There’s a white aisle for guests to walk down with their books and a photo booth with rotating Amalfi Coast backdrops. Cases of prosecco and Campari chill on ice. Twinkle lights have been strung from the ceiling, drawing the eye toward the red ranunculus altar in the center of the room. Behind it, Styrofoam boulders form an oceanfront Italian bluff. Out the window, snow falls on the Hudson.

“This is all so perfect,” I tell Meg, who’s tying the last of the cake balloons to the last of the chairs. “Like Cupid exploded.”

“It’s a mood,” Meg says.

“Should the confetti be scattered or, like, placed?” Meg’s assistant calls.

I’m about to say “scattered,” because how does one place confetti, when Meg says: “Placed so that it appears to be scattered.”

I take out my phone to snap a picture of the space. I can’t get it all in the frame but I find a sparkly angle. I’m about to send it to my boss when I remember her baby’s ear infection. Alix has been in and out of urgent care the past few nights, and I don’t want to wake her if she’s napping.

Meg leads me to the back of the room, where she gestures grandly at a white stack of Noa’s new books, hot off the press and arranged in the shape of a wedding cake.

“Ta-da!”

“You did all this in thirty minutes?” I high-five Meg. “Looks like those hours of Magna-Tiles with the Boss paid off.” The Boss is what I call Meg’s three-year-old, Harrison, though her one-year-old, Stella, is gunning for the title, too.

She nods. “Master taught me well.”

Gingerly I lift a book off the top of the tower and run my fingers over the embossed type. I’ve had a hand in every aspect of Two Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows, and it’s a rush to hold a finished copy before it’s officially out in the world. I open to the title page and see Noa Callaway’s florid signature scrawled in fountain pen. It makes me smile to picture Noa signing these from her fancy Fifth Avenue penthouse.

“Sorry I missed the book drop-off,” I say. “Was the Terrier rabid?”

“Actually, she was in a good mood,” Meg says. “She even wondered whether there was anything else we needed.”

“No way.”

“I asked if she’d give Tommy his monthly hand job.”

“God bless Terry,” I say, side-glancing Meg. “It’s not really that bad with Tommy?”

“Talk to me when you’ve been married for eight years.”

“Sounds like y’all need a date night. Any interesting Valentine’s plans?”

Meg sighs. “My mom is taking the kids to some Chinese New Year thing.”

“There you go.”