Page 123 of Dial F for Finance

Audrey, naturally, is the one who says it out loud. “In the last year and a half of documented brunches, lunches, and emergency wine summits, you have ordered a martini or sparkling water one hundred percent of the time. You once described the wine flight as ‘a commitment mechanism for people who can’t make decisions.’ This is a significant deviation, Jenna. We’re allowed two seconds of visible enjoyment.”

“It’s wine, Audrey. Not a personality transplant.”

“Mm,” Serena hums, the tone of a woman who believes nothing.

Lunch happens the way it usually does when we’re all together—multiple conversations, everyone in all of them, Nora doing a dramatic reading of Michaela’s text messages about her dress choice: “The neckline is fine, but the color says vice principal”; Layla explaining her fitting posture philosophy; Audrey reporting that Logan has calculated the tensile strength of her bodice to ensure maximum dance-floor mobility.

“He factored in the humidity,” Audrey adds, adjusting her glasses with absolute sincerity. “It was actually very romantic.”

“That is the nerdiest thing I have ever heard,” Miranda says, looking up from her phone with a radiant grin. “And I love it. My husband just responded in all caps with seven fire emojis. We are officially going to the ball.”

I pick up the first glass of my flight—a dry, acidic Sauvignon Blanc. It tastes exactly like relinquishing control, which I am discovering is both terrifying and unexpectedly pleasant.

My phone vibrates against the mahogany table. A message from Dominic.

Dominic:

Client just approved the agenda. Which means I am officially staring at the wall until you come home. How are the dress logistics?

Me:

I gave Miranda my seat at Bennett’s table. I am also drinking a wine flight.

The typing bubble appears, disappears, and appears again.

Dominic:

Who are you and what have you done with my wife?

Also, that is the hottest thing I’ve read all day. Send me a picture of what you’re wearing so I can spend the rest of the afternoon imagining how I’m going to take it off you.

My favorite option is with my teeth.

I stare at the screen, my pulse executing a sudden, unauthorized spike. I take a deliberate, measured sip of the Sauvignon Blanc, hoping the cold liquid will counteract the heat rushing to my cheeks. It absolutely does not.

“Oh my God, look at her,” Layla whisper-shouts, abandoning her cheese board to point at me. “She’s blushing. Jenna Pemberton is actively blushing in a public establishment.”

“I am not blushing,” I say smoothly, setting my glass down. “It’s the ambient temperature of the room. It’s summer, and the cooling in this building is notoriously inconsistent.”

“Uh-huh,” Serena says, resting her chin on her hand. “Does the cooling system also make you stare at your phone like you want to eat it?”

“Statistically,” Audrey chimes in, adjusting her glasses, “the likelihood of a fluctuation causing that specific shade of crimson is less than four percent. The likelihood of a text from Dominic Cruz causing it? Approaching ninety-nine.”

I ignore them, my thumbs flying across the keyboard before I can talk myself out of it.

Me:

I am wearing a very secure, double-lined pencil skirt and a silk blouse with fourteen individual buttons. Your teeth will require a comprehensive dental plan.

His reply comes in three seconds.

Dominic:

Challenge accepted. I’m clearing my evening schedule. Fourteen buttons is exactly my kind of liability.

A traitorous, irrepressible smile finally breaks across my mouth. I lock my phone, pick up the second glass in my flight—a Pinot Noir this time—and find five women watching me with varying degrees of utter triumph.

“Fine,” I mutter, taking a sip. “The wine flight was a good idea and it’s possible I’m in love with my husband.”