“Me, too,” I say before I can stop myself. Because even though my being inspired has nothing to do with our mission, it’s true. The chess game, the Cloisters, Noah’s surprising apartment, and the invitation to Positano—it all mingles in my mind and makes me feel a little dazzled as I wave good night to Noah through the window of the cab.

Chapter Fourteen

Meg: Last-minute stroke of genius. Meet me at Color Me Mine in Tribeca at 11 a.m. Yes, it’s a kid birthday party. But it’s hosted by our class’s one and only Hot Dad. And he’s single. Boom.

Rufus: And I’m on this text thread because . . . ? It is a known fact that I do Pilates Saturday a.m.

Meg: Because if you vote that Lanie should go, and I vote that Lanie should go, then we out-vote her ass two-to-one. Ruf, you can meet us after Pilates for cake.

Rufus: Lanie, your resistance is preemptively overruled. See you ladies 12:15ish. That cake better not be gluten-free.

I see my friends’ messages as I’m getting out of the shower. I’m running late to meet Noah in Brooklyn in an hour, so I dash off an apologetic response.

Me: Sorry, y’all. Plans today. Maybe I can catch Hot Dad at the next party.

Meg: That is not how Hot Dad–physics work. If you don’t move on him at this party, a wiser woman will. Come on, Lanie! Blow off your plans so you can blow Hot Dad. Someone needs to confirm our class’s suspicions of his well-endowment. I’ll throw in a ceramic unicorn. . . .

Me: I can’t blow off my plans. They’re with Noa Callaway. Remember—the book that’s five months late . . . and that all our jobs depend on?

My phone rings with a FaceTime from Meg. When I pick up, Rufus is already on the call.

“You’re wearing that to Noa Callaway?” Rufus says, taking in my jean jacket with the fleece lining through the screen. “I mean, you look fresh, but . . . it’s Noa Callaway. I would have thought BD’s Fendi suit?”

I laugh to myself because, great minds, but also—I can’t tell Rufus that Noah has given me something of a dress code for today’s mystery adventure in Red Hook. Jeans and a “sturdy jacket.”

I know my friends assume that I’m having a regular, business style meeting with Noa Callaway. One where we sit in an office with two laptops between us, a gallon of coffee, and pencils behind our ears.

“What’s the status of the book?” Meg says. “Is she writing yet? Can my kids go to college or what?”