“How do you like the book?” I ask.

“It’s good. Deeper than I expected. Funny. Affirms all my love-lasts-forever bull. Isn’t that what you called it?” His tone is mild, but an undercurrent of frustration pulses there.

“I was drunk when I said that.” I’m surprised he remembers. It was at a dinner party several years ago. About six of us were drunkenly arguing over the merits of prenups. I don’t even remember how the topic came up, except that we have two friends who are on polar opposites of the issue. As were Rory and I. I was for prenups, he was against. I argued prenups define expectations so there’s less chance of angry fights when it ends.

“In vino veritas,” Rory says.

“I’d say more like, when drunk, debate points are exaggerated. I shouldn’t have called it bull.”

“I don’t think that works as well. In vino debatus pointus exaggeratos.”

I laugh. “Anyway, your belief gives me hope.” I hope that Rory finds his true love and that she doesn’t break his heart.

He gives me a quizzical look. “So, what’s with this fake boyfriend trope? This is the second one with it.”

“I like that trope.” I tilt my head.

“Do you?”

Something in the way he asks makes me look at him more closely. “Yes. I’m writing a fake dating plot in my new book, Fake Dating Folly.”

“Why do you like it?”

“I like the getting to know each other slowly.” I shrug. “I don’t know. So, what happened on Thursday? Did your pitch win?” Rory works in advertising.

“Yes, but. . .”

“They want you to change it? You don’t look that happy.”

“No. They like the pitch,” Rory says. He flushes. “But his wife groped my butt during our celebratory drinks.”

“She didn’t,” I say, shocked.

“She did. I got this weird vibe from her, but I thought no—she’s got to be about fifty and my client is right there talking about color schemes—and then, she copped a feel of my butt.”

“While he was there?”

“Yeah, like what the … I was afraid I’d lose the pitch right there.” Rory shakes his head in disbelief. “I jumped, which threw her too. But still, it’s freaking awkward.”

“That’s crazy,” I say. Rory still looks upset. “Did she pinch anybody else’s butt?”

“I didn’t take a poll.” He laughs, but then looks serious again. “And we’ve got another client function this Thursday.”

I point at the book. “I know what you need. You need a fake girlfriend to protect you at client functions, like a buffer.”

He stills, staring at me. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“I was joking.” But I feel a little thrill of satisfaction that he likes my idea. He takes off his blue jacket, and he’s wearing a worn t-shirt that does little to hide his washboard stomach.