“No, I thought for a sec that you might have designed my friend’s ring. But I guess that was some other company—so sorry for confusing you with someone else.”

“No problem,” I say, pressing my lips together into a tight smile.

Luckily, the rest of the group dives in to ask me softball questions about which bar Blake and I met at and which neighborhood I live in. I volley back questions of the same kind. Waiters flit by offering plates of hors d’oeuvres: bruschetta, croquettes, beef satay, each more colorfully garnished than the last. Before too long, Blake is back, carrying two flutes of champagne.

I sip mine and try to relax. Blake’s hand lingers on the small of my back, keeping me close to him. He and his friends joke around easily—and the more I watch, the more I can tell that these are people he truly considers to be friends, not just coworkers. It seems as if he’s the ringleader of the group, which would make sense, given his position as founder and CEO. Everyone in the group pivots slightly toward him, and the gala sounds like his idea.

“He never passes up an opportunity for a good tuxedo moment,” Arielle tells me quietly. “He practically upstaged Dan at our wedding.”

We both turn and look at the guys. Dan is also wearing a tux. Let’s be honest, there is not much of a competition between who wears it better.

Chatting with Arielle kicks off a funny realization. If Blake is my boyfriend, and these are his friends, that means they could very well become my friends, too. This is what my life could look like: dressing for black-tie galas, bonding with Arielle over jewelry, feasting on tiny bites of passed appetizers. As foreign as that feels, it also feels right. I came to New York to have a life like this one. Blake could be the final puzzle piece that clicks everything into place.

A voice floats through the room, ushering us toward our seats. I turn to see a man on stage with a microphone. A banner above his head reads, “American Heart Association.” It clicks—of course Blake wanted to be here tonight. He must support this cause in honor of his dad. Blake leads me and his friends to a table halfway between the bar and the stage, covered in a white tablecloth with more silverware than a Crate & Barrel. I hesitate, not sure exactly where to sit, but Blake instructs me to take the spot to his right. His friends fan out to his left. A blond woman I don’t know approaches and asks if I mind if she and her fiancé nab the open seats next to me.

I look quizzically back at Blake.

“Oh, no, go ahead! Of course, please join us,” he says.