And so, a moment later, I find myself pressed against a window, staring deep into this stranger’s chin cleft, and wondering what the hell to say.

“So what do you do?” he asks, after we’ve been through the thrilling topics of our names and whether we’ve been to this bar before.

(His is Phil, and the answer is yes.)

“I’m a book editor,” I shout.

“That’s AMAZING!” he shouts back with so much enthusiasm I wonder whether I’ve written Phil off too quickly. Then the other shoe drops. “I read a book last year!”

“Was it . . . good?” It’s the best I can do.

“So good.” He winks at me. “You wanna get out of here? My hotel is just around the corner. Minibar . . . balcony . . .”

I just can’t double mitzvah with this guy. “You know what, Phil? I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow. . . .”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Also, I just don’t see it happening—you . . . me. . . .”

Phil nods and doesn’t take it too hard. His eyes are already scanning the bar for another lady who’d love to hit that hotel balcony. I make my goodbyes and hurry back to my friends. But on the way, I catch eyes with a tall man nursing a Guinness at the bar.

He’s cute and clean-cut, wearing tailored pin-striped suit-pants with a white French-cuffed oxford shirt. His vibe is grown-up yet playful—both of which I like—especially when combined with the wry look in his eyes.

“Not a winner?” Pinstripes says in a British accent.

“In Phil’s defense,” I say, drawing closer, “he did read a book last year.”

Pinstripes laughs. I put my drink down on the bar and see Meg and Rufus chest bump in celebration out of the corner of my eye.

“Are those ampersand cuff links?” I ask, admiring the flash of gold at his wrists.

He nods. “The ampersand has a fascinating history. I wrote my PhD thesis on their use in Shakespearean paratext.” He pauses, stares at me.

“What?”

“It’s just that you’re still awake. Usually those words are verbal Ambien.”

“Just don’t slip your thesis topic in my drink.”

We both laugh, then both drink, and I’m thinking: handsome, brilliant, witty in a British way. Operation Get Lanie Laid has entered the theater of engagement.

“Have you met my fiancé?” a woman’s voice says behind me, and then I watch as arms slink around Pinstripes’ shoulders. One hand at the end of those arms bears a simple, gorgeous diamond ring. I wince as Pinstripes is swiveled into a conversation with a cluster of fashionable, attractive Brits. He meets my eyes before he commits and mouths the words good luck.

I turn away and down the rest of my cocktail, then make a beeline for Rufus, who’s got a second drink waiting for me. Or should I say, second drinks.