“Guess what,” I say, patting the top of his legs until I’ve stolen his attention from Ms. Blonde Quarterback Hustle. “The Times wants to cover the wedding. They just called me.”

He’s surprised, cocks his head to the side, raises his eyebrows. “That’s great,” he says, flatly. He was never as excited about the possibility of the Vows article as I was. He’s skeptical of a journalist and a photographer lurking in the shadows of our ceremony and reception. They’re always looking for an angle, he said when I first mentioned I’d applied, palaver taken straight from his conservative father’s mouth. They already have an angle, I told him. The wedding is the angle.

“I’m excited,” I say, a hint for him not to ruin it for me.

He finally smiles, his nose slightly unsymmetrical, apparently from a fight in college. “Have you told my mom?”

“Not yet. I want to call them back first. Make sure it’s official.”

“She’ll be happy.”

“I think so.” Truthfully, she’ll be thrilled. She might even let a smile escape those thin Hermès Red–stained lips. Only if her Botox allows it, of course. “You want another one?” I ask, nodding at the beer no longer sweating in his hand. He doesn’t drink. At least, not often. He’s only had a couple drinks the entire time I’ve known him. Partied too hard in college, he joked when I asked why. But he still likes the tradition of it.

“Sure,” he says. “You joining me?” I stand and make my way around the couch to the outdoor bar, always stocked regardless of season, weather, or the fact that he’s mostly sober and I’m mostly dieting.

“Maybe after my shower,” I say, pulling another bottle from the fridge. He knows that’s a noncommittal, non–wet blanket attempt to say no. I’m not even officially allowed croutons on this diet, so he’d never expect me to actually have a beer. Especially one that won’t get me drunk.

I do crave a glass of wine though, more than brie with figs or dark chocolate or a frothy latte. I have wet dreams about a smooth cabernet cascading down my throat, coating it in a thick purple paste that won’t go away no matter how many times I lean over the toilet and push the sharp side of my toothbrush into my tonsils.

I nearly start touching myself in the shower at the thought.

Until the bathroom door slides open with a squeak and Graham overtakes the doorway. If he were only a few inches taller, he’d have to bend at the neck to cross all the dramatic archways that give this apartment the character he pays so much for.