“Okay, then …” She shifted on the sofa. They talked about things—the books they both liked. Films they wanted to see. How the fall weather in the Bay Area always ended in gloom. He was nice to talk to, despite not wanting to be thought of as nice. He listened. He didn’t challenge her or pressure her. And he had good taste in wine and snacks.

Before she got too comfortable, she finished her wine and turned to him. “I should probably go. I need to open in the morning.”

He paused, studying her for a moment. Then he took out his phone. “I’ll call for a car.”

“Oh, thanks.” She’d taken the cable car and bus over and walked the rest of the way, but in the dark, a car would be great.

As they walked to the exit of the marina, he took her hand. “I like hanging out with you,” he said. “I hope we can do it some more.”

“Yes,” she said. “I … so do I.”

It turned out the ride he’d called wasn’t Uber or Lyft, but a sleek black car with a driver in a suit. Trevor existed in such a different world from hers.

At the curb, he drew her against him and kissed her good night. It was new. It was a little bit awkward, a little bit exciting. A feeling of warmth flickered and then settled. She pulled back and smiled up at him. “Thank you. See you around, Trevor.”

19

What are you wearing to the gala?” Natalie asked Cleo. She had been reading the society pages, combing them for insights. It was one of the most celebrated social events of the year, the kind people like her only read about in breathless, aspirational gossip columns. The attendees came from the city’s elite old guard Chinese American community, with roots that went back more than a hundred years and fortunes that made her do a double take.

Cleo beamed. “Valentino,” she said. “I found this amazing vintage couture cocktail dress at a thrift shop, and my aunt did the alterations. It’s yellow chiffon with a woven bodice, open at the sides. I’ll look like a character from Crazy Rich Asians.”

“Sounds perfect. I can’t wait to see it,” Natalie said.

“What about you?” asked Cleo.

“I doubt you’ll mistake me for a crazy rich anything,” Natalie said. “Actually, I could use your help.”

Cleo turned to Bertie. “Fashion consult. It’s an emergency.”

He scanned the shop. Browsing customers, a pair of women having coffee and chatting. “Go,” he said. “Find her something to wear that doesn’t make her look like a schoolmarm.”

“Is that what I look like?” Natalie glanced down at her gray slacks and comfortable flats. “A marm?”

He peered at her over the rims of his reading glasses. “If the sensible crepe-soled shoe fits …”