Earlier that night found me racing around my little studio apartment, cell phone pressed to an ear with one hand, the other rustling through the closet. I find the dress I'm looking for and rip it off its hanger.

  “Elise, I’m almost ready. I’ll see you there in twenty minutes at the most.”

  “I can’t believe you’re not here already, Skylar,” Elise said teasingly. “I’m here all alone at the bar staring at Reid.”

  “Twenty minutes,” I insist, ending the call, throwing the phone in the general direction of the handbag sitting on the edge of the Murphy bed. My studio is so snug that it has one of those beds that pulls out of the wall and can be folded up and stowed away when it's not in use.

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