My cheek brushes his jawline as we start moving, swaying gently to the beautiful words about a man, deeply in love with a woman, who pledges he’ll never forget “the way she looks tonight.”

  “I love this song,” I whisper.

  “Courtney,” says Josh, his voice low and my name gritty on his tongue.

  “Hmm?”

  He shifts his hand in mine so that our fingers are braided together. “What do you know about the matchmaking service you’re using? Where’d you find them?”

  “Oh. Um, on TV. And then online.”

  “You’re sure they’re reputable?”

  I nod. “I believe so. They’re affiliated with Lifetime TV. I looked up the experts on Wikipedia, and they seemed legit.”

  “What if—what if they don’t actually match you well? What if they just send you the name of some guy?”

  “Of course they’re going to send me the name of some guy,” I say, resting my chin on the hand that’s on top of his shoulder and closing my eyes. “That’s the whole point.”

  “But what if he’s not right for you?”

  “He will be.”

  Josh growls softly, then clears his throat. “You’re really, um, committed to this.”

  “Mm-hm. I am. I am committed to it. One hundred percent.” I lean away a little bit, so I can look into his eyes. “That’s the only way it’ll work.”

  His face is troubled—so troubled, in fact, it makes my heart skip a beat, because I can’t account for it. “What? What’s wrong?”

  He clenches his jaw, moving his hand from my lower back to my waist to hold me a little tighter. “I just—I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “But that’s exactly why I’m doing this,” I explain to him. “Because I don’t want to be hurt anymore either.”

  He stares at me for a beat before nodding. “Okay. Got it.”

  I’m eager to change the subject and remember I don’t know where he’s from. “Where did you grow up?”

  “A little town outside of Minneapolis called Minnetonka.”

  “Minnesota. I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t Minnesotans have a midwestern accent?”

  “Oh, ya. Fer sure they do.”

  I giggle. “You lost yours?”

  “I’ve been here for almost a decade.” He laughs softly. “I got a scholarship to NYU and never went home.”

  “Never?”

  “I’ve gone home for visits. But I never moved back.”

  “Your family must miss you.”

  “I go home for Christmas. And we talk every Sunday afternoon.”

  “You and your parents?”

  He nods. “Uh-huh. They call me when they get home from church.”

  “So, you’re close to them?”

  “I can’t pop around for a cup of sugar, but yeah, we’ve stayed close.”

  “That sounds nice,” I murmur, placing my cheek on his shoulder as the band plays the last verse of the song.

  I’m pressed up against Josh, and it occurs to me how solid he is under his tux. I know he’s athletic because I’ve seen his muscles—not to mention that time he vaulted across the bar. But it’s unexpectedly wonderful to be held like this in his arms, with my chest flush against his. He smells wonderful, and he’s a good friend to me. And suddenly, I hope that the experts choose someone like Josh for me—someone with all Josh’s best traits, but who’s looking for marriage, for forever, for me and everything I have to offer the right man.

  “I have two tickets for Miss Saigon,” he says. “From a—a, um, friend of mine. Next Saturday. Come with me?”

  “Oh, I’d love to!” I say, leaning back to smile up at him.

  “It’s your favorite,” he says softly, his eyes serious as he looks down into mine. I can hear his breathing, shallow and shaky, as puffs of warm breath fall softly on my cheek.

  “You remembered.”

  The song has ended, and we’re not dancing anymore; we’re just standing in each other’s arms under a thousand twinkling stars.

  His eyes dart to my lips and linger there. “Yes.”

  Kiss me.

  The thought streaks through my mind like lightning, unexpected and startling. But on its heels is another, stronger thought:

  You’re going to ruin everything, Courtney! Step away right now, miss!

  He leans closer.

  “Courtney—”

  His lips are a breath away from mine.

  “I think you should take me back inside,” I say quickly. “I think that would be best.”

  He groans softly, almost a sound of pain. From this close, I can see his jaw clench as he releases my hand and steps away.

  My eyes are suddenly burning, and I blink them, feeling unaccountably miserable to lose the warmth and safety of his arms.

  He nods once, then gestures to the stairs with his hand and whispers, “After you.”

  ***

  When I wake up in my parents’ house the next morning, the first thing I think about when my eyes open is Josh.

  In my half-dream state, I picture how he looked in his tuxedo, standing by the clock at Grand Central Station. He stole my breath with his handsome smile, with the way he looked at me as I approached him.

  I remember how it felt to hold hands with him on the train, how wonderful it made me feel to know he thought I was beautiful and smart, kind and funny.

  My mind slides to my father’s subtle question, which deftly undermined all my declarations about our “friendship” status: Are you sure?

  I cannot deny the fact that I wanted Josh to kiss me on the lawn. Even if I wanted it only for a split second. I wanted to feel his lips on mine. I wanted to taste him, to feel the satin slide of his tongue against mine, to know the feeling of his body pressed intimately, without reserve, with passion, against mine.

  And I recall how it felt to say good-bye when a taxi collected him at the club; how sad I felt to see him go, and how I wished that I was leaving with him.

  It all adds up to one thing, one thing I wish I could refute but can’t.

  “Stop fooling yourself and admit it,” I whisper, rolling onto my back. “You feel more for him than friendship.”

  Stupid girl that I am, I’m less than a month away from meeting my future husband, and I’ve developed a full-blown crush on Josh-the-bartender, Josh-the-playwright, Josh…the wonderful.

  “Shit. Fuck. Poop,” I mutter, staring up at the pristine white ceiling of my childhood bedroom. “Fantastic work, Courtney. You’re falling for Josh. You are such an idiot.”

  I pull one of my pillows over my face and scream into it, but swearing and screaming give me no peace. I need to take action. I need to do something to right this wrong, because it almost feels like I’m cheating on my fiancé, and I’m not a cheater. I won’t be made one by Josh Dalton.

  Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I pull up Josh’s number—the one he called me back on from the New Dramatists last Monday—and I open a message screen. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I stare at the screen, trying to figure out what to say.

  Hi, Josh. It’s Courtney.

  I tap enter.

  Thank you for being my escort to the Frederick wedding. It was very kind of you, and everyone thought you were very charming. Don’t be surprised if Simi contacts you about her drama festival in Boston this fall.

  I tap enter again, taking a deep breath. Now for the heart of the matter.

  I type I can’t see you anymore, then erase it because it feels incredibly overdramatic.

  I try again. I know I’m a fool, but my feelings for you (despite our mutual agreement to be friends) are outgrowing friendship, and I can’t seem to stop wanting—

  “No!” I hiss, deleting the letters. “He doesn’t deserve to have you spew emotional vomit all over him either!”

  Taking a deep breath, I flip over my phone and think for a second. Am I overreacting? I mean, we didn’t actually kiss. We held hands on the train, and we danced at a wedding. Friends hold hands sometimes, don’t they? And everyone dances at weddings. Am I making too big a deal out of this?

  Besides, if actions speak louder than words, all I need to do is avoid him. I won’t go to Tidewaters for the next three or four Fridays, until after I’m matched. If I can do that—

  My phone dings with a message alert.

  It was my pleasure. I’m looking forward to seeing Miss Saigon with you on Saturday.

  Oh, shit!

  I totally forgot that I agreed to go to a show with him.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” I say, throwing the phone on my bed and crossing my bedroom to plop down on my window seat. It looks out over our family estate, and in the distance, I can see the horses in the paddock out for an early morning grazing.

  My phone dings again, and I’m up like a shot, racing back to my bed.

  Meet me at the theater at 7:45?

  I stare at the words, wondering if I should cancel. But that seems like it would be really mean and ungrateful, now that I’ve said yes and he already has the tickets. Especially after he’s done me the favor of being my escort last night.

  Hmm. Maybe all I need to do is reconfirm our status as friends. Maybe that would be enough to curb my feelings and make it clear to him that nothing has changed, despite the hand-holding and moonlight-dancing and almost-kisses.

  I’ll see you at 7:45 next Saturday, I write, and then add, I’m lucky to have a friend like you.

  I sit on the edge of my bed, waiting for an answer, my knee bobbing up and down with nerves. Will he reject the word “friend”? Will he refuse it? And why—oh, why?—is there a part of me that hopes he does?

  Seconds turn into minutes that drag by at the speed of molasses in January until finally—

  Ding.

  I flip over my phone, and peek with bated breath to find a thumbs-up emoji.

  And if there was ever a girl more disappointed to see a goddamned thumbs-up emoji in her entire life, I’d like to meet her.

  CHAPTER 8

  Josh

  I’m lucky to have a friend like you.

  I flinch at the words, staring at them with vitriol as I pour the fourth of four coffees, slip my phone into my apron pocket, and take the mugs to a waiting brunch table.

  “Here are your coffees,” I say to the four-top of girls in their twentysomethings sitting on the patio in the sunshine. “Can I get anyone a mimosa or a bloody mary?”

  One girl, curled up in her chair, lowers her sunglasses to get a better look at me. She licks her lips and grins. “You’re cute.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What are you doing later?”

  “Amelia! Oh, my God!” One of her friends lightly slaps her knee while the other two giggle. “You’re such a slut!”

  “I’m noooot,” she insists, smiling wider at me. “So?”

  I sigh. She’s cute. And she’s obviously DTF. But I’m not interested, which is so fucked up, I can barely get my head around it.

  “Sorry. I’m busy,” I say, winking at her to soften the blow.

  She makes a face. “Busy, or taken?”

  I am not taken. I am definitely not taken by anyone, least of all by a woman naïve enough to think that an arranged marriage is her best option for happiness!

  “Busy,” I hear myself mutter.

  “Sure about that?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “No.”

  “Sounds complicated.” She chuckles softly, grabs a ballpoint pen from my apron and reaches for my hand. After she writes “Amelia” and her phone number on my palm, she puts a heart around it. “I tell you what—I’m not complicated. If you’re still not sure when you get off work, text me.”

  With a dry smile, I pull my hand away.

  “Was that yes or no on the mimosas?”

  They all order one, and I turn around, walking back inside Tidewaters to make their drinks.

  Last night at the wedding, I had almost kissed Courtney after our dance on the lawn, and now I wish I fucking had. I had a shit night of sleep, dreaming about her and wishing I was making love to her all night long. I woke up hard, and even after I made myself come, my relief was only hollow.

  I growl softly as I pour orange juice into four champagne flutes, then top it off with cava. Before I take the drinks outside, I wash my hand, using dish soap to scrub off most of the ink. It’s ridiculous, but one, I’m not supposed to fuck the customers; two, if I took Amelia up on her offer, I think I might feel like I cheated on Courtney. Probably because I like her. I really, really like her.

  I like her so much that I bought two tickets to Miss Saigon last night with money I really don’t have, even with my New Dramatists discount. Probably a waste of money, when the girl I’m taking will be married to someone else in a matter of weeks.

  It’s not a waste, my heart whispers as I head back outside with the drinks.

  Sitting next to Courtney for almost three hours in a dark theater? Listening to my favorite Broadway love song, “Sun and Moon,” with her beside me? Maybe even convincing her to take a walk around the moonlit streets of Manhattan with me when the show is over?

  It’s worth it.

  I serve the drinks quickly, careful not to engage with the ladies at the table any further.

  The website Courtney’s using said that they generally match people within four to six weeks of receiving their application, which means that Courtney should be matched by June at the latest. Next month.

  And come on, there’s no way I’m going to have a hit play in a month. The sad reality, and one I wish I could change, is that we want different things in life: she wants the white-picket-fence dream deluxe as soon as possible, and I need to concentrate on workshopping my play into a successful Broadway show, which could take years. Our life goals are incompatible no matter how much she touches my heart.

  So what option do I have?

  To be her—fuck, I am growing to hate this word—friend until she meets her husband. And then? Fade to black, let her go, and just hope that I made the right choice. Just hope that choosing my career over Courtney isn’t something I regret for the rest of my life.

  ***

  On Saturday evening as I stand outside the Lunt-Fontanne theater, twenty minutes early to my meeting with Courtney, I think about last night. For the first time in months, she didn’t show up at Tidewaters.

  I’d kept watching the door and waiting for her to walk in, my heart bunching every time I thought I caught a glimpse of her and disappointment relaxing my muscles when I’d realized it wasn’t her.

  Dina had finally sauntered in around seven and made her way to the bar, and I experienced a small hit of elation—not to see Courtney’s friend, but because I hoped Courtney wouldn’t be far behind.

  “Hey!” Dina shouted over the cacophony. “How about an Amstel?”

  “Sure thing!” I answered. “And a gimlet?”

  “A what? Oh! No, no need. Courts isn’t coming.”

  Just like that, my stomach dropped. The girl I wanted to see—who I’d been waiting to see since last Saturday night—wasn’t coming. And the thought that followed it? Sheer panic. What if she’d been matched? What if—right this minute—she was e-mailing her future husband, making plans for their anonymous fucking wedding?

  I clenched my jaw and stared down at the chrome bar, feeling miserable. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Where is she? Why isn’t she coming?”

  “She’s not feeling…”

  I looked up to find Dina’s mouth open and eyes wide. It only took a second to realize she’d been catching the play-by-play of my feelings as they sailed across my face.

  “Holy shit! Josh!”

  “No,” I muttered, shaking my head.

  “Yes!”

  “No, Dina.” I reached down for an Amstel light, popped off the cap, and placed it on the bar with a frosted pint glass.

  “Yes, yes, yes, Josh! Oh, my God! How did I not see this before now?”

  I rested my hands on my hips. “See what? What do you think you’re seeing?”

  “Think? No, darling—I know what I’m seeing. You like her,” said Dina gravely, sliding onto a barstool freed up by a guy whose friends had arrived. She leaned forward. “You’re sad she’s not here. You’re into her.”

  I stared at her for a second, trying to figure out what to say. Finally, I shrugged, shaking my head with frustration and confusion. “I don’t know what I am.”

  “Oh, my God, Josh. This is so super cute. You like her.”

  I do. She’s right. There’s no sense in denying it.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said, taking an empty pint glass from a guy behind Dina and refilling it with an IPA on tap.

  “Did you know that she’s…” Dina’s voice tapered off as her dark brown eyes looked into mine. Hers were soft. Sympathetic. Kind. “She might not be available much longer.”

  “Yeah,” I said, taking a twenty from the guy and giving him back ten. “I know.”

  “You do? She told you? About her arranged-marriage plan?”

  I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Yeah.”

  “And apparently you feel the same way about it that I do.”

  “How can someone so smart do something so stupid?”

  Dina took a big sip of beer, tossing a look over her shoulder. “She’s sick of this.”

  “Who isn’t? That’s no reason to marry a complete stranger.”

  “Not in New York, anyway,” agreed Dina, flipping her jet-black hair from one shoulder to another. “Too many crazies. But I can’t talk her out of it. If anything, every time we talk, she feels empowered, because my parents were successfully matched.”

  “Then please stop talking to her,” I begged Dina.

  “You like her.”