Except that when I came home from work to my sister singing in the shower, the ache in my chest because of her dishonesty was painfully real. When I hid in my room after slapping a highly mature, handwritten do not disturb sign on my bedroom door, and wallowed in self-pity, that was real, too. And then, when a twinge of pain started in my stomach followed by the familiar discomfort of Aunt Flo paying her monthly visit, that was definitely real. Real enough to send me to the grocery store in platypus pants, embarrassing myself in front of Jamie Westenberg.

Jamie Westenberg, who’s offering me dinner. Being . . . nice.

It’s hard to deny that everything else has been real up to when I tripped on the snack stand. Maybe that’s when I knocked my head.

“You’re inviting me . . . to dinner,” I repeat skeptically.

Jamie clears his throat, then slides his glasses up his nose. “Well, yes. Late dinner, unfortunately, but dinner nonetheless.” He searches my expression. “Don’t look so horrified. I can cook, you know.”

“Okay, cool your breeches, Sir West. I just have a little whiplash. This is a one-eighty.”

His jaw tics. He adjusts his watch until the face is equidistant between his wrist bones. “I’m just being practical. If you come back with me now, you can put up your feet while I make some dinner. Then we can discuss fake relationship strategy, in light of this”—he pats his pocket where he stashed his phone—“latest development.”

I stare down at my platypus leggings, nerves knotting my stomach worse than any period cramps. I’m a disaster magnet who’ll sully his spotless kitchen. We’ll bicker. He’ll make me feel even crappier after this crappy day. I don’t even know why he’s inviting me in the first place. Maybe he feels bad for me, traipsing around with period essentials in leggings covered with talking aquatic mammals.

Yeah, I don’t need that energy in my life.

“You don’t have to have me over,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’re beat. You worked all day.”

He removes a microscopically small piece of lint from his sweater. It’s as pristine as it was this morning. Does he exist in a vacuum of perfection? Does he change into fresh duplicate clothes halfway through the day?

Shit, now I’m imagining him unbuttoning his shirt. Crisp cotton slipping off his taut pecs and rounded shoulder muscles—

“You worked, too,” he says, popping the bubble of my lusty thoughts.

I did. Toni and I nearly collapsed when we locked up the Edgy Envelope. “Yeah, but I sold stationery. You saved babies.”

An almost smile cracks his mouth. “I stared at a screen for nine hours.”

“Paperwork? Don’t you have admins for that?”