I looked through my client files, shot off a quick email, and was on the phone with Sara by that afternoon. I’d spent the interim pulling stats on some of the brands and vendors they featured in their stores, and noticed they seemed light on . . . cheese.

An idea began to take shape.

After the usual pleasantries were exchanged, congratulations on all the success (due in no small part to the fantastic campaign my team had crafted for her before they began expanding), I told her that of course Manhattan Creative Group was looking forward to working with them again in the future and that when they were ready to begin the next phase, we were ready to launch them into every major city in the country, making them a household brand. And I might have mentioned, several times, this wonderful new cheese maker from the Hudson Valley, the next big foodie scene in the culinary world . . .

By the end of that call, I’d not only secured a firm commitment for future advertising business with our firm, but planted several seeds about Bailey Falls Creamery, and had arranged to have some of their best cheeses sent to her and her team at their corporate offices in Midtown.

I’d tell Oscar the good news once I knew his cows were being babysat. And after I knew the outcome of Roxie’s conversation with him, about whether or not he was my boyfriend . . .

The outcome came that night when I got a text from Roxie.

Leo will babysit your boyfriend’s cows. Pretty sure no one has ever said that before. Welcome to life in the sticks.

I texted back:

Brilliant! I’ll tell Oscar

he’s free and clear to spend the weekend with me. I thank you, and my future orgasms thank you.

You’re welcome. To both of you.

So? What the hell did he say when you asked him?

Number one: I said he was your boyfriend first, so I get bragging rights.

Wait, did someone else say it?

Your boyfriend said it, too.

There was a long pause . . .

Hello? Are you still there?

I’m lying on the bed, kicking up my heels and squealing into my pillow!

Why the hell isn’t there a pom-pom emoji? Here you go—closest I could come up with.

That’s a football

Well, they shake pom-poms at football games. And he is Mr. Football . . .

I love you.

I know you do. Gotta go. I wonder what kinds of snacks you buy for a cow sleepover?

I set the phone down, still feeling giddy that I had a boyfriend. And then, not too long after, felt the first pangs of Holy shit . . . do I have a boyfriend?

I was indeed able to convince Oscar to drive into the city a day early, and I didn’t even have to try that hard.

“What good is it having employees if you can’t trust them to do their job on their own once in a while?” he’d said, then told me that one of his interns from the culinary school had already stepped up and was in charge of bringing in everything they’d need at the market on Saturday. He was well and truly off the clock, for the first time in a long time.

And I was ready to show him another side of my Manhattan. The glitz, the glamour, the secret nighttime hot spots, and the members-only clubs that I belonged to. It was the side of Manhattan you see on television and reality shows. I’d run in those circles since I was a kid, and I couldn’t wait to show Oscar. And to show him off a little—let’s be honest.

My absence from the social scene over the past month had been noticed. And I was aching to get out and about, eat some gorgeous food, drink some fabulous wine, go dancing at the hottest clubs in town, and shake my ass all over my city.

My plans were 100 percent derailed when Oscar showed up at my apartment Friday night, took one look at me in my replacement thigh-high Chanel leather boots with the four-inch heels, growled “Fucking hell, Natalie,” dropped his duffel bag, threw me over his shoulder, and took me straight back to the bedroom.

Did I forget to mention I was wearing only the boots, a brand-new apron I’d had designed with Bailey Falls Creamery emblazoned across the front, and a long string of pearls?

Yeah, it really wasn’t fair of me.

He fucked me for three solid hours, and then we ate Moroccan takeout at 11 p.m.

I kept the boots and the pearls on the entire time. The apron went by the wayside.

We didn’t see the outside world again until Saturday morning, when we headed to the market. I’m sure New York missed me, but I wouldn’t trade that night for the world.

“So, about tonight.”

“Tonight? I thought we’d have another night like last night, but if you want to go out, I could be talked into those dumplings again,” he replied, dropping a kiss between my neck and shoulder, to the dismay of the woman at the front of his line. The dismay was shared by the next woman, the woman after that, and the man after that. I understood; I’d been in that line only a few weeks before.

But back to tonight. “No, no dumplings. And yes, obviously last night was incredible,” I said when he moved my apron strap over and dropped one more kiss just below my ear, making me go all shivery. “But tonight, we’re going out.”

“I still can’t believe you had these made for everyone.” He gestured at the rest of his team, now proudly wearing the new aprons. He wasn’t sure about them at first, wondering why in the world he needed to wear an apron that said Bailey Falls Creamery when he was standing under a sign that said the same thing, but eventually he acquiesced and slipped it over his head with a sheepish look. “So, where are we going tonight?” He handed an order of cheddar to the next customer with his usual “strictly business” expression.

“How would you feel about going to the opening of a new art exhibit?”