“Would you like the chicken and veggies or the short rib and scalloped potatoes?” the caterer asks me.

“Short rib and potatoes,” I say, a game-time decision made entirely by my growling stomach.

At that, Chad looks at me like I rolled into the Vatican wearing a tube top. “You sure about that, Char? There are so many hidden carbs in potatoes,” he whispers with a hint of disgust.

First off, Char is reserved for people with a little more tenure in my life, thankyouverymuch. And secondly—

“Yes, I’m sure. An extra scoop of potatoes if possible,” I say, loud enough for our waitress, who jots down the special instruction.

“Chicken for me. Extra veggies,” my 74 percent match requests.

There it is. His wellness obsession flaring up again. I’m racking my brain for what to say next to a guy who screams “dead end” to me.

“Excuse me, hon. It’s the firm. I’ve got to take this.” Chad’s waving his phone at me.

Hon?

He leaves the table to take his call by the hallway to the outhouses.

I spot the vision herself, Monica, in the chicest strapless Vera Wang ball gown to ever have existed and make my way over to her.

“Oh my god, Mon! You look amazing!” I squeal as I give the bride a hug. “I can’t believe you’re married!”

“Aww, thanks, Char. We’re about to do speeches, so I can’t chat long. Hey, did I see you brought a date?”

“Yeah, sorry. I hope you don’t mind,” I say, caught.

“It’s all good. You’re at the ‘Work Table’ and Zareen texted that she couldn’t make it out of Palm Springs in time. Dust storm or something.”

I was wondering why the table looked so empty.

“That sucks,” I say about our boss missing her big day. “But the good news is, I brought that Chad guy.”

“You did?! LACMA Chad? Where is that chiseled Greek god? Wait, can I say things like that now?” She flashes her shiny diamond band my way.

“Over there in the doorway on his phone.”

She diverts her attention his way and a smile purses her ruby-red lips. She’s seemingly so satisfied with her matchmaking abilities, she doesn’t care that I amended her guest list.

“See? I told you he was hot,” she says.

I’m not sure I’d call him hot. There’s a bulging vein in his forehead and he looks like he’s cross-examining an invisible Brad Pitt.

“He’s better looking than me, that’s for sure,” I concede.

“That’s not true, Charlotte. But my two cents? Take your hair down and put this on.”

Monica pulls a bright red Chanel lipstick from her cleavage and jerks it my way like she’s offering me a cigarette. I stare at the tube of lip lacquer with the same skepticism I would a shot of warm bottom-shelf tequila.

“Hurry up, put it on. You ought to play up that whole Zooey Deschanel thing you’ve got going on. A bold lip is going to work wonders on you.”