Solange, wrapping her legs around my waist and drawing me close, then pressing her open mouth against my neck.

Christ. I wish I could tell her how I feel. That I want her. But to what end? None of this is supposed to be real, and I promised myself I wouldn’t ever toy with a person’s emotions.

“Thanks,” I say, looking back at her.

She swallows, and my gaze drops to her neck, to the soft skin peeking out from the vee of her shirt.

“Of course,” she says, her body inching forward. Then she lowers her voice so only I can hear it. “Peter’s up next. It’s the perfect time for you to chat up Kimberly without him interrupting.”

“C’mon, Chapman,” Peter yells. “Stop dawdling. Some of us want to play too.”

“Like that,” Solange adds, her voice tinged with amusement. “He has a knack for it.”

I’m slow to connect the dots, but then it hits me: Solange is strategizing about luring Kimberly to the firm, while I’m . . . thinking about my fake girlfriend, as if she were the objective. Time to get your head out of your ass, Chapman. “Right. Good point. I’m on it.” I lift the hatchet above my head and release the moment it enters my line of sight. Bull’s-eye. I spin around and strut like a peacock as everyone cheers. Then I guide Solange to the cocktail table, knowing my window of opportunity to engage in a Peter-less conversation won’t last forever.

Molly drifts off to check on her husband, who’s taking this activity way too seriously.

“Well done, Chapman,” Kimberly says. “Not bad for a first-timer.”

I shake my head. “Can’t take all the credit. Solange is a great teacher.”

Kimberly taps Solange’s hand. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. What’s it like being with him? I mean, do you see each other, or are you two ships passing in the night?”

“Hmm,” Solange says. “Honestly, he’s a bit of a workaholic. He’s in the office nearly every day, and we rarely go out on the weekends. We haven’t hung out together this much in a while. I get it: He wants to make partner. But sometimes I wish he’d jump off the treadmill. Smell the cherry blossoms, so to speak.” She gives me a playful hip-bump. “I should point out that this is totally a Dean thing. Molly says Peter’s always home for dinner.”

I’m stunned. Save for the implication that we’re a couple living together, Solange didn’t tell a single lie. I am a workaholic. An occasional pickup game with Max at my neighborhood Y does not a social life make. And even when Ella and I were dating, we essentially worked on separate projects at home most evenings. Solange would never put up with that shit.