“So, what do you plan on doing this weekend?” she asks, a smile on her lips.

I glance around the table, beards and puffy vests all staring back at me, waiting for an answer, probably expecting me to talk about the yoga class in the park that I say I’m going to but actually just watch as I eat a chocolate croissant.

They’ll humor me, but none of them will ask me what class. No, they’ll just move on, and after the meeting, I’ll skulk back to my office and sit in front of a computer to correct all their copy for every single social media post and article.

Maybe not this time though.

Maybe, just maybe, I could fit in.

Ellison’s here, this is my chance to impress her, and maybe she’ll notice me if I actually have something to connect with her on.

Maybe she’ll find me so arousing that she’ll consider me for a possible promotion to, let’s say, the magazine, Golf Galaxy. Now wouldn’t that be a dream? Instead of working with all these social media munchers, I could do more print work, which could give me experience to work at other magazines, like the mecca of all glossy print, Better Homes and Gardens.

And then instead of just living the Nancy Meyers aesthetic, I could write about it too.

I couldn’t think of anything more fulfilling than that.

Then it’s settled.

We’ve made an executive decision.

It’s time to fit in.

Smiling at my audience, I cross one leg over the other and say, “Hitting up some antique stores with the husband this weekend.”

The moment the word husband passes over my tongue and right out of my mouth, I realize the grave mistake I’ve made, because the shock that registers across every single face in the room is not the kind of shock you want to see.

“Your husband?” Ellison asks. “I guess I wasn’t aware that you were married.”

“Well—”

“Yeah, none of us were,” Chad says, crossing his arms over his chest, looking like he’s ready to dive into a “gotcha” moment.

“Yeah, well, it’s one of those⁠—”

“You’re not even wearing a wedding ring,” Chad continues.

Then every single pair of eyes in this pressure cooker that is a conference room zeroes in on my left hand.

What’s a girl to say to that?

Nervously, I smile and casually slide my ring-less hand under the table and place it on my trembling leg.

“Um, about that…”

“Scottie,” Chad says, leveling with me as if he’s my father catching me in a lie. “We know you’re not married. If you’re trying to fit in, please don’t make up lies.”

The audacity of this guy!