I just wish that “friends” was how I felt about her.

  I mean, I want to be her friend. I do.

  But every time I’m near her, there’s this increasingly unavoidable feeling I want more of.

  No, I don’t need distractions from playwriting.

  No, I don’t want to lose my paying job.

  I just wish there was a way to have it all.

  Just as quickly as that thought arrives, it departs…and my mind goes utterly blank.

  Because the only thing I can see—the only thing I can think about—is the way Courtney Jane Salinger looks walking down those marble stairs to meet me.

  Under a light, beige trench coat, which sails behind her with every graceful step she takes, she wears a floor-length, gold-sequined dress that dips into a low V between her breasts and hugs every luscious curve of her body. There’s a high slit up one side of the skirt that flashes peekaboo glimpses of her creamy upper thigh as she descends, and on her feet are silver sling-back heels that sparkle as she moves and frame two neat rows of fire-engine red toenails.

  Every man in the station is pausing to admire her, to wonder about her, to wish—for one fucking second of our mostly Neanderthal lives—that she belonged to them.

  So, when she smiles at me and lifts her hand to wave hello—to claim me, over and in spite of every other man present—it makes goosebumps rise on my arms. More than half my blood sluices to my groin, where it pools, pressure building with every pulse. It’s lust. It’s desire. It’s the insistent and age-old hunger of a man to fuck his woman. And yeah, it’s been watered down by centuries of rules and manners, but it’s loud and strong and screams to me that it’s still there, throbbing and alive, deep inside of me.

  She is a goddess. A princess. A queen.

  I’m a mere mortal, undeserving of someone like her, but it doesn’t matter. I fucking want her anyway. And now that I’ve admitted it to myself, there’s no way I’ll ever be able to deny it again.

  I raise my hand in answer to hers and step away from the clock to walk toward her. I long to kiss her on the cheek, and if this were any other woman, I would. But I’m losing my boundaries and my senses where Courtney is concerned. I’m not certain I could stop once I started, and since we’ve firmly decided that we’re not interested in pursuing more than friendship with each other, it’s just not a good idea to touch her at all.

  I put my hands in my pockets. “Hey.”

  “Hi,” she says, her smile broadening as she gets closer. “Sorry I’m late!”

  Guileless and totally lovely.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” she says.

  “Do you not notice the way every guy in this station is staring at you?”

  She blinks at me, then looks around us for a second before catching my eyes again. “I’m overdressed for Grand Central.”

  “No, Courtney. It’s not because you’re overdressed. It’s because you’re stunning.”

  She laughs at me. “Don’t be silly.” Her swanlike neck twists so that she can look up at the posted tracks and train times. She points to an express train headed to New Haven that stops at Greenwich. “Upper Level. Track 24. Come on.”

  We find two seats facing each other on the train. She chooses a window seat, and I do the same.

  “Thanks so much for doing this,” she says, shrugging off her coat. “It shouldn’t be too painful. Drinks. Dinner. Dancing. A few toasts. No big deal.”

  She’s right: the party’s no big deal. What is a big deal is the way she looks in this dress. With her honey hair piled on her head in a complicated braided style and ruby-red lipstick on her lips, she looks delicious.

  “Will you know a lot of people?” I ask, forcing myself to make polite conversation.

  “Probably. And my parents will be there, of course.”

  “Who am I to you?” I ask. Her eyes widen for a second and her lips part like she’s trying to figure out what to say. It takes me a second to realize that she’s misunderstanding me. “Just so I know what to say in case anyone asks.”

  “Oh! Oh, right. Um. My escort,” she says. “A friend.”

  I nod slowly, because my thoughts since the moment I saw her tonight haven’t even been in the same area code as “friendly.”

  More people enter the train, and she takes out her phone, looking at messages and typing out a response to at least one before slipping her phone back into her purse. Meanwhile, I try to figure out a way to back into a conversation about how using a scam matchmaking service might not be the best way to find a spouse.

  “Can I talk to you about something?” I ask her.

  She nods. “Sure.”

  “Remember that night at the bar? A couple of weeks ago? The night you left in search of marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said something that stuck with me. You said that everyone’s playing games, but it’s not fun. You said that you were sick and tired of dating. You said you just wanted the real thing.”

  “That’s all true.”

  “So, here’s the thing: I don’t understand why you’re single. I feel like you should be able to meet someone organically.”

  She stares back at me for a moment before offering a polite smile. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, I am. You’re beautiful. You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re kind. You have a good job. You have your own apartment. I have a fair idea that you’re loaded. Why has it been so hard for you?”

  As I speak, I watch her face—the way her polite smile disappears, the way her eyebrows delicately furrow as I talk about her, and finally, the way she drops my gaze altogether, staring down at her clasped hands.

  “Courtney?”

  “Are you making fun of me?” Her voice is barely a whisper.

  “What? No!”

  She looks up at me, and when she does, her eyes are glassy. “You mean it?”

  I recoil, shocked by her question. “Yeah. Of course.”

  “You think I’m beautiful, smart, funny, and kind?” Her voice is so heart-breakingly full of hope, it claws at my own heart. Would that I could offer you more than friendship, sweet woman.

  “I wouldn’t have said so if I didn’t.” And then, because I perceive that my heart’s going to beat right out of my chest, I neutralize the comment as best I can, putting myself back in check. “I expect a lot from my friends, Courtney. I wouldn’t want to hang out with you if I didn’t think you were awesome.”

  Her expression sobers, closing up just a little—just enough.

  “I’m not beautiful. I’m just attractive,” she says. “I mean, I made an effort tonight, but I’m not usually beautiful, and I certainly don’t make an effort to be. I work with almost all men. I wear plain clothes and plain sweaters, my hair in a bun, and almost no makeup, because I want to be taken seriously.”

  She’s ridiculous if she thinks that her natural beauty doesn’t shine through her frumpy clothes, and I’m about to say so when she continues.

  “I am smart, but that can intimidate people, you know, if you don’t hide it a little.” She laughs ruefully. “Not every guy would’ve been as generous as you were when I shared those Monday suicide statistics.”

  “I thought it was amusing,” I say, then rush to add: “Not that people commit suicide on Mondays, but that you had Monday facts to pull out of thin air.”

  “There’s a delicate line between funny and weird.”

  “You’re not weird,” I assure her.

  She shrugs. “Sometimes I am.”

  “Fine. We all are. I like a little weird in my friends too.”

  She grins, but this time, it’s not a half-smile. It’s genuine, and part of me wishes I could bask in its warmth forever.

  “As for kind…” she begins.

  I hold up a hand, stopping her. “I’ve watched you with Dina for over a year. No matter who she talks to, how late she arrives or wants to stay or who she abandons you to flirt with—you stay, you wait, you return. You buy two times the number of drinks that she does, and you never ask her for a cent. And you always make sure she’s in a cab or has cab fare at the end of the night. You’re a good friend, Courtney. Through and through.”

  “Or maybe I’m a little bit of a chump,” she says, her eyes wistful as she stares into mine.

  “How so?”

  “Maybe sometimes,” she begins cautiously, “it’s easier to be kinder to others than myself.” There is a long pause between us until she breaks it. “Josh?”

  I’m frustrated with her but work to keep my voice level.

  “I say you’re beautiful, and you say you’re plain. I say you’re smart, and you say you’re intimidating. I say you’re funny, and you say you’re weird. I say you’re kind, and you say you’re a chump,” I tell her. “I can’t tell you all the things that are good about you without you refusing to accept them. Why can’t I be right?”

  “Inside of me,” she says softly, “I’m overwhelmed that you think so well of me. Believe me, Josh, I will hold onto those words for a long, long time. They’ll give me courage to do things I never knew I could do. I will consider them and cherish them, and more than anything else, I’ll hope you’re right about me.”

  “I am right,” I tell her.

  “Shades of blue,” she says, gently dismissing my point of view—or elevating her own—by saying that who she is, rather than fact, is more a matter of point of view.

  Except I’m right about her. I know I am. That she is beautiful, smart, funny and kind are facts and not up for dispute, no matter how hard she is on herself.

  “I forgot to add something,” I say, reaching for her hand and taking it gently in mine. It’s soft and warm and so much smaller than mine. “You’re self-aware. You’re blisteringly and brutally self-aware. You see yourself, but…but…in all the wrong ways. I wish you could see yourself how I see you, Courtney Jane Salinger. I wish you could see how wonderful you are.”

  She blinks rapidly, shifting slightly to face the widow. As she does, she squeezes my hand, and to my surprise, she doesn’t withdraw hers.

  And that’s how we arrive in Greenwich forty-five minutes later: each gazing out our window, with her hand cradled tenderly in mine.

  CHAPTER 7

  Courtney

  I should have known that my parents would love Josh at first sight, but I wasn’t totally prepared for how my mother would fawn over him. Sitting beside my father at our assigned table, I watch Josh and my mother on the dance floor. She giggles when he spins her around, simpering like a teenager when he winks at her and pulls her back into his arms.

  All those hours bartending sure did school him on how to be charming. Or maybe he was always like this?

  “Penny for your thoughts, CJ.”

  My father wanted a son. I have known this for as long as I can remember, but I am always reminded of it when he calls me “CJ.”

  “Mother looks well.”

  “She likes your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, sir.”

  “Friend. Escort. Whatever he is.”

  “Friend will do,” I say, feeling a twinge of guilt when I think of how nice my hand felt in his on the train. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me such a beautiful, heartfelt compliment, and although the traits on which Josh praised me aren’t the qualities on which my parents place a premium (save the smarts), it still meant a lot to me to listen to his voice, to hear his praise, and to know that he likes me on a human level, if not a romantic one.

  “Can’t say I approve of this artsy-fartsy stuff. He went to NYU. Solid school. Time to make something of himself.”

  “He is. He’s working on two plays right now.”

  “Plays,” scoffs my father. “Waste of time.”

  “I disagree.” I’ve never read a word he’s written, but I say, “He’s talented.”

  “Talented or not, better he stays a—a ‘friend.’ You don’t look out, he’ll seduce you, and you’ll be stuck with some freeloader working on his—his play for the rest of his life while you bring home the bacon.”

  “He’s not a freeloader,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “He earns a living.”

  “Doing what? Writing plays? I doubt it.”

  “Bartending.”

  “Say what, now?”

  I can’t let my father put down Josh. I won’t.

  “He’s a hard worker. He bartends several times a week to finance his playwriting.”

  “Oh, ho! So, when he’s not wasting his time dabbling with plays, he’s slinging drinks? My goodness, he’s a real winner, CJ. Well done.”

  “Will you excuse me?” I ask, because if I don’t get up and leave now, I may end up saying something I regret.

  “Smooth your feathers,” says my father, reaching for my wrist to keep me at the table. “We’ll say no more of him.”

  “Thank you,” I say, resettling myself in my seat.

  “How’s the job? What’s Joel Morris got you working on, eh?”

  “I’m developing a comprehensive suite of models for capital management.”

  “Stress testing, economic capital, and risk-adjusted return on capital?”

  “All the above,” I answer, taking another, bigger, sip of wine.

  “And what’s this I hear about a London office?”

  “Should be operational by the end of May.”

  “Planning to go over?”

  “Nothing’s been offered.”

  “Then you should ask. My sister, Lucy, still owns the flat in London. She’d be glad to put you up for a few weeks.”

  I’m not going anywhere, of course, with my match coming on June 1. But my father doesn’t need to know that. “Something to consider.”

  “You’re so close to having it all, CJ.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I mean that. You’re an asset to the firm.”

  “Thank you, Father,” I say, placing my glass on the starched white tablecloth and turning to face my dad. I drink up these words of praise gratefully.

  He gives me a look. “Don’t throw it all away on some—some—artist.”

  “For God’s sake!”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Why do you care?” I demand, the words unusually shrill and sharp for a conversation between me and my father.

  “Now, CJ, I’m only—”

  “I have no idea whom I’ll end up with…whom I’ll marry! But I mean to be open-minded, Father. I mean to be hopeful and optimistic, to start from the firm foundation of friendship and let love grow. I…I don’t need a man to support me. We both know that I can support him if I need to—if I want to. I make well into six figures, and I’m not yet thirty. So, why does it matter? Why the hell do you care?”

  “Smooth your feathers, CJ. Smooth them out now, miss.”

  “I’m sorry I yelled,” I say, thinking of my future spouse. “Just…keep an open mind. Please.”

  He looks away from me with a heavy sigh, cocking his head to the side as he watches my mother and Josh dancing.

  “Well, I suppose you could do worse. He’s certainly charming. And very good-looking. At least your children would be—”

  “Father!” I exclaim, feeling beyond exasperated. “How many times do I have to say it? I’m not with Josh.”

  He turns to me, his eyes narrowing. “Are you sure?”

  I’ve heard that tone before. It’s the voice he uses before cinching a major deal. It’s the voice that lets his opponent know they’ve been bested. But I have no clue why he’s using it now, with me.

  My coiled muscles relax as I stare at him, trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head.

  He stares at me thoughtfully for a moment, before his attention is distracted by the woman sitting on his other side. She wants to know what he thought of the recent first-selectman elections, which gives me the perfect excuse to leave the table and step outside.

  The patio door closes behind me, and I walk down a small set of stairs to the club’s great lawn. Before me is a glorious view of Long Island Sound, dotted with expensive sail boats in the foreground and grand mansions standing proudly behind them across the water. I’ve been to this yacht club many times in my life—for regattas and parties, weddings and brunches—and the view has always calmed my spirit and soothed my soul.

  But not tonight.

  I grip the stem of my wineglass tighter.

  Are you sure?

  My father’s words repeat in my head.

  Are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure?

  “I’m not with Josh,” I whisper to myself, strolling toward the water’s edge. “Why is that so hard to understand?”

  A lone bell chimes in the evening breeze, and I look up at the sky, at the thousands of stars on display.

  Maybe it was my defense of Josh that led him to such a conclusion? The way I insisted that Josh was talented and hardworking? Or maybe it was the way I kept calling him my “friend” and then told my father that I want my future marriage to start from a foundation of friendship.

  Hmm. Yes. In retrospect, I can see how my words could have misled my father. But I wasn’t talking about Josh, of course. I was talking about my—

  “Courtney.”

  I turn around to find Josh, tall and handsome in the moonlight, standing on the lawn behind me.

  “Hi,” I say, feeling my lips tilt up in an effortless smile because I’m so happy to see him.

  “Your mom’s a good dancer.”

  “Yes. She loves it.”

  “How about you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You don’t like dancing?”

  I shrug, still a little bothered by the exchange with my father. I’m not ready to go back inside yet.

  “You don’t know how?” he asks, grinning at me.

  “Of course I know how. My mother insisted on ballroom dance lessons.”

  “So, dance with me,” he says, taking a step closer. He holds out his hand, and I consider saying no, but I can’t think of a good reason why.

  “Fine,” I say, putting my hand in his and letting him pull me into his arms.

  The song playing inside is “The Way You Look Tonight,” crooned by a Benny Goodman-style troubadour, and it’s always been one of my very favorites. I look into Josh’s eyes as he settles one hand on my lower back and curls his fingers over the hand he’s holding. I flatten my other palm on his shoulder and stand so close to him that I can smell his soap or aftershave. It’s fresh and clean, and without meaning to, I find myself memorizing the scent, so that this night will come winging back to me should I ever smell it again.