Page 100 of The Plus One Pact

She motions a little. "Can I ask what you were…?"

"Watching The Office," I say.

"Really?" she asks.

"No," I admit. "I've never seen it, actually. I don't get office humor. It's not part of my job." Lies should be close to the truth. "My friend sent me this great podcast. It was hilarious. These two best friends shooting the shit."

"Oh, what's it called? I'm always looking for a new one," she says.

Uh… no go. I need a new path. "Hey, what do you say we get out of here?" I ask.

"Huh?" she asks.

"Go shopping for that dress," I say. "Make it official."

"And skip twenty questions? Should we?"

"If it's an official wedding activity, why not?" I ask.

She nods. "Let's do it."

Twenty minutes later, we're at the Philz coffee across from the county's crown jewel, South Coast Plaza. Cynthia apologizes profusely for her need for another cup of java, promises to pay, and asks me to promise not to tell either Galante brother about her time on enemy ground.

"You know, since this is the only chain coffee shop doing pour overs," she says as she slides into long line.

The store is clean, bright, crowded with a mix of people in business casual and athleisure. Then there are a few women in our demographic—ready to shop.

"You drink tea, right?" She scans the menu. "Not their strong suit, honestly, except for the chai. They use fresh mint and tons of cardamom, but they never use enough milk. You have to ask for it extra creamy. Actually, do you mind if I order it for you? I'm a pro."

"Go for it," I say.

The line moves forward. Cynthia taps her toe in time with the music. An alt-rock song from ten years ago. I only barely recognize it. I've never been great with music. Or anything traditionally "cool."

Cynthia, on the other hand, exudes cool. In her sunglasses, oversized hoodie, short-shorts, and flip-flops she looks like a model on her day off. Or maybe that's the legs and bone structure. It's hard to imagine Daniel not noticing her.

She's gorgeous.

"Would Daniel really care about you crossing enemy lines?" I ask.

She taps her chin, considering the matter. "I'm not sure. He used to complain about Romeo's 'hairbrained schemes,' but ever since Rome brought up the coffee business last time—I think it was a few weeks ago—it seemed to worm its way into Daniel's brain. He mentions it when we pass a coffee shop. Or when I ask him to stop somewhere because I want a drink. Or even when I complain there wasn't anything good to grab for a snack with my afternoon coffee. He'll say, ‘you know what would be great with coffee, Mexican wedding cookies. Or pana cotta. Can you even get an affogato here?' He's a little behind the times on that one." She laughs. "But Daniel isn't one for sweet."

"He likes the idea?" I ask.

"I think so," she says. "But it will take a lot for him to admit it. You know Danny… No, I guess you don't know Danny. But you know Rome now, so many you can imagine the stubbornness that runs in the family."

I can. I nod.

"He likes you," she says. "I get why he's suspicious of everything, with the timing, but, honestly, it's a little egotistical, isn't it? Why would Rome scoop a poor woman off the street just for the benefit of, what even? What would that accomplish?"

Right. What would it accomplish to pretend to be someone's girlfriend. What a silly idea. "Proof he can commit to something, maybe?"

"You think? Does committing to a woman for three months prove he can run a business?" She looks to the line as it moves forwards. "No offense."

"No, you're right. I don't see the logic either."

She throws her hands in the air. "Men. Who can understand them." The line moves forwards again, and it's our turn.

We step to the counter where a barista takes our orders. Cynthia recites them like a pro. Some extra-large dark roast for her, the house way, and a Chai for me, extra creamy, with honey.