So that’s why I close my laptop at 1 p.m. and head over to the hotel’s in-house restaurant, Reynard, for the cake tasting. Raj is meeting me there. He had texted over the weekend to ask about hanging out again, and I suggested he join me today. The plan isn’t to pass him off as my fiancé necessarily, but I can say that my fiancé isn’t able to make it, and I wanted a second opinion, so I brought a friend. It’s not the most outrageous lie. I’ve certainly told worse.

Reynard’s dining room is outfitted with the kind of industrial chic design that makes everyone in it look at least 10 percent hotter by association. The walls are rosy brick, the banquettes are made of sumptuous chocolate leather, the floor is rough wood, and the lighting fixtures are softly glowing exposed bulbs. Raj waits for me by the hostess stand, and we’re seated at a round table in the back. A ponytailed waiter comes by to greet us.

“This is the happy couple?” he asks, clapping his hands together.

“Well, I’m Eliza, the bride,” I say, jumping in to smooth over the potentially awkward situation. “And this is my good friend Raj, who’s joining me for the tasting today since my fiancé can’t make it.”

Raj reaches his hand across the table to shake the waiter’s hand. “Not the groom, but a groomsman,” he says, hamming it up.

I choke on my sparkling water. The plan was to avoid bridesmaids and groomsmen entirely—it’s too complicated to arrange with such a shaky, last-minute wedding. Maybe Sophie could serve as my matron of honor, and maybe Reid would be Blake’s best man, but that’s as far as I had gotten.

“He’s a . . . special, important friend,” I tell the waiter, who seems entirely unfazed by all of this. “Can’t wait to have him stand by my side at the altar!”

The waiter launches into his spiel about the six varieties of cake we’ll be tasting today. He gives us notecards and tiny golf pencils so we can jot down our reactions to each flavor. The moment he leaves to retrieve the first sample, I jab Raj with my elbow.

“So you’re a groomsman now?” I hiss.

“You know I wouldn’t miss your wedding for the world,” he says, smiling like he’s full of shit. “I am invited, right?”

I laugh hollowly. “Ha. Yeah. Sure. Invited to a wedding that will probably happen, if I can get my boyfriend to propose and marry me in five weeks flat.”

His eyes bug out. “Jeez. What’s going on with that?”

I fill him in on my weekend with Blake’s family and the ring I know must be burning a hole in his pocket.

“You’re kinda nuts. You know that, right?”

“I prefer the term ‘ambitious.’ ”