Annika blinked. “Oh. Um, yeah … okay then.” She pulled her business card back. “Good luck with the … the vow. Of silence.” Not completely sure she wasn’t being trolled, she walked off and stepped back into the house.

“Oh my god,” someone said, but Annika kept walking; surely they weren’t talking to her. But then she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see a young woman with a sandy-colored, geometric bob staring at her like she’d invented pumpkin spice lattes. “Oh my god,” the young woman said again, her palms pressed up against her cheeks. “I am such a huge fan.”

Annika frowned. “Of…?”

“You! You were hilarious in Bollywood Mix-Up! I read your books, all of them, and they changed my li—”

“Um.” Annika looked around, as if someone would materialize to help extract her from this hideous situation. “I’m not…” She leaned in close. “I’m not Rosie Singh.” The woman just stared at her. “The Indian actress? I’m not her.”

The woman laughed uproariously, the ends of her bob bouncing. “Oh my god, that’s so funny. Are you, like, incognito right now? I promise I won’t tell anyone else. But if you could sign my napkin, that would be so amazing.” She brandished a cocktail napkin.

Annika stared at it, and then at the woman. Another swell of laughter rose behind her; clearly people were merrily unaware of the train wreck of a conversation taking place right in front of them. “No … seriously. I’m not Rosie. Like, at all.”

The woman mimed zipping her lips. “I promise I won’t breathe a word to anyone. Please? It would mean so much to me—you have no idea.” She pulled a pen out of her purse and pressed it into Annika’s hand.

Annika had the distinct impression she wasn’t going to get out of this one. Pausing to look at the woman one more time, she took the napkin from her. “I’m … going to sign this, then.”

The woman nodded, her palms pressed against her cheeks. She looked like she might cry.

Awesome. Annika looked around for a spot to put the napkin and the woman said, “Here, let me.” She turned around, offering her back. “Can you make it out to Stacy?” she asked over her shoulder. “Just a ‘y,’ no ‘e.’”

Annika pressed the napkin against Stacy’s back, careful not to let the pen puncture through the napkin and into Stacy’s back—it would be such a shame if that happened—and scrawled a signature that could’ve really said anything—Annika, Rosie … it could’ve been a sketch of a groundhog carcass. “Okay. All done!”