Even though this event is purely business—a dinner meeting meant to win over a new client—Noah brought me a bouquet of peonies when he came to my office to pick me up. He was polite and attentive, and it almost made me forgive him for getting me riled up the other day.

Who am I kidding? The man riles me up every five minutes.

The hostess guides us to our reserved table, where Miss Estelle Osbourne, the forty-something chief marketing officer of Parrish Footwear, is already seated with a glass of champagne in front of her. She looks regal in her lavender-gray chiffon evening gown, its sheer capped sleeves appliqued with silver lace—a sexy, yet sophisticated touch. I suddenly feel both underdressed and frumpy in my simple knee-length black sheath.

I read Miss Osbourne’s business profile online while studying up on her company for this dinner. After completing her Ivy League education, she landed a job with fashion giant Luxor Brands and has been climbing the corporate ladder ever since. She just took over Parrish’s esteemed head of marketing role last year, and so far she’s doing great things.

Talented, successful, beautiful, with keen business instincts . . . she’s exactly the kind of woman I strive to be. Which only makes the prospect of trying to impress her more nerve-racking.

“She got here early? Now it looks like we’re late,” I hiss under my breath.

“Relax, Snowflake,” Noah murmurs as he pulls out my chair for me.

Easy for him to say. How does he always stay so cool? I’m balanced on a knife’s edge of excitement and anxiety. Getting hold of this new client in the first place was an unbelievable stroke of good fortune. If we manage to charm this woman, her company’s contracts will go a long way toward digging us out of the red. Tate & Cane desperately needs this business dinner to come off without a hitch.

After everyone shakes hands and introduces themselves, Noah and I sit down. The waiter materializes with the wine list and three menus. I order the beef bourguignon and a glass of last year’s Beaujolais nouveau. Bring on the red wine.

The waiter departs and I take a sip of ice water to clear my dry throat. Don’t worry, you’ve got this.

“So, as I was saying earlier on the phone, Tate & Cane is currently implementing a solid plan for—”

“Oh, surely business can wait until after the main course.” Miss Osbourne, or Estelle, as she’s told us to call her, interrupts with a smile that says she’s clearly accustomed to getting her way. “How long have you two been together?”

“Uh . . .”

How the hell do I explain that we’re in the trial phase of an arranged marriage? We only started dating a few days ago, but in a sense, we’re sort of . . . pre-engaged? I should probably just make something up. And I have to do it fast because I’ve already paused for way too long. But I also have to make sure my lie won’t come back to bite us in the ass later.

“For as long as we can remember,” Noah says, smoothly covering the awkward silence. “Our fathers were close friends and business partners, so we spent most of our childhoods together. It was meant to be.”

“How sweet.” Estelle simpers, looking between us with curiosity.

“In fact, that reminds me of a story from when our families summered together . . .”

Oh God, here it comes. Noah deploys one of his secret weapons: a cute anecdote about how he once saved a puppy from drowning in Shinnecock Bay. It’s an old tale, wildly embellished over the years, guaranteed to make women fawn and panties disintegrate.

I start tuning it out in favor of concentrating on the fragrant food that just arrived. I’ll let Noah have his playtime for now. It’s probably a decent strategy to let our prospective client get a few drinks deep before pitching our business anyway.

Eventually, Noah finishes his story amid Estelle’s approving murmurs. I start listening again when he leans slightly toward her, his manner conspiratorial, as if he’s about to say something intimate and profound. But all he asks is, “Tell me . . . would you happen to be named after Estelle Carmen, the Hollywood designer?”

Estelle actually giggles. “You and I both know I’m too old for that to be true. She was only a girl when I was born. But I appreciate the attempt at flattery.”

“Really? I would have sworn otherwise.” He flashes her a thousand-watt grin.

“Stop it,” she says in a coy lilt that tells him to do no such thing. “But I’m surprised you know that name at all. Are you a student of fashion, Mr. Tate?”

“I’m always interested in what beautiful women are wearing . . . or not.”

“You ought to be more careful with that fresh mouth of yours,” she says, scolding him playfully.

What the hell is happening here? Did I suddenly turn invisible to them?

I shoot a glance at our waiter, who’s cleared the main course dishes and asked twice if we’d like dessert. He looks almost as irritated as I feel, which is both reassuring and terrifying.

At least I know I’m not just going crazy here, but I hate that Noah and Estelle’s antics are so visible. With the way they’re carrying on, anyone would assume they were old friends . . . or maybe even a couple. I’m the odd man out. My only companions are an empty wineglass and the first hints of an oncoming headache.

“Sorry about that,” I tell the waiter. “Yes, please go ahead and bring us the dessert menu. And the cocktail menu too. Thank you.” Gotta buy time to get this dinner back on track . . .