“No!” I sit up far too quickly, sending a surge of dizziness through my brain, like a cartoon who just got hit on the head with a meat tenderizer. “What I mean is, Molly can be ready early. That’s what we’re paying her for.” I swing my legs off the side of the bed. “Lorraine should enjoy the night. She’s not working, she’s a guest.”

Not a bad argument for something pulled straight out of my ass, like a stray hair in the shower. Graham even seems impressed by my selfless suggestion. How thoughtful of his future wife to insist his old, retired nanny be treated as a human instead of hired staff they’re no longer paying.

“That’s very thoughtful,” he says, kissing my forehead. Then he stands and I unconsciously lean my hands on his thighs, moving my weight from one to the other like a bad massage, until he pulls away and walks into the closet.

When he reappears, he’s already dressed in his blue suit, tailored to his every inch, and a shirt so white it would reflect the sun. The top button is undone and, for a moment, I want to undo the rest, let him get a little wrinkly as I feel him up. I hate how attracted I can be to him. It helps, sure, but the way he can make me melt, lower my guard, it’s disarming sometimes. The thought makes me even more light-headed.

“You look good,” I say, and he smiles, always aware of that. He’s not a hot and doesn’t know it kind of guy.

As he turns to leave, he lifts the back of his suit jacket and shakes his butt at me, and I can’t help but laugh. At him, at me, at this house—at the entire situation, really.

But when he closes the door, and I hear enough footsteps to ensure he’s not coming back, I lock the door and laugh again.

In the closet, I find my outfit: a white deep-V jumpsuit and silver heels. It hangs next to Graham’s big-day tux, perfect in its polished, expensive newness. He’s worn tuxes before—we go to enough black-tie events for him to own one and me to own multiple accompanying gowns—but this one’s different.

I reach my hand into the jacket pocket of his tux until I feel the thick envelope, satisfied that it’s still there. Everything I need is still there.

I delicately pull my jumpsuit off the hanger and drape it over my arm, careful not to wrinkle it. Then I look at his tux one last time. It reminds me of that Hemingway six-word story—“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

For sale: wedding tux, once worn.