“How’s Monday at twelve thirty?”

My forehead wrinkled. “Umm… Twelve thirty is fine.”

“Okay. Would Café Luce on Fifty-Third work? Is that too far for you? Do you live here in the City?”

My eyes bulged. She wanted to meet in person? I’d assumed she meant she was going to pencil me into her calendar for an email or a call.

“Yes, I live in the City. And Café Luce sounds good.”

“Perfect! It’s a date. Thanks, Stella! I can’t wait to meet you.”

Ten seconds later, the line was dead. I stared at my phone. Fisher had been watching the entire conversation play out on my face.

“Who was that?” he said.

“Olivia Royce.”

“And she is?”

“The bride whose wedding we crashed.”

 

***

 

The next day, I arrived twenty minutes early at the coffee shop. Ben had wanted to pick me up for our date, but I preferred to meet people I didn’t know well in public so I was always in full control of when I could leave. I bought a decaf latte and took a seat on a couch off to the side of the counter. My local coffeehouse always had newspapers and magazines for people to browse while they drank their overpriced coffees, so I picked up The New York Times and started to flip through the Sunday Style section. Halfway through, I froze when I saw a photo. After blinking a few times to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, I lifted the paper closer to read the announcement.

 

Olivia Paisley Rothschild and Mason Brighton Royce were married on July 13th at the New York Public Library in Manhattan. The Rev. Arthur Finch, an Episcopal priest, officiated.

Mrs. Royce, 28, whom the groom calls Livi, is a vice president of marketing. She graduated from the University of Pennsylvania and received an MBA from Columbia.

She is the daughter of Charlotte Bianchi Rothschild and Cooper E. Rothschild, both deceased, from New York City. The wedding was hosted by her brother, Hudson Rothschild.

Mr. Royce, also 28, founded his own IT firm and specializes in security and compliance. He graduated from the University of Boston and received an MS in Information Technology from NYU.

 

I couldn’t believe I’d stumbled on their wedding announcement. What were the chances? I hadn’t read the Sunday New York Times in years, so it felt like a freaky coincidence. Fisher always said if you put positive thoughts out there, positive things would come back to you. That might explain this. I’d certainly done enough thinking over the last week and a half about a certain man who had asked for my number, but then never called.

Earlier this week, I’d been flipping through the channels and happened to pass Dancing with the Stars. Even though I never watched it, for some reason I kept it on. When the couples slow danced, I reminisced about how it had felt to be in Hudson’s arms at his sister’s wedding. That had led to me remembering how much rhythm he’d had, which in turn made my mind wander to other things his good rhythm might be helpful with. Then, on Friday night when Fisher came over after work, he’d brought me a bottle of Hendricks gin. It reminded me of the way my arms had broken out in goose bumps when Hudson whispered in my ear, “The night’s young, Evelyn. Dance with me.”

I’d never in a million years expected him to ask me out when I showed up with my tail between my legs at his office to pick up my phone. But once he did, I’d let my imagination run away with itself. I’d even put off my second date with Ben. But after spending more than a week waiting for my phone to ring, I finally realized it was dumb to avoid a perfectly nice guy—one who had called multiple times—just because another guy might possibly dial my number.

Ben walked in a few minutes before the time we were supposed to meet. I took one last glance at the wedding photo in the newspaper before closing it. I was determined to not ruin my date by letting thoughts of another man sneak in.

“Hey.” Ben kissed me on the lips.

It was only our second kiss, since our first had been at the end of our last date, but it was nice enough. There was no tingle, and goose bumps didn’t run down my arms or anything, but we were in the middle of a coffee shop, so what did I expect? When Ben pulled back, he handed me a box of Godiva chocolate I hadn’t noticed in his hand. “I was going to get you flowers, but I figured you’d have to carry them with you all night. This you can probably toss in your purse.”

I smiled. “That’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you so much.”

“I made a reservation at a steak house. After, if you’re up for it, there’s a comedy club next door with an open-mic night tonight.”

“That sounds great.”

“You ready to go?”

“Yup.”

I picked up my empty coffee cup and tossed it in the garbage on the way out. When I reached for the door handle, Ben beat me to it. “Please, let me.”

“Thank you.”

Outside I looked left and then right. “Which way are we heading?”

“The restaurant is a few blocks from here. It’s on Hudson.”

“Hudson Street?”

“Yeah, is that too far to walk in heels? I can grab us an Uber.”

“No, no. That’s fine.” But seriously…Hudson Street?

We started to walk. “I haven’t tried the place yet,” Ben said. “But it has incredible reviews, so I hope it’s good.”

“What’s it called?”

“Hudson’s.”

I had to stifle my laugh. Hudson’s on Hudson Street? So much for not letting thoughts of someone else creep in tonight…

CHAPTER 5

 

Stella

 

I arrived at the restaurant a few minutes late on Monday, even though I had left my apartment super early. The uptown local train I’d taken had decided to become an express and skipped my stop.

When I entered, Olivia was already seated at a table. She looked so different out of her wedding garb that I almost didn’t recognize her. But she waved and smiled like we were old friends.

I had this wild notion stuck in my head that she didn’t really want to order any perfume, but was luring me here so she could give me a piece of her mind in person—or worse yet, have me arrested. Her inviting smile did a lot to diffuse my paranoia.

“Hi.” I set the box in my arms down on an empty seat and pulled out the chair across from her. “I’m sorry I’m late. My train skipped the stop.”

“No problem.” She reached out and tilted the breadbasket in my direction, showing me it was empty. “As you can see, I kept myself busy. I hadn’t eaten a carb for six months before my wedding. So I’ve spent the last few weeks making up for lost time.” Setting the basket down, she held her hand out to me. “I’m Olivia Rothschild, by the way. Damn it, no, I’m not. I’m Olivia Royce now. I still can’t get used to that.”

I smiled, though I was a nervous wreck. “Stella Bardot.” Figuring the best thing to do was clear the air, I took a deep breath. “Listen, Olivia, I’m so sorry about what I did. I’m usually not the type of person to crash a wedding.”

She tilted her head. “You’re not? That’s a shame. I thought we were going to get along so well. I crashed a prom once.”