I admire his confidence to call out our stilted mood. The vibe lightens up. He leans back on his elbows and I relax onto my side. I tell him about how Sophie and I launched our business, and he chimes in with his own startup horror stories. He grins and compliments my ambition; he says it’s impressive. We bond over what characters the old-school Diamond District dealers are, and he makes me laugh with a surprisingly accurate, gruff impression of a guy whose family has been operating their tiny storefront on Forty-Seventh Street since they escaped Nazi Germany. He nails the hoarse accent in a way that proves he’s spent his fair share of hours negotiating with them, like I have. From there, the conversation slides smoothly out of work territory, ping-ponging from my grisly love of true crime documentaries to the elderly resident who walks a pet turtle on a leash outside his building every Friday night.

“I don’t believe you,” I protest.

“Then maybe we’ll have to go stake out the building together next Friday night,” he says, his hand grazing my knee.

My heart does an anxious flip. I’m not ready to banter back and forth about a second date. I like Blake. He’s a perfectly nice guy, though I don’t feel that intangible, electric spark between us, either. But right now, I don’t need the love of my life—although I want that someday. I need a fake fiancé. Someone who looks good on paper, and maybe with a filter, too. It would be so convenient and easy if Blake could be that guy for me, though I’m not sure I feel the chemistry.

Blake leans across the gingham picnic blanket to kiss me. I turn my head ever so slightly to offer him my cheek instead. If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t make a show of it; he pulls back and offers me a small smile.

“Should we head out?” he asks. “It’s getting a little chilly.”

I’m grateful for the out.

I bring the leftover cheese to Sophie and Liv’s apartment that night. It’s a little melted from sitting in the sun all day, but it’ll do. If I need to have a tough conversation with Sophie about money, I’d rather do it with three wedges of cheese between us. I savor the walk down their tree-lined block full of brownstones. Their neighborhood looks like Nora Ephron’s version of New York: classic, gorgeous, expensive. Sophie couldn’t afford Park Slope on her own, but Liv’s lawyer salary helps. When I reach their building, I take a deep breath to collect myself before I hit the buzzer.