“I’m sorry,” I say. “But there’s no way that will fit in Bentley’s car—any of them.” I could shove the artisan holiday cake our firm sends every single year into the back of my LeSabre, but I don’t mention that.

  A muscle I used to love in James’ jaw is popping, but instead of making me swoon, now it makes my lip twitch in humor.

  Because it means he’s ticked.

  “You’re not wearing that, are you?” His slow once over used to make my heart race, but now it makes me feel about as attractive as a toad.

  “I am, actually.” I stand up and smooth the lines in my green dress. “Or did you think that when we divorced, I’d stop wearing Boden’s holiday dresses?” This one is A-line, and I think it looks pretty good on me, even when I’m, well, my current size. It’s thick fabric, so it looks smooth, and it makes my ample curves look even more pronounced.

  “Dynamite.”

  He says that all the time, and now I can’t stand it. I frown.

  “I guess I’ll try and figure something out with the cake.”

  It’s not in my nature to let someone struggle with something. I know he could call Kristy and make her come up the elevator to help him, but with my luck, I’d probably run into them again, and then someone would trip, and I’d end up face-planting into a two foot by two foot cake.

  I groan. “I’ll help you get it down, at least.”

  “That’s something.” James has never been the kind of person to hand out fake gratitude. I used to think it was refreshing. Now I just think it’s rude. It’s funny how your perception changes when you’re not wearing rose-colored glasses.

  Unfortunately, there’s really no way to carry the cake without both of us facing one another, our hands braced on opposite ends. “Who came up with the cake idea in the first place?” I ask. “It’s stupid. Why can’t we have something delivered, like tins of nuts?”

  “Or a big barrel of popcorn,” James says. “People love popcorn.”

  “Once, that copy company sent us all custom notepads with fancy highlighters,” I say.

  “I remember,” James says. “I think I still have the highlighter.”

  “Anything would be better than this.”

  “If our CEO had to lug this thing to a single party,” James says, “you can bet we’d be sending a fruit basket next year.”

  It may be the first time I’ve chuckled around him since the divorce. I suppose shared misery can be a decent bridge. When the elevator opens on the garage floor, Bentley’s standing there, awkwardly ignoring Kristy.

  “Oh,” James says. “You’re here.”

  Kristy’s glaring at him. “Looks like you two are having a lovely time. Did you coordinate those outfits?”

  It strikes me then, that instead of insulting my appearance, James might have been annoyed because the green stripes in his tie exactly match my dress. My bright red coat and matching high heels are the exact color of the counterstripe, so. . .

  We look like a couple.

  And last year at this party, everyone at Clinique knew we were a couple. This might be even more awkward than I realized.

  “We didn’t,” I say.

  “No way,” James says.

  But we’re joined by a cake box, and now we’ve stood still, both of us horrified, for so long that the elevator door starts to close.

  Bentley dives in, blocking the doors with a martial-arts-esque move.

  “That was so cool,” Kristy says.

  “Here.” I shuffle out of the elevator, forcing Bentley back, and then I toss my head for Kristy to take the cake. “We can’t take it. There’s no way it’ll fit in the McLaren.”

  “You drive a McLaren?” Kristy’s eyes are round as saucers as she takes the cake box from me. “I thought you drove some crappy Buick.”

  “I just bought it for her.” Bentley tosses me the keys. “She still has the Buick—it was her mom’s—but I thought she needed something more fun to drive around town.”

  Kristy’s mouth drops open and stays that way.

  James practically wrenches the box from her, pulling her toward his older model Lincoln Towncar. “We’ll see you there.”

  “Wait, I didn’t even know you were dating anyone.” Kristy’s eyes are ping-ponging from Bentley to me and back again. “How did you two even meet?”

  Bentley slings his arm around my shoulders. “I’ve known Barbara for almost fifteen years, but it wasn’t until your boy over there messed up that I saw my window. It’s hard to catch Barbara, between all the guys who like her, but I finally did.”

  I practically drag Bentley to the McLaren and point. “Get in.”

  “Whoa there,” he says. “You look ticked.”

  “You think?” I climb into the passenger side without thinking and pass the keys back to him.

  “I thought I was supposed to irritate them. No?”

  “You gave me a McLaren?” I roll my eyes.

  “You’re going to be driving it.”

  “For a few weeks, tops,” I say. “And then what do I say?”

  “It got bad gas mileage?” He shrugs. “Why does it matter? Deal with that then.”

  I groan. “This is my actual life, Bentley.”

  He sounds contrite. “I know it is.”

  “It’s not a joke, and when you go so over the top, no one will ever believe it. That’s why I told you we should go as friends.”

  Bentley has just turned the car on, but he doesn’t put it in gear. He turns to me instead. “Hold on a minute.”

  “What?” I tap on the clock in the display. “We’re already late, though, so let’s not hold on for too long a minute.”

  “There’s no such thing as a long minute,” Bentley says. “All minutes have sixty seconds.”

  “Wasting time,” I say.

  “What did you mean, ‘that’s why you said we should go as friends?’”

  “Huh?”

  “What’s why?”

  “I’m confused.” I mean, I’m not really. I know what he’s asking, but I’m not about to tell him that I didn’t want to go as his girlfriend because no one on earth would believe he and I could ever actually date.

  It sounds too pathetic, even to me.

  “Why would no one believe that we’re more than friends?”

  Aw, crap. He’s not letting it go. “Because,” I say.

  “Because?” He lifts both eyebrows and waits.

  Painfully.

  Is he that obtuse? “Do you really not know, Bentley?”

  He frowns. “No.”

  “Because. . .” That’s when it hits me. He’s obtuse, so I can lie about the real reason and avoid an awkward interchange. “Because you’re such a player. James knew you, right? While we were married, he saw you with a different woman at every event.”

  “I almost never brought women to the parties and dinners.”

  “But sometimes you did,” I say.

  “I guess it wasn’t ever the same person.” He’s still frowning.

  “Knowing you, they’re not going to believe that you’d suddenly start dating someone seriously.” Phew. There it is.

  “That may be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  For a moment, I feel a little bad. Am I going to give him a complex because of my own insecurity? But I shake it off. There’s no way someone as confident and put-together as Bentley would lose sleep over people thinking he’s a player.

  Guys love that kind of thing.

  “Well, we’ll show them tonight that it’s ridiculous,” he says. “I’ll be the most devoted man who ever took his girlfriend to a holiday party.” He’s now racing down the road with a huge smile on his face. He looks even more gorgeous than usual, and I may have created another problem.

  Because if he keeps acting like that, I’m going to be screwed.

  I’m pretty sure I’m already developing an unrequited crush. How do I keep my brain from running amok? I remind myself that he’s just paying me for my services. I’m basically his employee.

  And tomorrow night, he’s taking Lila the Lurid Librarian out to dinner. . .and maybe more.

  That’s like a bucket of ice water to the brain.

  “Maybe we should talk about tomorrow,” I say.

  “What about it?” Bentley’s frowning, his eyes still on the road.

  “Where are you going to take the lovely Lila?”

  “Is that really what you want to talk about?” He presses a few buttons until “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” floods the car. “There, that’s better.”

  “What about that place⁠—”

  “Maybe Gabriel Kreuther. I went with Dave and Seren last week, and Seren loved the desserts.” Bentley asks, sounding brusque.

  “The new French place?” I whistle. “I hope that’s a joke. You can’t take her to a place like that. If Seren likes the dessert, it’s out.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you think Mr. Regular would go someplace that costs a hundred dollars a plate?”

  He sighs. “I was excited to be dating in earnest at first, but this is getting tedious.”

  “Did you think it would be easy?” I ask. “You’re rich and sophisticated and you want a woman who’s smart, funny, gorgeous, and kind, and you don’t want her to know that you’re rich.”

  “You make it sounds like I’m perpetrating some hoax,” he says. “I’m just trying to change things up a little so I don’t date the same women I’ve dated unsuccessfully for twenty years.”

  “I think that’s smart,” I say. “But you can’t just dial it in. Where’s the best taco place you’ve ever been?”

  He doesn’t even hesitate. “Los Taco Number One.”

  “Okay, then that’s where you’ll go.”

  “They only have tables outside.”

  I snatch his phone from the center console. “I’ll tell the librarian to dress warm.”

  “Will she do it?”

  “Probably not,” I say. “First date—she’ll want to wear something slinky that shows how thin she is.”

  “You’d never do that.”

  His words hit like softballs, lobbed at my tender parts. “Rude.”

  “What?” He looks horrified. “How was that rude?”

  “I’d never wear something slinky, because I can’t show off how thin I am?”

  Bentley slams on the brakes and pulls off on the side of the road. Then he turns toward me, his eyes wide. “Barbara, please tell me you’re kidding.”

  I’m looking up so the tears that are threatening can’t ruin my makeup.

  “I meant that you’d never dress up on the first date to try and make sure the guy was distracted by how hot you looked.”

  That pisses me off more. “What do you think I did on the very first date we ever had?”

  “What?”

  “When you were being set up with Seren, and I was supposed to be set up with Dave, and clearly those two liked each other, I was dressed up in my nicest dress, and I was trying to look as hot as I could. Every girl does that, even forgettable ones like me.”

  “Forgettable?” He swallows. “Look, you are not forgettable. And I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to upset you, not in any way.” He exhales. “I guess that just comes naturally.”

  And now I’m laughing. “You sound just like my dad always did.”

  “Well, at least I’m in good company.” He tilts his head. “But Barbara, you are thin and beautiful.”

  I snort.

  “You’re not, like, chives, but some guys like women who have curves—you’re like edamame beans.”

  Is he really comparing me to vegetables? “That’s just a nice way to say that some men don’t mind when women are fat.”

  He’s not laughing now. He looks entirely serious. “Men shouldn’t mind when women are fat—society makes fat into this four letter word that it shouldn’t be. But even so, that’s not at all what I’m saying.”

  “Bentley—”

  “No.” He turns back toward the road, and then his hands grip the steering wheel tightly. “Have you ever met my mother?”

  I shake my head.

  “All her friends look like skeletons you might set on your porch for Halloween, and it always made her feel horrible. But she’s curvy, and my dad loves her for it.”

  I blink.

  “Those skeleton women. . . It’s unhealthy. Mom has always felt guilty when she even looks at food, and I don’t want anything to do with it.” He turns back toward me. “You had a very hard year, so you probably feel bad about gaining some weight, but you should listen to this next part.”

  It’s too late. I’m already crying.

  “You are every bit as beautiful today as you were when we met back on that ill-advised setup. Do you hear me?” He’s staring at me.

  I nod and swipe at my cheeks.

  “You look like you don’t believe me, so I’m going to take a photo whenever I think about it tonight. And then I’m going to send them to you, and you’re going to realize that you look stunning.”

  “Bentley, do not do that.”

  “I’m not lying,” he says. “Your brain’s the one that’s lying to you. The media’s lying to you, too. You look great, and you’re healthy, and you should not feel bad about how you look. Do you hear me?”

  I hear him. I just don’t believe him.

  But this time, I’m able to fake a convincing nod, at least. Enough to get us back on the road. I use the rearview mirror to wipe off and reapply my under-eye concealer and touch up my mascara, though I almost poke my eye out when Bentley exits the freeway. “Dude, really?”

  “There was a tire,” he says. “Sorry.”

  But then we’re there. The party. And it’s time to pretend that this Greek god is my boyfriend. Whatever he thinks, I brace myself for everyone at the party to believe that he’s either an escort or that we’re lying.

  Which, of course, we are.

  “This might have been a dumb idea,” I say, as I climb out of his car.

  But then he’s standing in front of me, and he offers me his arm. “It was a brilliant idea, and I’ll prove it to you.”

  As we walk inside the hotel, I can’t help relaxing a little. There are enormous wreaths made of fragrant pine boughs and holly berries. A tall, brightly lit tree stands at the center of the entryway, and white doves tie everything together. “The best thing about holiday decorations are the lights,” I say. “Why can’t we use twinkle lights in our decorations all year?”

  “If we did, you’d stop appreciating them,” Bentley says. “No matter how beautiful, no matter how impressive, they’d just become more noise. That’s how it works. Unless it’s new, unless there’s a change, as humans, we just stop looking.”

  “So to enjoy the holidays, we need the other eleven months out of the year to be dull?”

  “Exactly.” He nods. “You can’t like sugar without also having salty stuff. You can’t appreciate pleasure without pain.”

  “You’re more of a philosopher than I expected,” I say.

  After following the signs to the rear ballroom, I try to intentionally relax a little. I won’t be helpful to my company whatsoever if I act like a complete nutjob tonight.

  “Barbara.” The woman in charge of color makeup waves me over.

  Why can’t I remember her name?

  “When I heard about your divorce,” the woman says, “I was shocked. I thought you and James were the perfect power couple. I was actually ready to take that man down a peg.” Her eyes lift up. “But.” She widens her eyes and looks back at me. “You definitely won.”

  “Won?” Bentley asks as he finally catches up to us.

  “I’m Tawnya,” she says. “I’m the director of color makeup for Clinique.”

  “You’re the—what?”

  “Color makeup—it’s like, eyeshadow, lipstick, you know.”

  “Not their skincare line,” I say. “Or not perfume and that sort of thing.”

  “Gotcha,” Bentley says. “Well, I know it was a rough year for our girl.” He slides his hand next to mine and intertwines our fingers. “But I’m actually glad that James was such a monumental⁠—”

  Bentley cuts off.

  James and Kristy are walking behind Tawnya, coming from the refreshment table.

  Bentley waves.

  “Let’s not even talk about them.” Tawnya giggles. “I want to hear all about this guy.”

  Oh, boy.

  “Well, you’re about to get your wish.” Apparently, when Bentley’s lying, he skews just a little effeminate. It makes me grin. “We met fifteen years ago, when I was set up with her best friend.”

  “You’re kidding.” Tawnya’s talking so loudly that several other people have stepped closer, and now they’re all listening.

  “So it’s true?” the man who always sends over the contracts—Davis, I think—asks. “You and James broke up?”

  Bentley nods slowly. “About time, right?”

  “If I’d been sure, I’d have asked her out,” the man I think is named Davis says. “But I guess you were too fast for me.”

  “Exactly,” Bentley says. “If I’ve learned anything from my fifteen years of crushing on her, it’s this. You have to move fast, or someone else snaps Barbara up.” That’s the second time he’s said something that ridiculous.

  “I guess I’ll just have to wait,” Davis says.

  “I wouldn’t bother,” Bentley says, dropping to a whisper. “I’m smarter than the Brit. I’m not planning to screw up.”

  Everyone around us is now roaring.

  When I glance over my shoulder, James is standing in the corner with Kristy, scowling.

  “But when was your first date?” a woman I’ve never seen asks.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Bentley says.

  “Sweetheart, maybe we should keep some things to ourselves.” I squeeze his arm pretty hard.

  “Oh, I think a story this good should be shared.” Bentley bumps my hip playfully. “I was pretty sly.”

  “You were?” Tawnya’s biting her lip, her eyes bright. “How?”

  “I told her I needed help finding someone to date.”

  Everyone gasps.

  “She helped me set up my online dating account. She even helped me screen which women to take out.”

 

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