“I’m so sorry, I’m an idiot and I’ve already put my foot, no, both my feet and my arms, all the way down my throat, so I’ll just go . . .”

As I stood up and my linen napkin fell to the floor, I thought about grabbing it so I could thumbtack it to my bedroom wall as a reminder of how badly, and how quickly, I’d fucked up. And now Edgar was standing as well.

“Stop, please. You must stay. This is entirely my problem. Because you’re right, people do know a good deal about me, and they make assumptions, which makes me back away, and I end up feeling self-righteous and snobbish and alone.”

We looked at each other, more directly.

“I get it. It must be so strange, being you. And dealing with the rest of us. You’re like—Beyoncé.”

“Only . . . ?”

“Much prettier.”

“Thank you.”

As we sat back down, a formally dressed waiter appeared, announcing, “I am Louis-Pierre Roget and I shall be your initial waitperson, for the chilled appetizer, bread selection and preliminary first course options. Any decisions?”

“Carter?”

I hadn’t even glanced at the menu, which was bound in burgundy leather, with calligraphy in a variety of languages, none of which I could read or speak. I’d been to fancy-ish restaurants, but nothing at this level, and even with my background in event planning, I was feeling overwhelmed.

“Okay, this place is stunning and I know that the food is five-star, and thank you so much for arranging all of this, but I’m from New Jersey, so this isn’t really my sort of thing. Can I make a suggestion?”

CHAPTER 7

I knew it was a risk, but within minutes Edgar’s driver was parked outside the International House of Pancakes on 14th Street, with garish photos of pancake-centric meals filling the front windows. Ever since I was a kid, IHOP hasn’t been just my favorite restaurant, but one of my dream destinations. It’s my home.

“And what precisely is this establishment?” Edgar asked, once we’d been led to a rear booth, with Edgar wearing a baseball cap and keeping his head down. This celebrity camouflage was futile, since we were surrounded by five members of Edgar’s security team, as well as James, seated at adjacent tables.

“I can’t believe you don’t have IHOPs in England, because the ‘I’ stands for International. People say music is the universal language, but I think it’s a short stack of buttermilk silver dollar pancakes.”

“Go on.”