Page 32 of The Perfect Rom-Com

“On account of that being a miraculous highlight of your life and the thing people dream would happen to them, no. Keep thinking. I’m up.”

And I can’t help seeing Gloria’s face watching our interaction as I lick the whipped cream off my spoon one more time before I set it down and move to stand.

And I can’t help feeling the tiniest little glow in my cheeks as I pick up my ball to bowl.

Which I squash, of course, with the pound of the bowling ball as it lands on the lane and races fiercely toward the pins. It’s 1 percent because Jack is my agent, and all of my hopes and dreams rest in him (and is it even legal?). And another 1 percent because I’m pretty sure he’s dating two or three women simultaneously at the moment.

And the other 98 percent because I’m dating Parker, and I am, above all, a woman of integrity.

We lose our first game. Win our second. And after a couple hours, the swirling disco ball that at one point in the evening was fun is becoming sad as it slowly circles on and on, and the music from the jukebox that once was energizing now just pounds in the ears. The scene around me is starting to sag, as it does every night when it gets past nine thirty and the bed begins to call.

Overall, it’s a perfectly lovely and typical Wednesday night.

Jose, of course, invites people to hop on over to his apartment for part two of the evening, and the same youthful souls who always say yes to hanging out till 2:00 a.m. (and don’t mind surviving on a handful of hours’ sleep and copious amounts of caffeine the next day) say yes.

Meanwhile I shrug on my coat, my body already leaning toward the exit doors.

“I’m slammed. I have a depo at nine and two tomorrow in the city,” Gloria says as she gathers up her things. “What time are you teaching? Want to meet me for lunch in between?”

“Can’t. I teach to noon and then I’m heading into the city myself.”

Gloria’s eyes narrow. “I thought you were on a tight deadline.”

“I thought you just asked me to lunch regardless of your tight deadline,” I respond with an equally ho-ho-ho now air.

“What do you have going?”

I shrug. “Just work things. You know how it is with my contract.”

“On for helping me find a wedding present tomorrow, yes?” Jack says, suddenly at my side, his T-shirt already stripped off and crumpled in his hand, crisp oxford in its place.

Gloria’s smile grows as she turns from me to him. “Funny. I didn’t know that shopping for wedding presents was part of Bryony’s contract.”

“Of course it is,” Jack says, readier than I could ever be with a snappy reply. “Under section 13b: Client will make every effort to support the emotional well-being of agent in question and vice versa as needs fit. Subject to include,” and then he rattles off very quickly, “weddings, funerals, birthdays, social gatherings, and serving as a plus-one within twenty-four hours’ notice.”

I cast him a look, prompting the reminder of that one time I ended up breaking dinner plans to be his plus-one for a wedding in Staten Island on a random Tuesday.

“Four hours’ notice,” he amends. “Pending exceptional food.” He gives me back a look that says, “I told you there would be a cotton candy station. And there was.”

Gloria throws up her hands. “All right,” she says, walking between us, “good night, you totally-platonic-not-even-technically-friends agent and client. Have fun—or not—tomorrow buying registered plates together. I’m going home to break up with Benson and rethink my life choices.”

She gives us a little wave and is at her car door when I hear her scream.

Albrecht has popped out beside her and is leaning on the hood of the car, hands in pockets. “See?” he says in his thick German accent. “See how you would feel if someone tried to get you? Good thing I am here to keep you safe.”

Jack follows me to the passenger side door and pops it open. I laugh off Gloria’s previous words, my cheeks still a little bit hot from her comments directed at us. “It’s unfortunate, you know.”

“What?”

“She spends forty hours a week steeped in courtroom drama. Her whole worldview is unbalanced. I honestly don’t think she can imagine a drama-free relationship.” I drop into the passenger seat.

“Which we definitely have.” He takes my bowling ball bag from my hands.

“Absolutely.” As I’m clicking the seat belt into place, I feel him bend and lean over me, a whiff of his freshly laundered shirt tickling my nose as he brushes past me. I freeze, hands holding to the seat buckle. He reaches up to the overhead row of buttons, presses the trunk open feature.

Slowly.

It must be the conversation prompting it, but I feel all the air zip out of my lungs and discover I’m holding my breath.