When the train stops at Eighty-Sixth Street, I exit the station. I have to map Blake’s cross streets on my phone; I’m not used to the Upper East Side, this neighborhood full of stately cream-colored granite buildings and designer flagship stores and foreign embassies proudly draped with colorful flags. When I see a liquor store, I dart in to pick up a bottle of wine; I figure it’s the least I can offer Blake. Because the thing is, my plan isn’t much of an actual plan at this point. I can seduce him over wine first and figure out what to say next.
Blake’s building has a uniformed doorman to preside over the gleaming lobby. He asks for my name and calls Blake for approval before he waves me toward the elevator. The phone call embarrasses me, somehow, as if the doorman can see just how undignified I am by imposing on Blake like this. In the mirrored elevator, I press fourteen for his floor—not the penthouse, but certainly not cheap, either—and flip my head over to fluff up my hair at the roots. It’s a trick that Mom taught me before my first boy/girl party in middle school; she says she learned it when she was my age, from Farrah Fawcett in a magazine. I catch my reflection: a little wild-eyed, a little frizzy, in black pants with a tote bag—not exactly Farrah Fawcett. The doors ding open. It’s time to go.
I find Blake’s door toward the end of the hall and knock. He opens it right away. I’m struck all over again by how handsome he is. He’s in charcoal gray dress pants and his tie is loosened at the collar. At first glance, I’m utterly stunned that I rebuffed his kiss on Saturday. He hesitates ever so slightly before leaning across the threshold to give me a one-armed hug. And then, there, the awkwardness between us hits me. Something about our conversation, our connection, our chemistry is stilted.
I’m going to fix this.
“Hi!” I say in the warm voice oozing with charm I typically reserve for customers. “It’s so good to see you. Thank you for, um, having me over.”
He steps back, allowing me to enter the apartment. “Your text was mysterious. I’m curious.”
I laugh to stall for time. His place is gorgeously masculine. Along one wall, there’s a chestnut brown leather sectional with a green plaid blanket tossed over its arm. An angular brass lamp shines light on a meticulously organized bar cart and a sleek wooden coffee table. His suit jacket hangs over the back of a chair. This is a major upgrade from Holden’s apartment, which basically just contained a mattress on the floor and a dead succulent on the windowsill. I set down the wine in its black liquor store bag and my tote, and turn to face him. I stuff my hands in my back pockets so I can’t give away my nerves by fidgeting.
“I thought we could have some wine and I could apologize for not kissing you the other day in Central Park,” I say.
A look of embarrassment flashes over his features before he settles into a bemused grin. He runs a hand over his chin.
“You did dodge me, didn’t you?”
“I did, but only because I was a little nervous,” I say. “Because I like you.”
My stomach tightens when I hear my own impulsive words out loud. Maybe it was a ridiculous mistake to zip across the city and barge up here with sweet, canned lines like I’m every hero who’s ever chased down a girl in a rom-com. Maybe Blake has moved on.
But instead, he takes three strides to close the gap between us and kisses me. He weaves his fingers through my hair and places a sturdy hand on the curve of my waist. The adrenaline that’s been building ever since I first stepped onto the subway washes over me. I did it. I like that when we finally pull apart, I can see him smiling for real.
Like magic, the kiss cuts through the tension between us. I don’t feel nervous as he opens the wine with a corkscrew from his bar cart and pours two generous glasses. We settle onto the couch, my legs curled up beneath me, his stretched out confidently. He compliments my bravado, showing up here; I volley back something about how good he looks in his work clothes; he brushes his hand across the pebbled leather of the couch to run a finger over my knee. It feels good to be bold. The chemistry begins to come alive.
I know this is only our second date, but I like how fresh this feels. We didn’t wind up together because we both happened to swipe right in the middle of a loneliness-induced dating-app binge. We’re not hunched over bar stools at some dive bar or cocktail spot that we’ve probably taken a dozen other dates to this year already. We didn’t spend a week texting back and forth about, oh, can you do Tuesday? No? Thursday? Six thirty p.m? Eight p.m.? This feels distinctly different than all of that—spontaneous and electric.
Conversation unfurls like a spool of ribbon. We debate if my Guillotine cocktail at the Marie Antoinette–themed bar is in poor taste (he says yes, I say it honors an icon), and he tells me about the weekend trip he took to Portland last summer. When his wineglass runs low, he doesn’t refill it. Instead, he places it gently on the coffee table and leans across the couch to get closer to me.
He kisses me tenderly at first, with one hand cupping my cheek and the other lingering on my hip. I brace myself against his chest and trail my other hand across his firm bicep. I like how broad his shoulders are and how I can feel his muscles moving beneath his starched white shirt. He kisses me deeply—and then there’s a crash.
He jolts upward. He must have knocked over the wineglass with his leg; there’s a splash of dark red across the surface of his table and it spills on the carpet. He darts into the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels and kneels down in front of the table to mop up the mess.
“Sorry,” he mutters, grimacing.
“Real smooth,” I tease, ruffling his hair.
“I guess it’s time for a refill?” he jokes.
My glass was close to empty anyway. I pour us both more wine.
“Hold on, I’m going to grab some more cleaning supplies from the closet down the hall,” he says.
An impulse washes over me. The wineglasses are tall with elegant stems, and they look chic against the backdrop of Blake’s living room. Before I can think twice, I snap a photo of the scene. A picture like that—two wineglasses atop marble coasters, Pinterest-worthy decor—looks undeniably couple-y. I can post it later on Instagram. Blake’s not on social media, so he’ll never find out. I slip my phone back into my pocket just as he returns with a spray bottle and a wet sponge.
He gets down on his hands and knees to dab the stain from the rug, flipping his tie over his shoulder. There’s something oddly domestic about the moment. I can’t help but imagine what it might be like one day to live here with Blake and do mundane household tasks with him, like washing the dishes or making the bed. I snap back to reality when the stain is lifted and he sits back down on the couch with me. He sips his wine self-consciously.
However hot the chemistry was between us a minute ago, it’s evaporated. It’s clear neither of us knows how to kickstart it again. Thoughts of my engagement scheme and the shop’s rising rent and his other dates lurk in the back of my mind and I push them away. I cast around for any subject that’ll move us forward.
“So, you—” I say, just as he blurts out, “I just—”
“Go ahead,” I say.
“No, you go ahead,” he says.
I blush. I don’t really want or need to ask him whatever bland question I had just brainstormed to get past this awkward moment. Instead, I scoot closer to him on the couch, swing one leg over his lap, and straddle him for a kiss. I slide my arms over his shoulders and pull him close to me. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. He smoothly kisses me back as he stretches one arm out to put down his wineglass. He finishes loosening his tie and lets it slip from his collar. When I fumble with the top buttons of his shirt, he gently catches my lower lip between his teeth.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says.
I sit back for a moment to catch his gaze. “Me, too,” I say.
Blake runs his hands appreciatively from my hips to my waist to my chest. His hands are warm and he smells like a mix of leather and a heady cologne I can’t quite place. The hem of my blouse has some
how shimmied up around my stomach. When he touches my torso, my skin tingles with anticipation. I can’t remember the last time I felt this good.
I’m lost in his kiss when I feel his hands pull away from my waist. The sudden lack of contact jerks me out of the moment. I pull back.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
There’s a gleam in his eye. “Come to the bedroom with me,” he says, running his hands along my thighs.
I try to slide off his lap as gracefully as possible without tipping backward off the couch. He extends a hand to me and weaves his fingers through mine. He stands and leads me down the dark hallway, opens the bedroom door, and shows me inside. Half of me feels glowing, seductive, lit up with desire, wanted. I want him. The other half of me feels victorious. My plan is working.
• Chapter 8 •
Blake has great sheets. Bright white, ultra-crisp, marshmallow soft like the touch of an angel. Blake also has a great body, as I learned last night, and a great, sunny view from his fourteenth-floor window that is currently pulling me out of a delicious slumber. I shift to stretch out the crick in my neck that formed overnight from lying in his arms, and he pulls the arm snaked around my waist even closer.
“Don’t go,” he mumbles, still half asleep.
I twist around in his arms to lay my head on the warm expanse of his chest. My insides feel like liquid gold. I’ve been single for four years now, and despite all the very real perks of a relationship—it’s easier to meet the minimum delivery fee on takeout orders and sure, you can, like, share your entire life with someone—this is the one thing I miss the most. I savor the cozy sensation of snuggling up to Blake, from the lazy brush of his fingers against my bare hip to the way my cheek fits flush against his collarbone. He strokes my hair and tucks a loose piece behind my ear. My shoulder, crumpled under the full weight of my body, aches. But I don’t dare move and break the spell until his phone’s alarm trills a while later.
Blake groans, props himself up on his elbow, and hazily stabs a finger at his phone’s screen to silence it. He drops back onto the bed and rolls over, leaving a good few inches of polite space between us.
“Morning,” he says. His voice is all business again—no longer the sweetly sleepy voice that begged me not to leave a few minutes ago. He drops his gaze from mine. “Hope you slept okay?”
Yeah. The spell has been broken. Whatever last night was—fueled by an intoxicating combination of adrenaline and mezcal and Cabernet Sauvignon—is gone. In the light of day, there’s a slight awkwardness between us. The easy comfort that bloomed last night has evaporated.
He offers me a white, fluffy bathrobe and averts his eyes when I slip it on. He makes me coffee, offers to make me eggs, and asks if he can call me an Uber back to my place. The question catches me off guard. My most recent hookup, a graphic designer training to be a tattoo artist, simply requested I leave so he could “chill.”
I accept his offer of coffee, decline the eggs—that seems like too much—and escape to the bathroom for a moment alone with my thoughts. I slump against the sink. Blake is so kind, so attentive, so sweet. He’s a nice guy, plain and simple. Is it wrong to be here, to pursue him like this, when my motives aren’t strictly innocent? I try to flip the situation in my head to see if it feels sleazy when the gender roles are reversed. Men ruthlessly concoct all sorts of schemes to build a business or turn a profit, don’t they? But as hard as I rack my brain, I can’t fathom a situation where a guy like Blake would callously arrange a fake engagement with a girl like me.
My hair is mussed. Blake’s robe slips off my shoulder. The contrast of my skin against the white terry cloth makes me look tan. I don’t look quite like myself, especially not in this marble bathroom with vanity lights over the mirror. I still feel conflicted, but I also look like kind of a bombshell. I lean a hand on the counter with my wrist turned just so the reflection of my bare ring finger isn’t visible. I pout into the mirror. Click. I take a selfie that I can post later online.
I slip out of the bathroom, collect my clothes from scattered corners on Blake’s floor, and dress quickly. Blake raises an eyebrow when I emerge into the kitchen again.
“Leaving so soon?” he asks, cracking an egg into a glass bowl.
“I should head to work,” I say, jerking my thumb toward his door.
He drops the eggshell into a garbage can, wipes his hands on a dish towel, and reaches for mine.
“Can’t you head in whenever you’d like?” he asks. “Founder’s perks?”
“I have a pile of work to do,” I explain. I fidget with one foot to scratch the back of my other leg.
I tilt my head up and kiss him softly.
“I’ll see you soon,” I promise.
I collect my things, leave his apartment, and make a beeline to the elevator. My heart pounds the entire time. As I exit his building, make self-conscious eye contact with the doorman, and walk toward the subway, I try to process everything that’s happened. My relationship with Blake—no, my connection with Blake; meeting in a bar and having two subsequent dates isn’t nearly enough to merit the use of the word “relationship”—is just beginning to bud. I like him enough to see him again, sure. But do I like him enough to pin all my hopes on him and pray he’ll somehow wind up as my actual fiancé or husband? And is this wedding ruse necessary enough to drag some innocent guy into my plans? I don’t have any clear answers. I wish I did. All I know right now is that pursuing Blake is better than sitting idly by and waiting for this fake engagement to blow up in my face.
I’m late for work. I’m never late for work. Back in Williamsburg, I sprint up the stairs to my apartment, jump in the shower, and head down to the shop as soon as I can. Sophie’s sitting on a high stool behind the counter and reading something on her laptop. She looks up at my wet hair and cocks her head.
“Where were you?” she asks.
Jess emerges from the back room holding a box.
Mornings are almost always dead in the shop. And sure, there are plenty of other things to do—polish pieces, pay bills, order inventory for next quarter—but for now, that can wait. It’s time to sit down next to my sister and recount last night. I don’t mind if Jess hears, too; we’ve become close since she took this job.
“I was late, true, but for good reason. . . .” I begin.
I explain who Blake is—she stops me, she knows all about Bond & Time—and why he could be the perfect person to get me out of this mess. I tell her about running over to his apartment last night.
It’s not always easy to tell Sophie about my personal life. The five years between us sometimes felt like more. I was well into college by the time she got comfortable hearing about my dating life. I think part of her discomfort around the subject stems from the innate differences between us—she’s cautious where I’m a risk-taker. She would never pull the kind of stunt I pulled with Blake last night. She doesn’t need to have a black book saved on her laptop, since she could probably recite her entire list by heart in under ten seconds.
Sophie shakes her head at my story, but the expression on her face is clearly one of approval. She bites her lip and grins.
“You’re nuts,” she says. Her cheeks flush even just hearing about my hookup. “Just, you know, be safe, or whatever. Be smart.”
That afternoon, I head outside to pick up lunch. I can’t help but let my thoughts drift toward last night with Blake. My cheeks flush when the cashier interrupts my reverie to ask for my order. When I return to the shop, Jess is alone in the front room. Sophie’s words from earlier echo in my head: Be smart. If I want to keep Blake as a viable option for me, I need a plan to explain away the engagement announcement on my Instagram feed.
“Hey, question for you,” I ask, shifting my takeout under one arm and drumming my fingers on the glass counter in front of her.
“Yeah?” she asks.
I glance nervously toward the door. There aren’t any customers about to walk in—we’re alone.
“If anyone ever
questions who runs our Instagram, do you mind saying it’s you?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” she asks, her brow crinkling.
“Like, if Blake suddenly looks me up online and sees my quote-unquote ‘engagement announcement.’ I’ll tell him the truth someday—but I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. In the meantime, if he starts asking questions, can we say that photo came from you?”
It’s embarrassing to ask so much from Jess. She looks confused, or maybe upset—it’s hard to read the storminess behind her eyes.
“But I’m, like, extremely single,” she points out.
“I know, I know. I’m asking if you would just pretend—only for Blake’s sake, and only if he ever asks.”
Maybe this was too much to ask. Maybe I crossed a line.
She sighs heavily. “Fine,” she says. “As long as my name doesn’t appear on those photos. I don’t want my friends or family finding out.”
“Trust me, that is something I understand perfectly well,” I say, relieved. “Thank you so much, Jess.”
I exhale as I move into the back of the shop to eat my lunch. I hunch over my phone to carefully edit the photos from last night. “When you borrow his robe . . .” I caption the selfie, posting it. I caption the picture of the two wineglasses with, “Date night in,” plus the hashtag, and save it as a draft to post tomorrow.
I dig into my avocado pesto pasta and watch the likes and comments roll in. There’s a flurry of praise (“werk it, girrrrrl,” “#RelationshipGoals,” “so happy for you, babe”) and a smattering of emojis (pink hearts, kissy faces). And then the same sentiment pops up from a handful of users: “Who is he?”
My first impulse is to delete the comments so they don’t attract attention. If I can get rid of the questions, I don’t have to confront them. But my gut instinct tells me that’s the wrong move. That would only make it seem like I had something to hide. So instead, I type out a carefully worded response: “We’re so touched by the positive response to our engagement! Everyone’s support means so much to us. But his privacy is important to him—and I want to respect that.” I feel guiltier using this line now that I’ve had two more dates with Blake; it was easier during the elle.com interview, when I barely knew him.
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