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  But those words feel all wrong coming out of my mouth. Even if she’s not mine, she can’t be his. And I’m not a motherfucking bird of peace.

  “I always thought you two would make a cute couple,” he says in a sugar-sweet voice.

  As I walk off, he makes mock kissing sounds. I’m pretty sure he’s singing the kissing tree song, and it’s definitely my cue to put him in the rearview mirror.

  Besides, I need to get in character for tonight.

  Because this is all an act.

  Nothing more.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The steak is delicious, the Caesar salad tasty, and the red wine smooth.

  Like the conversation.

  So far, so good. It’s been jewelry, private schools, softball leagues, and how great the weather is. Can you spell getting-away-with-it?

  Oh, and after we arrived at the restaurant, the Offermans all bestowed their requisite ‘congratulations’ on my bride-to-be and me, as she flashed her ring, and the women oohed and aahed. My sister, too. Her congrats was the biggest of all; so was her hug, as she pulled me into her loving, sisterly vice and breathed, barely audible, in my ear, “You can’t fool me. But I’ve got your back.”

  Guess you can’t trick a magician. She’s been trained to detect sleight of hand, and she spotted mine in seconds.

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “You do. Especially since I still haven’t forgiven you for the Santa Claus incident when I was ten,” she hissed, before breaking apart and flashing a smile for the camera.

  But the reporter from Metropolis Life and Times didn’t seem to catch on, nor did he last for long here at the private room in McCoy’s. I suspect he was an intern, which confirms this will be some sort of puff piece. A young guy, he lobbed a few questions at my dad and Mr. Offerman, about the handover of the family-owned business, then snapped some pictures of the clan and took off. Probably so he doesn’t miss his bedtime.

  Easy as pie.

  Now we’re finishing our meal at this midtown steak restaurant that exudes class and ambiance with its crisp white tablecloths, oak tables, soft lighting, and waiters in suits. I slide my knife through the filet mignon and do a double take at something in the corner of my vision. Mr. Offerman’s oldest daughter, Emily, is seated across from me. She twirls a strand of her long black hair and looks at me.

  Uh-oh.

  I recognize that stare. It’s the kind women give from across the bar when they’re flirting with you. Worry shimmies through me. Is she batting her eyelashes, now?

  Averting my gaze, I take a bite of the steak, chew it, and swallow roughly. I grab my wineglass and down more of the red liquid. Something slides across the toe of my shoe.

  Something that feels distinctly like Foot of a Young Lady.

  No.

  No fucking way.

  Is Emily playing footsie with me?

  My chest tightens.

  I yank my foot away.

  My sister laughs out loud.

  The stinking little prankster. She’s sitting next to Emily.

  My mother turns to Harper and smiles brightly. “Something funny?”

  She nods, her red ponytail bouncing as she reins in a grin. “Just remembering this funny joke I heard.”

  “Care to share? Or is it inappropriate?” my mother asks, voice laced with politeness. She wants this dinner to go well for my dad, too. She’s no stick in the mud. If Harper has a good, clean joke, my mom will want to hear it. The woman loves laughing.

  My sister sets down her fork. “It’s completely appropriate. In fact, it’s perfect for Spencer now,” Harper says, her eyes lasered in on me. She clears her throat. She’s got the attention of the whole table. I sit ramrod straight, nerves skittering through me because I have no clue what she’s up to. She said she’d keep my secret, but she’s also been looking for a way to stick it to me ever since I told her Santa Claus wasn’t real, and that as a fifth grader she was too old to still believe in him. With wet eyes and a tear-stained face, she swore she’d get back at me for ruining her greatest dream.

  She better not be exacting her revenge now. If she is, I will dangle her upside down over the banister until she cries uncle. Oh, wait. That was ten-year-old Spencer thinking. The mature me would never do that. Instead, I’ll just break out the old family photo album the next time she brings a date home. Show off her second grade haircut. That she gave herself.

  “Can’t wait to hear it,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

  Bring it on, sis.

  She raises her chin and launches into her joke. “Why can’t Ray Charles see his friends?”

  “Why?” Mrs. Offerman asks curiously, knitting her brow. She mouths to herself, “because he’s blind,” and seems pleased she got the answer in advance.

  My sister pauses, tilts her head, and stares straight at me. “Because he’s married.”

  Harper has the whole table laughing. Well, the over-twenty crowd. Mr. Offerman’s daughters hardly chuckle, but Harper doesn’t need to amuse them. She had them eating out of her hand earlier in the night when she was discussing pop music and tips for taking better selfies, including points for—get this—video selfies.

  “Do you think that’ll happen to you soon, Spencer?” my sister asks, batting her eyelashes at me as she props her chin in her hands.

  She is such a devil.

  “Nah, Charlotte is cool,” I say as I slide my shoe closer to Harper under the table, and try to kick her. I mean, tap her foot lightly. But instead, Emily yelps.

  “Ouch, that hurt,” she whines.

  Oh fuck. Wrong girl.

  “What happened, dear?” Mrs. Offerman snaps her gaze to her oldest daughter. She’s a petite woman, and has spent most of the meal fussing over her family members.

  “Someone just kicked me under the table,” Emily says, annoyed.

  Her mother turns those watchful blue eyes to my side of the table, scanning for the kicking culprit. I wince inside. I can’t believe I’ve fucked this up already, and it’s all because of my sister.

  I race through possible excuses, but before I latch onto one, Charlotte pipes in, placing her hand on her heart in apology. “I’m so sorry, Emily. That was me. When Spencer drives me crazy, I kick him under the table. And, being a man, he does that often, even though I still adore him. This time though, I slipped and kicked you. I’m sorry,” she says with the sweetest smile, and I could kiss her. I could fucking kiss her.

  So I do. I clasp my hand on her cheek. “I deserved it. I love that you keep me in check, honey bear,” I say, then press a soft kiss to her lips.

  She kisses me back for a few seconds, a chaste, sweet kiss, but even so, it’s nearly enough for me to forget the whole table full of people. All I want is more of this fake kissing. More tongue, more lips, more teeth.

  More contact.

  More her.

  Exactly what I can’t be wanting.

  Clapping begins. I end the kiss to see my sister leading the cheers. “You two are the cutest couple. When is the wedding?”

  Oh.

  That detail.

  My mother’s eyes shine with excitement. “Oh yes, will it be a summer wedding?”

  “We’re thinking spring,” Charlotte says, once again seamlessly taking the reins. “Perhaps May. Maybe at an art gallery. Or a museum. The Museum of Modern Art has such lovely sculpture gardens for weddings.”

  “Oh, that would be a gorgeous location,” Mrs. Offerman says, the kicking incident now in a galaxy far, far away. She cups her hand over the side of her mouth so her girls can’t see her. “I’ve already been scoping out locations for their nuptials, even though those are years away. But you can never start too early.”

  Mr. Offerman clasps his hand on top of hers. “It’s a good hobby for you, dear. It gets you out of the kitchen.”

  I straighten my spine. Are we in the fifties here? “Out of the kitchen?”

  My father clears his throat, his voice booming over mine. “Kate, what do you think of
the sculpture garden?” he says to my mother, and that’s my cue to zip my lips. “You’ve always loved the Museum of Modern Art.”

  “It’s a stunning location, and I think Charlotte and Spencer’s wedding will be beautiful wherever they choose to hold it. Charlotte, I know you’re close to your own mother, but I’m here for any planning help you need. I adore weddings.”

  Mrs. Offerman weighs in again, locking her gaze with Charlotte. “Your mother must be so thrilled. Will she be planning it for you?”

  Charlotte’s expression turns perplexed, and she furrows her brow. “I’m sure she’ll help.”

  “Of course she’ll help, dear. She’ll do more than help. Is she nearby?”

  “My parents live in Connecticut.”

  “What else would she be doing but helping plan the special day?” Mrs. Offerman says with a look of utter surprise, as if she can’t comprehend any scenario but the one where Charlotte’s mom spends every waking hour barking commands at florists and issuing orders at swank reception halls.

  “She’s pretty busy with work,” Charlotte says.

  “Oh. Work?” That seems to confuse the woman. “What does she do?”

  “She’s a surgeon at a hospital in New Haven.”

  Mrs. Offerman’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline, her eyes widening to beach-ball size. “How interesting. And your father?”

  “He’s a nurse,” Charlotte says, and her tone is so completely dry that I start to crack up, but manage to suck in the sound and clamp my lips together once more.

  “Really? I thought he was a doctor, too?” my mother says, genuinely surprised, as she should be, since Charlotte is fucking lying right now. It is killing me, absolutely killing me to hold all this laugher inside my throat.

  Charlotte smacks her forehead. “My bad. He started as a nurse, but he worked his way up, at my mother’s encouragement, and became a doctor, too.” This time she is telling the whole truth, and the look on Mrs. Offerman’s face is priceless. It’s as if she’s never heard of a male nurse, and certainly not one who became a doctor at his wife’s urging. Mr. Offerman appears even more flummoxed.

  The silence spreads. The table goes quiet for a moment. The clink of glasses and the jangling slide of forks against china is the only sound in the private room.

  “To the happy couple,” my father says, rescuing the table from any more chatter about the roles of men and women by raising his glass.

  “Hear, hear. Who doesn’t love a wedding? It’s our favorite thing, isn’t it?” Mr. Offerman says to Dad with a wink that says, now we’re two men celebrating what feeds our business.

  His daughters raise their soda glasses, and I hold up my wine glass, clinking first with Charlotte. A faint noise comes from under the table, like a light thunk. She flashes me a grin, and there’s something very private in her expression, something that says we have a secret. Then, I know what it is. Because this time, there’s no doubt who’s touching who. It’s her toes sliding over the top of my shoes. Then along my lower leg. Now higher, and it’s crazy, truly crazy, that Charlotte’s toes along my leg feel so damn good.

  The kind of good where I want to grab her hand, tug her into the bathroom, push her up against the wall, and hike up that skirt. The kind where I discover what kind of panties she’s wearing tonight, and if they’re already damp with her arousal.

  But that. Can’t. Happen.

  Must be all the wine.

  “We should go to MoMA tomorrow,” Mrs. Offerman says to my mom. “Emily plans to study art history in college next year.” Emily raises an eyebrow, like she disagrees with that notion. “And you can check out the gardens, Kate.”

  “What a lovely idea,” my mother, ever the diplomat, says.

  Mrs. Offerman locks eyes with Charlotte. “Would you like to join us?”

  “Absolutely.” Charlotte squeezes my hand. “We’ll both be there.”

  “Can’t wait,” I say, because any other answer could be cause for dismemberment.

  I finish my glass of wine, and as the conversation heads in another direction, so does Charlotte’s foot, as she slides it back into her shoe. I’m grateful, because if I get aroused by a foot, I might need to get myself checked out to make sure I haven’t reverted to preteen turn-on levels.

  After dessert and coffee, I pull my sister away from the table, far enough from the others to have a word with her. “Harper, seriously. You’ve got to be on my side. You were so close to serving it up.”

  “Oh, please. I was not. I was only having fun. You know I’ve got your back, and always do,” she says, like I’d be crazy to think otherwise. But crazy feels like my new normal this weekend.

  “I know. Just be in on this with me. Not against me,” I say, a dash of desperation in my voice. Who am I kidding? It’s not a dash. It’s a full fucking serving.

  She laughs. “You’re so pathetic when you need something. Where’s the Spencer who dangled me over the banister when I was eight?”

  I adopt a look of shock. “I thought you were six when that happened?”

  “Even worse.” She pulls me in for a hug. “It’s okay. I won’t rat you out. But I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Don’t worry. I got this.”

  “You better. And you better be careful.” She turns her voice to a threatening whisper, and grasps my shirt. “But some day, when you least expect it, I will take my revenge for Santa.” Her grip tightens and her voice goes even quieter. “Watch your ten o’clock—Emily is making eyes at you. She has it bad for you already.”

  Emily rises from the table, staring at the phone in her hand.

  “Wrong,” I say, as I break the embrace. “She’s just zoned out on her screen, texting friends probably.”

  But it turns out my sister isn’t wrong, because Emily is definitely looking at me now. Her eyes hook into mine, and her tongue darts out, licking her lips.

  Harper laughs, then brandishes imaginary claws. “Meow. I smell a catfight.”

  I shake my head. Charlotte is hardly the type for a catfight.

  My fake fiancée walks past Emily, and the younger girl roams her eyes over Charlotte like she’s studying her, waiting to pounce. Her hand shoots out, and she grabs Charlotte’s arm. Shit, Harper was right. Fisticuffs are about to start. I’m momentarily torn between the sheer rubbernecking fascination of watching the scene unfold, and the impulse to stop a tussle.

  “Oh my God, I love your shoes,” Emily says, a huge adoring smile on her face. “Where did you get them?”

  Whew. Emily was only checking out Charlotte’s footwear. The two of them gab about fashion and clothes and designers, and Charlotte handles it all with aplomb.

  I don’t know why she doubted herself earlier today.

  She fucking rocks. She can be my fake fiancée anytime.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Charlotte lets out a big breath. She wipes her hand across her forehead. “After that performance, and this long day, I need a drink,” she says when we slide into a cab. “Or two.”

  “You and me both.” I tap her knee with my knuckles, then tell the driver to head downtown. “By the way, nurse. Fucking brilliant.”

  We knock fists. “And it wasn’t even a lie. It was just a, how shall we say, delayed admission of the truth.”

  “Honestly, I’m giving you an A for perfect timing with your delivery tonight.”

  “Why thank you,” she says, playfully. “I look forward to my report card.”

  I pretend to hand one to her.

  She mimes opening it, then reads. “I see I earned straight As.”

  I shake my head. “A-plus. The nurse comment counts as extra credit. See?” I stab a finger at the invisible report card, as if I’m pointing it out.

  She laughs and grabs my arm. “I couldn’t help myself. Her comments were so old-fashioned.”

  My mom stayed home with Harper and me as kids, so I’m totally on board with a mom working out of the house or taking care of the kids. Whatever works for her. In Mo
m’s case, she raised us, and she also advised my father on his business. Through it all, he treated her like a queen in some ways and an equal in all ways. That’s how it should be, whatever choice a woman makes.

  “Speaking of old-fashioned, want to try Gin Joint?” I ask, naming a new bar in Chelsea that’s getting rave reviews, especially for its old-fashioned made with gin.

  “Yes. I’ve been up since six a.m.,” she says, then pouts her lips like a movie star of olden days and speaks in a husky, sexy tone. “But I’m still in the mood for a nightcap.”

  Soon we walk through a red door into a garden-level bar with soft, sultry music piped in overhead, and wine red, royal blue, and deep purple velvet couches. The place has a New Orleans–style ambiance—rich, dark, and moody.

  Charlotte sinks down onto a couch, dropping her purse by her side, relaxation evident in her pose. I order for us, returning with her old-fashioned and a bourbon on the rocks for me.

  “To Honest Charlotte,” I say, lifting my glass.

  “To Cocker Spaniel Spencer,” she says, then takes a drink. She moans after the first sip and taps her glass. “That is divine. Try it.”

  She hands me the glass, and I take a drink. My taste buds do a jig. “Wow. Can we steal their recipe?”

  She laughs. “Just like the time we went to Speakeasy,” she says, her eyes twinkling with the memory of how we went into business together. We were celebrating the sale of Boyfriend Material at the opening of a new bar in midtown. We’d ordered the bar’s signature cocktail, the Purple Snow Globe, which went on to become a big hit as a packaged drink sold in grocery stores. It was so damn good, we’d both pointed to our drinks at the same time, and said “Let’s steal this recipe.”

  “Jinx, you owe me a drink,” we’d then said in unison.

  That had sealed the deal on our plans. In college, we were beer snobs, and we used to joke at parties that we’d open our own bar someday, and we’d kick ass at it because we could tell the difference between quality beer and the swill from a keg. Hardly a special skill, but even so, that was what got us rolling.