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‘I’d like to open tonight’s meeting with a toast to Bette,’ Courtney said, raising her mojito above her head.

I’d been reading a text message from Kelly politely requesting (read: ordering) that I ‘put in an appearance’ at the Mr and Mrs Smith premiere that was being overseen by Skye and Leo. The movie would end at exactly eleven o’clock, which meant I could stop by the after-party at Duvet and still be home by twelve-thirty and asleep by one A.M. – which would be the earliest night in weeks. I had just concluded my calculations when the sound of my name made me snap to attention.

‘Me? What have I done to deserve a toast?’ I asked distractedly.

The group stared at me as though unable to comprehend my stupidity. Janie spoke first. ‘Excuse me, do you think we live in a vacuum? That our lives cease to exist outside this book club?’

I just stared, having a fairly good idea where this was headed, but still trying to prevent it from happening.

Jill mashed some limes with sugar in a bowl before spooning more of the muddled mixture into my drink. ‘Bette, we all read New York Scoop, you know – hell, everyone reads it. And you appear to be the featured story every day. When on earth were you planning to mention that your boyfriend just happens to be Philip Weston?’ She said his name with a slow deliberateness and everyone laughed.

‘Whoa, girls, let’s hold on a second here. He is not my boyfriend.’

‘Well, that’s not what Ellie Insider seems to think,’ Alex chirped in. Her hair was an unsavory shade of puke green tonight and I marveled at the thought that even the East Village punk crowd was reading that horrific column.

‘Yeah, that’s true,’ Vika added thoughtfully. ‘You do seem to be with him quite frequently. And why not? He’s wildly, undeniably, fabulously gorgeous.’

I thought about that for a moment. He was indeed gorgeous, and every woman between the ages of fifteen and fifty seemed to want him desperately, so what was so wrong with letting everyone think we were dating? Unless I told them, no one would really know that I hadn’t been back to Philip’s apartment since the first time I accidentally woke up there. In fact, they probably wouldn’t even believe it if I explained that we only saw one another (and were subsequently seen together) because I was expected to stop by every Kelly & Company event – whether I’d worked on it or not. I’d run into Philip ‘accidentally’ almost every other night for weeks. After all, it was my job to throw the best parties, and it was Philip’s self-designated responsibility to attend each and every one.

Why explain that even though we only chatted briefly at these events, he always seemed to throw his arm around my shoulders (or put his hand on my ass or his drink in front of my chest or his mouth on my neck) precisely when a photographer happened to stroll by? It appeared to anyone who was watching that we were inseparable, but what got labeled as ‘lots of hot-and-heavy canoodling’ was about as sexual as my nightly cuddles with Millington. Why, I wondered, would anyone possibly want to hear all of that?

I knew the answer. Because he was the It Boy du jour, and I was making out with him.

‘He is cute, isn’t he?’ I asked. Philip Weston might be one of the more arrogant guys I’d ever met, but it was ridiculous to deny that I was absurdly attracted to him.

‘Um, yeah. And let’s not overlook the fact that he’s the most perfect Harlequin guy you could imagine existing in real life.’ Courtney sighed. ‘I think I’m going to model the hero of my next novel after him.’

‘After Philip?’ It was difficult to envision any leading Harlequin man whining and bitching about his thread count, but I supposed the genre could use some updating for the new millennium.

‘Bette! He’s tall, handsome, and powerful. He’s even foreign, for Christ’s sake,’ she pointed out while waving a copy of Sweet Savage Love and pointing to the hulking man in a loincloth on the cover. ‘And better looking than Dominick, which is remarkable when you consider that Dominick is drawn to look as gorgeous as humanly possible.’

The girl had a point. Philip fit the ideal of the romantic hero more closely than any guy I’d met before – except for that small, nagging little problem of his personality.

I spent the rest of book club distracted, dreamily wondering if I’d see Philip later at the after-party and what might happen.

I ducked out of the meeting early and changed before heading to Duvet. Where, of course, the first person I saw upon walking inside was Mr Weston himself.

‘Bette, love, come say hello to a few mates visiting from England,’ he said, planting a brief but admittedly delicious kiss directly on my lips.

I couldn’t help it; I looked over my shoulder. I had promised myself I’d be more aware of the photographers, but I saw nothing unusual, just the regular beautiful writhing masses.

‘Hi,’ I said, noticing (a) he looked even more like fictional Dominick when he was standing in front of me, and (b) Courtney was right: Philip was better-looking. ‘Can I meet you over there in a minute? I’ve got to find Kelly and make sure everything’s okay.’

‘Sure, love. Will you bring me a cocktail when you come back? That’d be smashing!’ And he scampered off to play with his friends, as happy as a little boy at the playground.

I managed to check in with Kelly, ask Leo and Skye if they needed anything, wave to Elisa as she made out with Davide, introduce myself to two potential clients (the much-worshipped designer Alvin Valley and someone who Kelly described to me as ‘the most sought-after stylist in Hollywood’), and bring Philip a gin and tonic, all in less than an hour. So much for what might happen with Philip. He was busy entertaining his ‘blokes.’ The dull headache I’d managed to ignore since morning had suddenly become sharper, and I knew it couldn’t be another late night. I slipped out the door shortly thereafter and was home by twelve-fifteen (a solid fifteen minutes ahead of schedule) and unconscious by twelve-thirty, after deciding that silly nighttime rituals like teeth-brushing and face-washing could easily be neglected. When my alarm went off six and a half hours later, I was not looking good.

I grabbed the Dirt Alert before rushing out and read it as I inhaled a large coffee and a buttered cinnamon-raisin bagel on the subway. Unsurprisingly, New York Scoop was the first clipping of the day’s packet and, again, there was a huge picture – a close-up, actually – of Philip kissing me the night before. Only the back of his head was visible, but somehow the camera had zoomed in on my face and caught me with some sort of faraway, dreamy look caused by my eyes being only partially open while they gazed adoringly at him. Or drunkenly, depending on how one might interpret my half-blink. I probably should have expected it, but since I’d never even spotted a camera, the full-page photo made me physically recoil. That day’s scoop was extra memorable. As predicted, I’d graduated from being ‘Philip’s gal pal’ and ‘the new girl’ and ‘party girl’ and ‘PR maven-in-training’ to warranting my own identity. Right there, under the picture – just in case there was anyone left in New York State who didn’t know my whereabouts at all times – was my name, spelled in big, bold letters, and a caption that read: APPARENTLY, SHE’S HERE TO STAY … BETTINA ROBINSON KNOWS HOW TO PARTY. The feeling was a weird mixture of embarrassment at having anyone see me in such a state, indignation at the misrepresentation of it all, and a faint but persistent misery at the realization that I no longer had anything remotely resembling privacy.

The walk from the subway to the office felt six miles longer than the actual three blocks it was, and it was made incrementally worse when I overheard two perfect strangers talking about Philip’s ‘new girlfriend, what’s her name?’

By the time I’d dropped my laptop bag on the circular table, the entire staff had surrounded me.

‘I suppose you’ve all seen it already?’ I asked no one in particular, flopping into a leather work chair.

‘It’s really nothing we don’t already know,’ Kelly pointed out, sounding disappointed. ‘It just says here that one Mr Philip Weston has been seen so frequently in the company of one Ms. Bettina Robinson that it would only be fair to consider them an item.’

‘An item?’ I asked, incredulous. In my horror at seeing the picture and the caption, I’d simply forgotten to read the accompanying text.

‘Oh, yes, it says here that an unnamed source claims that the two of you spend nearly every night together, after partying at all the hot spots like Bungalow and Marquee.’

‘We are not dating,’ I insisted.

‘The pictures are right here, Bette. And it very much appears that you are, thank God.’ Kelly turned her twenty-inch flat-screen Mac monitor toward the group so we could all enjoy the photos of Philip and me.

My personal and professional lives had become not only intertwined but completely dependent on one another. Any idiot could see that my connection with Philip had made me an accepted part of the team with a swiftness that made my head hurt.

‘Well, it’s just that dating is kind of a strong word,’ I said awkwardly. Why did no one understand?

‘Well, whatever you’re doing, Bette, just keep on doing it. Do you know we’ve been hired to represent BlackBerry solely because you’re dating Mr Weston?’

Solely? I thought.

‘Surprise, Bette! We got a call from their internal PR company just this morning. They want us to introduce their new BlackBerry to New York’s younger set, and picked us because we clearly have access to that world. BlackBerry’s already huge, of course, with the Wall Street crowd, and everyone who’s anyone – and most people who aren’t – in Hollywood already has one, but they haven’t hit as big with the younger crowd. We will do our best to change that, of course. And I’m happy to report that I’m putting you in charge of all the logistics, reporting to me only for approval.’

‘In charge?’ I stammered.

‘Their account rep told us how much she’d love to have you planning and Philip hosting the event, so I think it works out perfectly!’ she sang, not the least bit aware that Philip most likely still didn’t even know my full name.

‘Skye will help you with whatever you need’ – a quick glance at Skye informed me that she wasn’t thrilled with this pronouncement – ’and we’ll all be here to support you. The party is scheduled for November twenty-second, which is the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, so you’d better get started immediately.’

I did a few mental calculations and realized that it was less than three weeks away. I said as much.

‘Oh, Bette, stop stressing,’ Elisa said with an exasperated eye-roll. ‘It’s nothing. Find a venue, get sponsors, order invites, work The List, and save all your presswork until that week. Anything that Philip hosts will be automatically covered, so this is not exactly going to be a lot of work.’

When the meeting finally ended, I ducked out with my laptop and headed to Starbucks in a panicky effort to figure out exactly what needed to happen for the BlackBerry event. I almost hoped Philip would make it some sort of quid pro quo that he’d host the event if I’d sleep with him … and then immediately felt pathetic. Everyone assumed we’d already consummated our relationship, but the reality was that we both seemed to avoid the situation entirely. Which wasn’t difficult, considering he only seemed to want to mug for the cameras. He was great with the suggestive remarks, but he never really followed up on any of them, and he seemed almost relieved when I brushed him off and left alone each night. There hadn’t been much time to think about it, but I figured he had some sort of top-secret girlfriend (or five) that he kept sequestered away and was content to let the general public think we were dating. It was vaguely insulting – I still wanted him to want to have sex with me – but we seemed to have an unspoken agreement to maintain the present arrangement.

I left a message with Amy Sacco’s office asking if we could reserve Bungalow for the BlackBerry event, just as Penelope called on the other line.

‘Hey, what’s going on? What warrants the middle-of-the-day call? How’s Aaron? Have you seen him lately?’

‘Do you know how much the quality of my work life has improved since you left?’ Penelope asked. ‘No offense, but it’s almost worth not having you around to never have him utter the word powwow. How’s lover boy?’

‘Oh, you mean my boyfriend? He’s dreamy,’ I said.

‘Tell me,’ Penelope said, trying to sound enthusiastic. I know she couldn’t stand the thought of Philip, but she’d been kind enough not to say that outright … yet.

‘Let’s see. Things are, like, so amazing. We go to these wonderful parties where he spends at least a few minutes talking to me before flirting with every other girl there. Often I’m allowed to bring him his favorite cocktail – gin and tonic, for the record. I let him kiss me for the photographers and then we go our separate ways. No sex, by the way. We haven’t even spent the night together since I passed out there the first time I met him.’

‘Maybe he’s just so overwhelmed by the amount of sex he’s having with every model, actress, and socialite in London, Los Angeles, and New York that he’s just physically exhausted? It’s possible, you know.’

‘Did I ever tell you what a good friend you are, Pen? Seriously, you always know exactly what to say.’

She laughed. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t have to spell out that I think you’re not doing yourself justice. But enough, let’s talk about me for a second. I have something to tell you.’

‘You’re knocked up and feel guilty about getting rid of it because you’re engaged and old enough to take responsibility for your own actions?’ I asked eagerly, leaning in closer to the phone as though she could see me.

She sighed, and I knew she was rolling her eyes.

‘You’re knocked up and it’s not Avery’s baby?’

When this elicited nothing but another exasperated sound, I decided on just one more.

‘You’re knocked up and—’

‘Bette.’ Her voice tightened and I could tell she wasn’t enjoying this nearly as much as I was.

‘Sorry. What’s up?’

‘I’m leaving.’

‘You’re what?’

‘I’m leaving. Done. I’m finished.’

‘Ohmigod, no.’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘It’s definite?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you serious? Just like that? Over? Are you okay with it?’

I was doing everything possible to contain my glee at the idea that she wouldn’t be going through with the wedding, but it was difficult, especially since I knew she’d probably had to walk in on Avery and some girl, a scenario I’d already decided was the only way she’d ever believe it. That aside, she sounded good. Maybe it was the best thing and she knew it.

‘Honestly? I didn’t expect this, but I couldn’t be happier. I’ve wanted to do it for a long time and, well, I’m just so excited about what’s next.’

I slowly took a sip of my coffee and contemplated this new information. ‘You wouldn’t be this excited if you hadn’t met someone else. Who is he? I had no idea you and Avery were having trouble – how could you not tell me?’ I choked out. ‘What about the ring? You know, etiquette dictates that if you’re the one to break off the engagement, you’ve got to give it back. Ohmigod, he isn’t cheating on you, is he?’ I pretended to be horrified at even the idea of it, as though it were just too impossible to even imagine. ‘Is that bastard—’

‘Bette, stop! I’m not leaving Avery, I’m leaving this job!’ she hissed, trying not to be overheard by her cubicle mates.

Serious one-eighty – and a major disappointment.

‘You’re leaving UBS? Really? What happened?’

‘Well, I kind of had no choice. Avery got accepted to UCLA for law school, so we’re moving there. He doesn’t start until January, but we figured we’d go now to get settled and learn our way around.’

‘UCLA?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘So you’re not leaving Avery, you’re leaving me?’ I wail-whispered. The juicy story of my best friend cheating on her fiancé had become the story of my best friend moving to another coast.

‘I’m not leaving you,’ she said, sighing. ‘I’m leaving this job and this city and going to California. Probably just for the three years, and then I’ll be back. And we’ll visit, of course. You’ll love coming out there when it’s February and you haven’t left your apartment in twelve days because the temperature hasn’t hit the double digits.’

‘There aren’t law schools on the East Coast? Avery really has to be so selfish as to drag you all the way out, out, there?’

‘Oh, Bette, shut up and be happy for me. UCLA is a great school, and besides, I could use a change. I’ve lived in the city for five years since graduation, and eighteen before it. I’ll be back, there’s no getting around that. But for now I think it could be nice to do something different.’

It occurred to me right then that as a friend, I was required to express some sort of support, however lame it might come across.

‘Honey, I’m sorry, this is just all so surprising – you didn’t even mention he was applying out west. If this is what you want to do, then I’m excited for you. And I promise to try very, very hard to stop only thinking about how it will affect me, okay?’

‘Yeah, he did the UCLA application at the last second, and I never thought he’d want to go there. But seriously, I’m not too worried about you. You’ve got a whole new crew now, and I have a feeling you’ll be just fine without me. …’ She let the words trail off, trying to sound casual, but we both knew this was the closest she’d ever get to saying something more important.

‘Well, we’ll have to have a great big going-away dinner for you guys,’ I said with forced cheer, not quite acknowledging my opportunity to disagree.

‘As you can imagine, our mothers are already on that. We’re leaving sort of soon, so they planned a joint dinner at the Four Seasons on Saturday. You’ll be there, right? It’ll be dreadful, but you’re obligated to attend nonetheless.’ She cleared her throat. ‘And, of course, Philip is always invited.’

‘Pen! Of course I’ll be there. And I’ll certainly spare all of you Philip’s company.’

My call waiting beeped with a 917 number I didn’t recognize. I decided to answer it in case it was related to the BlackBerry party.

‘I’m sorry, Pen, I’ve got to take this call. Can I call you later?’

‘Sure, no worries.’

‘Okay, I’ll talk to you in a few. And congratulations! If you’re happy, then so am I. Grudgingly, of course. But happy for you.’

We hung up and I clicked over right before the phone went to voice mail. ‘May I speak with Bette?’ I heard a gravelly male voice ask.

‘Speaking.’

‘Bette, this is Sammy calling from Amy Sacco’s office. You called about a date you wanted to reserve the club?’

Sammy? Wasn’t that the name of the Bungalow 8 bouncer? Could there be more than one Sammy in her employ? I didn’t know that bouncers did office work.

‘Yes, hi, how are you?’ I said as professionally as possible, although he certainly didn’t know my name or remember me as the cranky girl with no umbrella.

‘Great. We got your message, and Amy asked me to call you back because she’s tied up all afternoon.’ The rest was drowned out by the screech of sirens.

‘Sorry, I missed that. It’s just the loudest siren I’ve ever heard. It must be eight fire trucks or something,’ I screamed, trying to be heard over the wails.

‘I hear it, too, only not just through the phone. Where are you now?’

‘I’m at the Starbucks near Eighth and Broadway. Why?’

‘That’s weird. I’m literally across the street. I was just leaving class when I got the message from Amy to call you back. Hold on, I’m coming over.’ He hung up, and I stared at the phone for a second before frantically yanking a lip gloss and brush out of my bag and sprinting for the bathroom, which, naturally, was occupied. I watched as he approached the front door and then bolted back to my table in a side nook, falling back into my seat before he even saw me.

There was no subtle way to fix anything right now since I needed to focus my energy on pretending to look both busy and indifferent, which was impossible. I knew I’d choke if I tried to drink or drop my phone if I pretended to be talking, and so I just sat, staring at my Filofax with such determined interest that I briefly wondered if it might just up and ignite from the intensity of my gaze. A quick mental survey of my physical state revealed a list of clichéd reactions – shaking hands, pounding heart, dry mouth – that could indicate only one thing: my body was telling me that I liked Sammy or, quite possibly, that I worshipped him. Which, if one cared to draw a parallel, was exactly how Lucinda felt right before her first one-on-one meeting with Marcello in The Magnate’s Tender Touch. This was the first time I could ever remember feeling all tingly with nervous anticipation, just like the women in my books always did.

I felt him standing over me before I saw him, a sort of amorphous figure in all black. And he smelled good! Like freshly baked bread or sugar cookies or something equally as wholesome. He probably stood there for thirty seconds, staring at me stare at my Filofax, before I finally mustered the nerve to look up, just as he cleared his throat.

‘Hey,’ I said.

‘Hey,’ he said right back. He was unconsciously rubbing at what appeared to be a flour stain on his black pants, but he stopped when he noticed me watching.

‘Uh, would you like to sit down?’ I stammered, wondering why it was utterly impossible for me to make one intelligible or coherent statement.

‘Sure. I, uh, I just thought it might be easier to do this in person since I was, uh, right across the street, you know?’ It was comforting that he didn’t sound much better.

‘Yeah, definitely, it makes perfect sense. Did you say you were just coming from class? Are you taking a bartending course? I’ve always wanted to do that!’ I was rambling now, but I couldn’t help it. ‘It just seems like it’d be the most useful thing, whether or not you actually work in a bar. I don’t know. It’d be nice to know how to mix a decent drink or something. You know?’

He smiled for the first time, a megawatt ear-to-ear shiner, and I thought I might just cease living if he ever stopped. ‘No, it’s not for bartending, it’s for pastry-making,’ he said.

It didn’t make much sense that the bouncer was into pastries, but I thought it was nice that he had outside interests. After all, aside from the nightly ego rush of rejecting people based on appearance alone, I imagined it got pretty boring.

‘Oh, really? Interesting. Do you cook a lot in your free time?’ I was only asking to be polite, which, unfortunately, came across loud and clear in my voice. I rushed on. ‘I mean, is that a particular passion of yours?’

‘Passion?’ He grinned again. ‘I’m not sure I would call it a “passion,” but yeah, I like to cook. And I sort of have to, for work.’

Ohmigod. I couldn’t believe he’d called me out for using that ridiculous word, passion.

‘You have to?’ It came out sounding downright snotty. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Where do you cook?’

‘I’m studying to be a chef, actually,’ he said, diverting his eyes from mine.

This was a new and interesting development. ‘A chef? Really? Where?’

‘Well, nowhere yet, really. I already graduated from CIA and I’m taking a few classes at night. Like pastry-making.’ He laughed.

‘How’d you get into that?’

‘I’m not particularly into it, but it’s good to know. Aside from making omelet dinners growing up when it was my turn, I didn’t really ever cook. I lived in Ithaca for a summer in high school with a buddy and worked as a waiter at the Statler Hotel on Cornell’s campus. One day the general manager saw me refilling a guest’s coffee by holding the carafe almost four feet above the cup and freaked out – he loved it. He convinced me to apply to the hotel school there. He got me a few scholarships, and I worked the whole time – busboy, waiter, night manager, bartender, you name it – and when I graduated he hooked me up with a yearlong apprenticeship at a Michelin-starred restaurant in France. It was entirely his doing.’

I was vaguely aware that my mouth was quite unattractively hanging open in shock at this information, but Sammy graciously saved me from myself by continuing.

‘You’re probably wondering why I’m working as a bouncer at Bungalow, huh?’ He grinned.

‘No, not at all. Whatever works for you. Um, I mean, it’s just a different side of the hospitality industry, right?’

‘I’m paying my dues now. I’ve worked in what feels like every imaginable restaurant in this city.’ He laughed. ‘But it’ll be worth it when I finally open my own place. Hopefully it’ll be sooner rather than later.’

I must have still looked confused because he just laughed. ‘Well, clearly the first and foremost reason is the money. You can actually make a decent living piecing together a few security and bartending gigs, and I have a bunch of that stuff going on. It keeps me from going out at night and spending, so I stick it out. Everyone says there’s nothing like opening a restaurant in this city. I’ve been told it’s really important to know all the social politics, from who’s sleeping with whom to who’s really important and who’s just pretending they’re a player. It doesn’t really interest me, but I don’t exactly run with that crowd, so there’s no better way than to watch them in their native environments.’

He clamped a hand over his mouth and peered at me. ‘Look, I probably shouldn’t have said all that. I didn’t mean any offense to you and your friends, it’s just that—’

Love. All-consuming and overwhelming love. It was all I could do not to grab his face and kiss him full on the mouth … he looked so horrified.

‘Seriously, don’t say another word,’ I said. I moved my hand to touch his reassuringly, but I lost my nerve at the last minute and my fingers ended up awkwardly suspended above the table. Lucinda from Magnate would’ve been cool enough to pull off that move, but I, apparently, was not. ‘I think it’s really great what you’re doing. I can’t imagine some of the things you must see every night. Ridiculous stuff, right?’

It was all he needed to hear. ‘Christ, it’s incredible. All those people – they have so much money and so much time and don’t seem to want to do anything but beg me to let them into these clubs every night,’ he said. His eyes met mine.

‘It’s got to be kind of fun, though, isn’t it? I mean, people fall all over themselves trying to be nice to you,’ I managed, too distracted by his gaze to think straight.

‘Oh, come on, Bette, we both know it’s hardly like that. They kiss my ass because they need me, not because they know anything about me or like me as a person. I have a very short shelf life for respect and likability – namely, the few minutes between the time they arrive and the time they walk inside. They wouldn’t remember my name if they saw me anywhere away from that velvet rope.’

The look of distress returned to his face, and I noticed how his forehead wrinkled when he frowned, and it only made him cuter. He sighed and I had a bizarre desire to hug him. ‘I have such a big mouth. Forget everything I just said. I really don’t take the job all that seriously, so I shouldn’t make it sound like it’s a bigger deal than it really is. It’s just a means to an end, and I can put up with anything if it’ll get me closer to my restaurant one day.’

I was desperate for him to keep talking, saying anything about anyone just so I could continue to watch his perfect face and examine the way his mouth moved and his hands gestured, but he was finished. When I opened my mouth to tell him that I understood exactly what he meant and had never really thought of it from that perspective, he gently cut me off. ‘I guess you’re just easy to talk to,’ he said and smiled so sweetly that I had to remind myself to breathe. ‘I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention any of this stuff to anyone at your office. It’s just easier for me to do what I need to do without everyone, well, uh, you know.’

I sure did know. Without everyone knowing where you came from and where you were going, trying to decide at every moment if you fell into their own personal ‘worth knowing’ or ‘safe not to acknowledge’ categories. Without everyone angling for position or trying to manipulate the situation to their own benefit or slowly but surely chipping away at your confidence because it made them feel better about themselves. Uncle Will was joking when he always said, ‘If you can’t have, discredit,’ but most of this crowd weren’t. Yes, I got it, loud and clear.

‘Of course. Totally. I understand completely. I, uh, I think it’s really cool what you’re doing,’ I said.

Another blinding smile. Ah! I tried to think of something, anything, I could say that would elicit another smile, but one of us finally remembered that we were there on business.

He seemed completely recovered from any moment of vulnerability when he said, ‘I’m getting a coffee, and then we can figure out the event details. Can I get you something?’

I shook my head and pointed to my coffee cup.

‘No grande sugar-free vanilla extra-hot no-whip skim latte?’

I laughed and shook my head again.

‘What? You think I’m kidding? I actually order that fucking drink every time I come here.’

‘You do not.’

‘I do, I swear I do. I made it through twenty-some years of life being perfectly fine with a cup of regular coffee. Sometimes I had it light and sweet, and sometimes late at night I asked for it decaf, but it was definitely just coffee. Then a friend mentioned how good lattes were. Soon after that a girl from school announced that adding flavoring made it even better. The rest of it just followed, and it’s gotten totally out of hand. I wish, just once, they’d refuse to make the damn thing, just say, “Get ahold of yourself, Sammy. Be a man and drink a goddamn cup of regular coffee.” But they never do and, alas, neither do I.’ And with that, he was off.

I watched as the barista flashed him an undeniable I’m-yours-for-the-taking smile. I don’t think I blinked the entire time he was gone, and I audibly exhaled when he reclaimed his seat next to me.

‘Okay, enough confessional for one day. Should we get this party worked out?’ He brushed the back of his head, and I couldn’t help thinking that I’d seen him do that a million times before.

‘Sure. What first?’ I sipped my coffee and concentrated on looking cool and professional.

‘How many did you say the event is for?’

‘I’m not exactly sure, since I haven’t put together a finalized list yet’ – or any list, for that matter, but he didn’t need to know that – ’but I’m thinking it’ll be in the area of a couple hundred.’

‘And will Kelly & Company be bringing in its own people for everything or using ours?’

Again, not something I’d considered yet, but I tried to think back to past meetings and cobble together a semi-reasonable answer. ‘Well, I’ll definitely be securing some sponsors, so I think we’ll do alcohol but use your bartenders. I’m assuming we’ll be using your, uh, your …’

‘Security?’ he provided helpfully, somehow sensing my discomfort at using the word bouncers.

‘Yes, exactly, although I’ll have to check on that.’

‘Sounds good to me. As of now, only Lot 61 is free that night, but Amy may want to consider rearranging the schedule. Who will be hosting?’

‘Oh, uh, a guy named Philip Weston. He, uh, he’s—’

‘I know who he is. Your boyfriend, right? I’ve seen you guys together a lot lately. Yeah, I’m sure Amy will be thrilled to hear that, so I wouldn’t worry about Bungalow being free that night.’

‘No, no, he’s certainly not my boyfriend,’ I said as quickly as possible. ‘It’s not like that at all. Actually, he’s just this weird guy I sort of know who—’

‘None of my business, that’s for sure. Guy always seemed like kind of an asshole to me, but what do I know, right?’ Was that bitterness I detected? Or wanted to detect?

‘Yes, I suppose it’s not any of your business, is it?’ I said with such prissiness that he actually physically recoiled.

We stared at each other briefly before he looked away.

He took another sip of his coffee and began to gather his stuff. ‘Well, then, this has been fun. I’ll check with Amy and get back to you about the venue. Assume it’s fine. Like I said, who wouldn’t jump at the chance to have Mr British Royalty himself throw a party, right? He’s going to have to start tanning now if he has any hope of being dark enough in time.’

‘Thanks for your concern, I’ll be sure to pass that along. In the meantime, you enjoy making your little puff pastries. I’ll work out the details of the event on my own or directly with Amy, since as much as I enjoy being verbally attacked by you, I don’t really have the time right now.’ I stood up with as much steadiness as I could manage and began to lurch toward the door, already wondering how things had managed to go so terribly wrong in so little time.

‘Bette!’ he called just as I was about to pull open the door. He’s so sorry. He just had a really long day and is under a lot of stress lately and hasn’t been getting enough sleep and he didn’t mean to take it out on me. Either that, or he’s so wildly, insanely jealous of the fact that Philip and I are dating that he simply couldn’t refrain from saying something nasty. Or perhaps a combination of the two, I thought. Either way, I would of course forgive him when he begged for me to understand and apologized profusely.

I turned around, hoping all the time that he would rush toward me with a plea for forgiveness, but instead he was holding up something and waving it. My cell phone. Which naturally began ringing before I’d reached the table.

He glanced down and I spotted the tightness in his face before he forced a smile. ‘What a coincidence, it’s the man of the hour. Shall I take a message for you? Don’t worry, I promise to tell him we’re on a jet on our way back from Cannes and not sitting at a downtown Starbucks.’

‘Give that to me,’ I snapped, wanting to kick myself for programming Philip’s number into my phone while yanking it from Sammy’s fingers and noticing only briefly how nice it was to touch his skin. I silenced the ringer and tossed it in my bag.

‘Don’t not answer on my account.’

‘I’m not doing anything on your account,’ I announced. I looked back only once as I stormed out, only to see him watching me and shaking his head. Not exactly how the same scene would’ve played out in The Magnate’s Tender Touch, I thought with not a little remorse. But I cheered myself up slightly with the rationalization that all new relationships – even the fictional ones – have obstacles to overcome in the beginning. I would not give up hope on this one. Not yet.