“This little show off.” Asher squeezes my hand so hard that my fingers quiver in pain. “She got a little too confident on the ice.”

“A little confidence never hurt anybody,” I say.

“Are you sure about that, darling?” Asher replies tightly.

“It does look like it hurts. Are you sure you’re okay?” Francesca asks. “Why didn’t you take her to the hospital, Asher?”

“I’m fine.” I laugh it off. “I was an Olympic gold medalist in a past life. I just had an off night.”

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself to get to sleep at night,” Asher says.

“Usually all I need is the lull of your heavy breathing.”

“Awful, isn’t it?” Francesca laughs and steps aside. “And when he sleeps on his back? And grinds his teeth?”

“It’s the worst. I’m looking into getting him a mouthguard.”

“Are you two done?”

“We’re just comparing notes, sweetheart.” I rise onto the tips of my toes and plant a kiss on his cheek. “It’s all in good fun.”

“I’m not having any fun.”

“You never do.”

Asher glares down at me and then slips his hand out of mine in order to press it to the small of my back, urging me through the door with more force than necessary. I nearly roll my ankle.

Francesca’s apartment is sleek, white and minimalist, but everything blends together fluidly, like a well-choreographed dance. The position of the couch against the window. The angle in which the dining room table rests at. The bouquet of white lilies on the counter. The flickering candelabra on the mantle of the fireplace. It all melts into the perfect performance. Crisp lines. Straight edges. Style and grace.

Asher greets everyone with either a kiss on the cheek or a handshake. Despite his total disregard for common courtesy and well, smiling, he knows how to work a room. He’s charming when he wants to be, which isn’t very often, so I have to take advantage of any moment when he’s not snarling down at a bagel. Or screaming at someone on the phone. I like this Asher. No wonder we’re in a blissfully happy relationship. How could he not be this way when he has me on his arm?

“You’re coming up to East Hampton next weekend, right?” Francesca asks. “Costa said he invited you.”

“I don’t think so,” Asher says.

“What’s in East Hampton?” I ask.

“Every December there’s an event at the Ragnar Estate,” she explains. “All the industry types get together and mingle over expensive liquor and fancy appetizers. It sounds ragingly boring, but it’s actually a great time. They have sleigh rides and fake snow and carolers.”

I gasp.

Sleigh rides and fake snow and carolers.

I feel faint.

“We have plans—”

“We can change them!”