“You just need one agent and one publisher to love it. And it’s funny, especially the scenes with the motley team trying to steal back her painting.” He chuckles.

In Caper Crush, my artist protagonist has five weeks to find her stolen painting or lose her chance to participate in a career-defining art exhibit. And if she doesn’t learn to trust her sleuthing partner, she’s going to lose a lot more.

The hostess greets us by name and starts to seat us at our usual table for two, but we tell her we need a table for four. As we settle into the blue booth, I can’t decide if I should take off my hat or leave it on. Jamie is supposed to see me in the hat. All I want is one twinge of regret—one second glance, one “maybe I made a mistake.” At least while he has a girlfriend. But eating with my hat on seems awkward. Like I’ve got an appendage coming out of my head. The hat partially obstructs my side view. I don’t envy horses with blinders.

The waitress is new. She reminds me of a collie. She’s tall, with a narrow face, and friendly. She asks if we want to order now. As Rory explains that we are waiting for friends, I smile at her. Waitressing is tough. I tried it, as the typical side job for a writer, but I’d jot down impressions of my customers while waiting for them to make up their mind, and I’d inevitably miss part of their order. And my boss was not sympathetic to my using his order pads for my notes.

Now, I’m supporting myself by making miniatures to sell on Etsy, staging doll soap operas for my blog and Instagram to increase my sales, and dog-sitting temporary canine roomies who pay my rent.

“So, what about you? Would you act as my fake girlfriend at some client gigs coming up?” he asks.

I stare at him. He lightly presses my open mouth closed. His eyebrow quirks upwards.

“You could consider it research for your next book,” he adds.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re my best female friend and you won’t believe it’s for real.”

Yes, I definitely won’t believe it’s for real. I flag down the waitress and ask for a cup of tea. More caffeine is needed.

“Neither will anyone else,” I say.

“What? Why not?” He seems genuinely confused. Cute.

“Rory, you usually date six-foot-tall gorgeous women. I am so not your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”