I know it's ridiculous to keep hiding the fact from everyone, but I can't help it—I don't like my personal affairs being discussed at work. And there's something about divorce that is equated with failure, which is never a perception you want to parade around in the workplace.

"It's no big deal," Michael says.

"What did he say?" I ask.

"That he was sorry to hear it… But I think you should know that he didn't look one bit sorry to hear it. If you catch my drift."

Michael leaves my office after giving me a final, dramatic brow raise and a skilled drumroll on my desk.

As much as I try to downplay my interest in Richard's list, I report the news back to Jess that evening. She has never met Richard, but has heard me speak of him over the years and relishes the mere scent of an intraoffice romance. So instead of taking the story for what it is—a juicy, self-esteem-boosting bit of trivia—she becomes wildly animated, saying that he is perfect for me.

"He's way too old to want kids," she says.

I shake my head and tell her not to be ridiculous.

But a week later when Richard calls me out of the blue, saying he wants to discuss some matters over lunch, I can't help wondering about his intentions. I've sat with him in numerous meetings, but have never had a one-on-one meeting with him. And certainly not over lunch.

"Sure," I say, reminding myself that, our work lists notwithstanding, I have no interest in Richard (or vice versa). I'm sure that he only wants to discuss business. After all, I am becoming more senior all the time, and maybe an occasional lunch with Richard just reflects my status in the house. Perhaps he wants to go over publicity plans for my upcoming Amy Dickerson novel. Or maybe he wants to formulate a strategy to handle my most difficult author, Jenna Coblentz. Jenna's been a huge commercial success for over a decade, but she is so demanding with publicity that her behavior borders on abusive, and it's an editor's responsibility to act as a buffer for the publicists.

"How does Thursday look?" Richard asks me in his rich, radio-DJ voice.

"Thursday's perfect," I say, without consulting my calendar.

"Bolo at one?" he says. Bolo is a popular spot with people from work and the publishing scene generally. He'd never choose Bolo if his intentions were at all impure.

"That works for me," I say, all business.

On Thursday, I wear my most flattering pair of jeans and green seersucker jacket to work. I look casual, but stylish. Then I spend about ten minutes touching up my makeup at my desk before leaving for lunch. I stand by my claim that I have no interest in Richard, but figure that it never hurts in life to look nice, particularly when you're going to be in the company of a hot man.

Richard e-mailed me earlier to tell me he was coming from a dentist appointment and would meet me at the restaurant. I walk briskly the few blocks to Bolo, but still arrive five minutes late. I spot Richard right away at a corner table wearing a sport coat and tie. A glass of red wine and a bowl of olives sit on the table before him. He is talking on his cell phone, looking somewhat agitated as he glances down at a small notepad, the old-school kind reporters carry. He has an air of importance. Then again, maybe I just know that he is important.

When he looks up and sees me, his face brightens and he waves me over. I give him a signal, as if to say, "Finish your call. I'll wait here." He shakes his head, says good-bye quickly, and snaps his phone shut, sliding it into his jacket pocket along with the pad. As I approach him, he gives me the half-stand and says, "Hello, Claudia."

"Hi, Richard," I say as I inhale his aftershave, something I first noticed on him during a shared elevator ride years ago. I love aftershave or cologne on a man. Ben never wore it. Even his deodorant was scent-free. It feels good when I stumble upon something not to miss about Ben. Unfortunately, I haven't racked up many of those so far. "Any cavities?"

"Not a one," he says.

"You're a flosser?" I say.

"Nope," he says, looking sheepish. "Just good genes, I guess."

Our waiter, a young, blond kid with so much exuberance that I peg him as a Broadway performer, stops by, introduces himself as Tad, and asks what I'd like to drink. I don't usually have wine at lunch during the week, but because Richard is drinking, I order a glass of chardonnay.

"Good. I don't like to drink alone," Richard says after Tad departs. "Unless I'm alone, that is."

I laugh.

He laughs.

Then, as if to offset our beverage selection, Richard skips further small talk and immediately launches into business. Our summer list generally. A new author I just signed on board. A recent, mixed review of the Skvarla memoir in the Times. (Not that publicity ever cares too much about the content. Even bad publicity is good publicity.)

"And the big news is," Richard says, as if signaling the reason for our lunch, "I'm this close to getting Amy Dickerson on The Today Show." His index finger and thumb are a millimeter apart.

"You're kidding me?" I say, even though I had already heard this news from Michael. It is huge deal for any book, but particularly a novel. Still, it's usually not the sort of thing that necessitates a one-on-one lunch with the head of publicity.

Richard nods. "Apparently Katie really digs the book," he says.

I smile at his use of the word digs. Richard frequently uses jargon from the seventies. Most people sound washed-up or silly when they drop slang from a prior generation, but with Richard, it's endearing. I guess if you're handsome and successful enough, you can pull off just about anything.

I resist the urge to say, "Groovy," and instead cross my fingers in the air.

Tad returns with my glass of chardonnay and two menus. He asks if we'd like to hear the specials.

"Sure," we say in unison, and then listen as Tad rattles off the longest and most detailed shrimp bisque description in the history of the world. Ben always hated food adjectives—particularly the words moist and chewy. Cookie commercials presented a problem for him. I tell myself, No more thinking about Ben! I peruse the menu, trying to find something that's not too messy to eat. I decide on the seared-tuna salad. Richard goes with the pressed burger. I like the burger-wine combo.

"So read anything good lately?" Richard asks.

"You mean generally—or are you talking manuscripts?" I ask.

"Either," he says.

I reel off a few titles in the first category—and a couple of projects in the second.

"What else can you tell me?" Richard says after Tad takes our order and trots off. He looks at me expectantly, as if I'm the one who scheduled our little "business" lunch.

I take a sip of wine and say, "As far as work goes?" My mind races to various bits of gossip in the business generally. Just as I'm about to ask him if he's heard the rumors that the mystery writer Jennifer Coats is unhappy with her editor at Putnam, and is shopping her new manuscript around, Richard shrugs and leans back in his chair. "Or whatever." His whatever signals that this is most definitely not a business lunch.

I consider my response carefully, feeling as if I have just arrived at a fork in the road. Like the kind in one of those choose-your-own-adventure books I loved so much in elementary school. I could easily discuss the Jennifer Coats rumor or turn the conversation back to Amy Dickerson's Today Show booking.

Instead, I hold up my left hand, wiggle my ring finger, and blurt out, "I got a divorce."

Richard looks surprised, and I hope that he's not going to play dumb and pretend that he knew nothing of my recent news. Then again, maybe he's just surprised that I'm sharing it with him so readily. I'm a little surprised myself.

Richard tugs on his earlobe and says, "I heard. I'm sorry."

I consider saying, "That's okay," but I've always hated when people respond that way after a death or any sad event in life. After all, it's not really okay. So I say, "Thanks. It happens."

Richard nods as he swirls the wine in his glass. He takes a long swallow, then says, "Half the time from what I hear."

"Yup," I say. "Odds you've never played, right?"

The first personal-question card has officially been played.

Richard laughs. "You got that right."

"Ever come close?" I ask.

Second. "Sure."

"How close?"

Third.

"Not that close, actually."

Richard gives someone across the room a quick salute. I consider turning around to see who it is, but don't want to appear as caught red-handed as I feel.

As if Richard knows what I'm thinking, he says, "Jason Saul."

I give him a puzzled look and he says, "Little fellow in marketing? With the soul patch?"

"Oh, yeah," I say. "It's actually a goatee. Not a soul patch."

"What's the difference?"

I describe the difference, pointing to my chin. Richard nods, looking enlightened. I am reminded of my favorite facial hair story. Years ago, Michael was in a moustache-growing contest with another guy at work. Michael was badly losing, and to demonstrate his point over lunch, he nodded toward a girl named Sally whom he actually had a minor crush on and said, "Even Sally would kick my ass." He was trying to be funny, but unfortunately, Sally was a dark-haired Italian and one of those girls who waxes her upper lip. Sally was horrified and humiliated, as was Michael when he realized his slip. I tell Richard the story now, and he laughs.

"Is Sally still around?" Richard asks.

"No. She left a short time later. Guess she was traumatized."

Richard nods, and then says, "So where were we?"

"Why you never married?" I say.

Fourth.

"When I meet someone I like being with more than I like being alone," he says, "I'll marry her."

I laugh and tell him that had been, more or less, my philosophy when I met Ben.

"So, what? You figured out late in the game that you still preferred your own company to his?"

Fifth.

"Not exactly… Just… irreconcilable differences."

Richard pauses, as if considering a follow-up. Then he stops himself and gives Tad a signal that he'd like another glass of wine.

I decide to just tell him. "I didn't want kids. He did."

Maybe I should get a T-shirt made. Most divorces aren't so neatly summarized.

"Shouldn't you have covered that one while you were in the courting stage?" Richard asks gently.

"We did. He reneged on our deal. Now he wants them. Or at least one. One more than I want."

"Bastard."

I laugh. I like the sound of Richard calling Ben a bastard.

Tad returns with Richard's wine. So here we are, I think, having multiple glasses of wine at lunch as we discuss my divorce and his perpetual bachelorhood. And maybe he's thinking the same thing, because the floodgates open and we are firing off the personal questions too quickly to keep track of them.

At one point I say, "So, I hear that you and Hannigan had me on your lists?"

"And I hear that I've topped yours for thirteen years."

I say, "That Michael is a gossipy little girl."

"So it's true, then?"

My heart races as I tell him yeah, it's true.

"I'm honored," he says.

"You should be," I say.

He leans across the table and taps the base of my wineglass. "And believe me, I am."

I work hard at not averting my eyes before I lean back across the table and tap the base of his wineglass. "So am I."

We finish our lunch, talking and laughing. Then, at Tad's chipper suggestion, we agree that a cup of coffee sounds like a fine idea. When the check arrives, Richard gets it, saying he'll expense it.

"Since we talked so much shop?" I say.

"Righto," Richard says.

I smile, feeling both relaxed and excited, the mark of a good date. Which this is shaping up to be. And although I don't recognize it until later that day, after Richard and I have strolled back to the office together and I've hunkered down to read a revised manuscript, it is the first time in a very long time that I am thinking about a man other than Ben.