"Ah, of course. Cute, successful..." The woman’s dark eyes dance with amusement. "Why can't you just tell them you broke up?"
"I don't... I don't like to admit failure," I say, straightening in my chair. "Not in work, not in my personal life. Besides, if I tell them that, they'll just try to set me up again at the wedding."
"But what choice do you have?"
"I'll figure something out." I lift my chin. "I always do."
"Like finding a fake girlfriend to bring to the wedding?" She shifts in her chair, lifting one leg to rest her ankle on her opposite knee — that classic relaxed pose that reads unmistakably masculine. It's in her energy too. The way she takes up space without apology, that cocky grin.
"Why not?” I say, not opposed to the idea. “I'll just pay someone to accompany me. There's nothing money can't fix."
"I suppose that's true." She shrugs. "Look. I know what you're dying to ask me, and please don't feel like you have to beg. Of course, I'll come with you."
I laugh — a real, genuine laugh that surprises me. It feels good and I realize I can't remember the last time I laughed out loud. Whatever her motives are, the woman is undeniably entertaining.
"I'm sure I can find someone more... suitable," I retort, eyeing her pointedly. She is attractive — annoyingly so — but I'm not about to let her know that. "You look nothing like a finance director. More like a gym instructor."
"Whatever." She sips her coffee and eyes me over the rim of her cup. "Your loss."
"What? Were you serious?" I frown. "What's your angle? Desperate for rent money? Or is this just how you spend your Friday afternoons — harassing women in coffee shops?"
"A little bit of both," she retorts. "Being your Sailor sounds fun."
I’m completely thrown off balance. Is she mocking me? Or does she genuinely need money? It’s impossible to tell.
"And why should I trust you?"
She leans forward. "Why should you trust anyone?" Something flickers in her eyes, but it's gone before I can read it. She pulls out a napkin from the holder on the table. "Do you have a pen?" she asks, pointing to my purse.
I hesitate. This is ridiculous. But I find myself opening my purse and pulling out a Mont Blanc anyway.
"Thank you." She scribbles something on the napkin. "In case you change your mind." She slides it across to me with a wink. "I promise I'm worth every penny."
And then she’s standing, leaving most of her coffee and turning to leave.
"Wait!" I call after her, although I have no idea why. "I don't even know your name. I’m Liv."
She pauses at the door, glancing back with that infuriating smile. "Sailor," she says, and then she's gone, leaving me staring at the napkin with its hastily scrawled phone number.
2
BLAIR
The coffee shop door swings shut behind me, muffling the low hum of conversations and the hiss of the espresso machine. I step onto the sidewalk, adjusting to the rhythm of the city as it swirls around me. Fifth Avenue feels particularly alive today, a mix of purposeful strides and aimless wandering. For a beat, I stand still, caught in the chaos before heading north toward Central Park.
I hadn't planned to stop for coffee this morning. I was on my way to the park for a run—a habit I've developed to keep the restlessness at bay. But when I passed the shop, I couldn’t resist the smell of roasted beans. And thenshehappened.
Olivia Barnes. It only takes a quick search on my phone to find her wedding planning business; she's at the top of the Google search engine and her picture is prominently plastered over the welcome page.
I weave through the crowd, dodging a group of tourists clustered around a map. She's quite the character. All bite, polished to an inch of her life in that crisp blazer and heels. Her irritation at my interruption was practically radiating off her, but she didn't budge, protecting her space. That's the partthat intrigued me; it was highly entertaining. Most people would have moved to another table or ignored me entirely. Not her. She stayed, sparred, and even laughed. Well, eventually.
I'm not entirely sure why I offered to be her fake girlfriend. It wasn't a serious proposal. I was simply fighting boredom. Maybe that's why I couldn't resist pushing her buttons a little.
Passing the edge of the park, I make my way to my usual starting point near The Mall. The wide, tree-lined pathway is dappled with sunlight filtering through the leaves. The air smells faintly of damp earth and fallen leaves, with a hint of roasted nuts from the vendor cart nearby. A few early joggers pace along the path, their steady footsteps blending with the distant sounds of a saxophonist playing near Bethesda Terrace.
I shrug out of my zip-up hoodie, tie it around my waist, and start running. My feet find their rhythm on the pavement as I navigate the familiar trails. Central Park has always been my escape, a place where the chaos of the city fades into the background. There’s different kind of energy here—less frantic.
I take the path that loops around the lake, my pace quickening. Ducks glide across the water and a loved-up couple leans against the railing of Bow Bridge, their heads close together, lost in their own world. I weave around them, the cool air filling my lungs.
