“The first is self-explanatory. We do not ask each other any deep, probing personal questions. It’s irrelevant to our objective and will only cause problems. Do you really want me asking deep personal questions about your life and past?”

I tried to hide the effect the question had on me. “Nope, I’m good.”

“Exactly. This relationship should be so shallow there’s no possibility of drowning.”

“Agreed,” I said. “And the second?”

“No drama. Life’s too short.”

“Agreed.”

“Then all that’s left is your signature.”

I looked at the signatory line. He had already signed the contract. “Why do I feel like I’m signing away my soul?”

“It’s not an eternity. Just forty-nine days.”

I breathed out. “All right. Do you have a pen?”

“I’m a lawyer. That’s like asking me if I have a lung.”

“As opposed to a heart,” I said.

“Another fan of lawyers,” he said. He extracted a pen from his coat pocket. It was a nice one—a Montblanc. I knew this only because my ex judged a man by the pen he carried. I took the pen from Nicholas and signed the document.

“There are two copies,” he said. “One for your own files. Please sign both.”

“Now you’re really sounding like a lawyer.”

“I am one.”

“So you keep reminding me.” I folded the contract in half and put it in my purse.

When I’d finished eating my salad I said, “I better get back to work.”

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” he said. As we waited for the elevator he said, “Don’t forget to bring your calendar tomorrow so we can work out our schedule.”

“I’ll be ready.”

As the elevator door opened he leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Have a good day, dear.”

“Thanks for lunch,” I said. “Cupcake.”

He smiled. “This is going to be fun.”

Chapter Five

CHAPTER

Five

Bad memories can attach themselves like barnacles to the hulls of our lives. And, like barnacles, they have a disproportionately large amount of drag.

Elise Dutton’s Diary

Zoey screamed. Cathy, our company bookkeeper, and I rushed out of our offices to see a florist deliveryman standing in the middle of the office holding a massive bouquet of yellow roses. It was one of the largest bouquets I’d ever seen, the kind people were more likely to send to the dead than the living. Of course the man was drooling over Zoey.

“They’re gorgeous,” Cathy said. “Who are they from?”

“I don’t know,” Zoey said. “Probably Paul. Or Quentin. Could even be Brody. So many men, so many possibilities.”

I rolled my eyes at her theatrics.

“Where would you like them?” the man asked.

“Oh, just set them there,” Zoey said, motioning to her desk. “It practically takes up my whole desk.”