“I’m looking forward to you meeting him too,” I say pointedly, stealing a glance at our oven clock. Jack is now officially late. He was supposed to meet us here so we could all ride over to the hotel together, but we’re cutting it close.
I decide to shoot him a text, but when I fish my phone out of my purse I see I’ve already gotten one from him.
Jack: Something came up at work. Need to meet you there
Huh. Well, that sucks. Maybe it’s silly, but I was really looking forward to showing up with someone on my arm for once.
Nat reads my face. “What’s up?”
“It sounds like Jack’s going to have to meet us there.” Disappointment sinks in my stomach like a stone. “Which is fine.”
I pretend not to see Nat slide her eyes to Gabriel, silently communicating in couple code that all is decidedly not fine.
There’s something else about Jack’s text that’s nagging at me. Maybe it’s that he didn’t share any details of what exactly came up. Or that he didn’t offer an apology for his tardiness on what he knows is an important night for me—actually, for us. Or maybe it’s the brusque tone of his text, so unlike his usual affectionate, flirtatious messaging demeanor. Something is off.
This is not what I need right now. This is not the night I want to start second-guessing Jack, picking apart his text messages and analyzing them for coded undertones and hidden meanings. It’s the type of mind games I thought I’d left in my past, the kind that have been totally absent from my relationship with Jack. Until now, at least.
I decide I’m reading too much into it. “No sense creating problems where there aren’t any,” as Gran likes to say. （Of course, my Pop-Pop always used to say, “Early is on time, on time is late, and late doesn’t happen,” but somehow I don’t think texting that to Jack would be helpful right now）。 I tap out a response （No problem, see you there）， then throw my phone back into my purse.
“Okay if I tag along with you guys?” I ask lightly, hating how pathetic I feel in this moment. And just when I thought I was done being a third wheel.
“Of course!” Nat says quickly, tossing back the rest of her champagne. “You know you’re always welcome with us.”
“And I get two gorgeous dates instead of one,” Gabe adds, gamely offering me his other arm, and my heart glows with gratitude for these two despite my disappointment.
It’s stupid to care about something like this, right? Jack’s a busy man with a lot of responsibilities and even more people depending on him. This surely won’t be the last time an inconveniently timed work emergency crops up; I should probably get used to it now.
So I swallow my frustration, paste on a smile, and grab my handbag. “Ready?”
* * *
THE HOTEL BALLROOM looks stunning; I feel like I just stepped into the first-class dining room on the Titanic. Elaborate brass chandeliers dripping with crystals cast intricate light patterns on the walls, while extravagant floral arrangements explode across every surface. Each table is lavishly set with enough silverware to make Jack Dawson’s head spin. Cynthia holds court near the entrance, greeting every VIP and guest who enters, while David, her longtime partner and the Stedman to her Oprah, stays glued to her side.
I end up chatting with a group of my friends from work—Nat and Gabriel, Jordan, Kara, and Daniela, along with their significant others—while we pretend not to rubberneck all the celebrities milling about the room. But despite all the famous eye candy, there’s really only one person I care about seeing tonight, and his continued absence is the one glaring hiccup in an otherwise seamless evening. At this point I’m just hoping he shows up before the speeches start.
Nat catches me checking my phone for the umpteenth time. “He’ll be here,” she murmurs in my ear, and I squeeze her hand.
“I know.”
We’re well into the cocktail hour when I finally see him duck through the door, and for a moment I forget all about how irritated I am and just admire how striking he looks in his crisp black suit and tie, his hair flawlessly tousled, his lightly stubbled jaw locked tight as he pauses to search the crowd for me. His photo could be filed in the encyclopedia under Man in His Prime. I want to cast his cheekbones in bronze. He’s like an NFT—I can’t explain what it is, but I’d gladly overpay to own it exclusively.
He’s still halfway across the room, but my body reacts reflexively: My pulse quickens and my breath shallows, my nose already tingling in anticipation of his cologne hitting my sinuses. There’s a defiant, devil-may-care energy in his stride as he stalks toward me. He’s a debonair man on a determined mission, and dangerously handsome, like a suave Cary Grant, a smoldering Gregory Peck, and a rebellious James Dean all rolled into one.
I’ve definitely been watching too many Turner Classic Movies.
“Hey, you made it,” I greet him once he reaches our group. “Thought I was gonna have to send out a search party.” I reach up to give him a kiss, but at the last second he turns his head and I end up grazing his cheek.
I pull away slightly to look at him, and he gives me a tight smile in return. I smooth my hand down his lapel, wondering what the heck happened at work. I’ve grown adept at reading his moods, even learned how to laugh him out of a funk when he’s stressed, but it’s hard to get to the bottom of whatever’s bothering him with an audience. Right, our audience.
I turn back to the group, taking a minute to introduce Jack to my friends. “Everyone, this is Jack Bradford, my”—Should I call him my boyfriend? Is that too sixth grade?—“uh, my date.” He eyes me oddly and I wilt a little.
“Nice to finally meet you,” Gabriel says, reaching out to grip Jack’s hand. “Cass tells us great things.”
“Get out of here. Brawler, right? Big fan, man,” Kara’s boyfriend Cody breaks in, and he and Jack exchange a fist bump.
“Did you say Brawler?” Kara says, looking from Cody to Jack to me in confusion.
“I’m sorry, are you two together?” Daniela blurts out with palpable shock, and I cringe internally. Maybe I should’ve given people a heads-up.
“Sure are,” Jack replies without missing a beat, deliberately ignoring the shade in her tone. He throws an arm around my shoulders and squeezes, crushing me against him so hard my ribs crack. “The old ball and chain.”
Now I’m the one giving him side-eye. Ball and chain?! Is this his way of poking me for my awkward introduction? I glance at Daniela; she looks like she’s just swallowed a handful of rusty nails.
I decide to laugh it off, like I’m in on the joke. “It’s pretty new,” I say by way of explanation, patting Jack’s chest mildly.
“Not that new,” Jack counters. “Of course, Cassidy likes to take things slow, really dig into a person before she commits. Isn’t that right, honeybuns?”
I freeze, slow-blinking at him in disbelief. Is this his idea of making a good impression? Because he’s failing miserably. “Um . . . mm-hmm,” I manage to croak, my cheeks flaming in embarrassment.
Registering my distress, Nat comes to the rescue. “Guys, I think Mindy Kaling just walked in!” she says, pointing, and every head whips toward the door. Thank God for Nat.