“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Asher says, then jumps off the stool, waves over the manager, and quickly gives a request. “Big favor, Hiroki, but we’ve got to pivot and serve something cooked right away. Some of my guests are staying away from raw fish.”

“Of course. We’ll get some avocado rolls, shrimp tempura, and edamame out right away,” the man replies, then heads off to the kitchen, and just like that, Asher St. James saves the day.

No wonder he irritates me.

Too smooth.

Too handsome.

Too . . . just everything.

“How did you know that?” he asks when he returns, sounding begrudgingly impressed. “Do you moonlight as a midwife?”

I laugh, in spite of myself. “No. I have a kid, as you may recall. We discussed her at game night, when I said she prefers Chutes and Ladders to Scrabble. And I made sure her mom didn’t eat raw fish or drink too much coffee when she was pregnant.”

“How is Rosie? She was a total delight the time I met her with Hannah at the coffee shop,” he says, remembering her name as easily as he remembered the manager’s.

“Hi Marky Mark!”

I turn to find a college friend of Hannah’s sidling up to me. “Hey Yasmin!” Finally, someone I actually know at this party. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life. Now we can stop talking about Asher’s mouth, for fuck’s sake. “How’s the art market?”

“Bangin.’ I’d ask you about your job, but I wouldn’t understand the answer. So, tell me about your daughter instead. How’s your little cutie-pie? What’s she up to?”

My chest squeezes with happiness, as it usually does when I talk about my favorite person in the universe. “Learning to read, doing both karate and T-ball. Her other skills include keeping me on my toes, and trying to wiggle out of brushing her teeth. She’s just finishing kindergarten.”

“T-Ball! That is totally adorable,” Yasmin says in her cheery voice. “And how’s Bridget? I haven’t seen her in ages.”

My shoulders tense. This is the seriously un-fun part. When I tell people I’m not with Rosie’s mom anymore. “We’re recently divorced,” I say plainly, keeping emotion out of my voice.

Which is somewhat easy to do. I’m not heartbroken about my split. For many reasons.

What I am is bitter. But nobody wants to hear that from a twenty-seven-year-old divorced man.

A hand flies to Yasmin’s mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“It’s fine,” I insist. “Don’t worry about it.” I give her a huge smile to show I don’t care at all. And I won’t. Eventually. That’s what people tell me, anyway.

Even if signing my divorce papers made me feel like a giant fucking failure.

And even if my baby girl cried like she’d never stop the first night my ex stayed at her new man’s apartment.

“Now your daughter is getting a cousin!” Yasmin gushes, shifting gears maybe for both our sakes’. “That is so exciting.”