“What do you think about Fraser Drake?” Mom asks me. I nearly lose the bite of steak I’ve been chewing.

“Huh?” Has she graduated to reading minds? Because thinking of Fraser Drake has been a large part of what I’ve done these past three days. The drinks with Gavin after he left were easy and fun; exactly what they hadn’t been with Fraser. At least, for the most part. But it wasn’t until I got home (alone, don’t worry, I didn’t even let Gavin kiss me good night) that I realized drinks with Gavin had been too easy. He went along with whatever I was saying, or he took control of the conversation. There wasn’t friction like with Fraser. There wasn’t that restless, relentless tug of war.

It was something I didn’t know I’d been missing. And now…

“Did you hear me? What do you think about Fraser?” Mom takes a sip of wine—on her third glass, ladies and germs. “I think he is drop dead gorgeous. Who would’ve known such a thin, reedy little boy would fill out like that?” She makes smacking sounds, like Fraser’s the meat she’s enjoying so much right now. God, kill me with that image. “And even better, he’s so rich. You know, his family lived on our block all those years and they never gave off that Fortune 500 vibe. It’s probably the English genes; those people don’t like to share too much about themselves.”

“Are you saying Fraser is hot precisely because he’s so rich?” I lock eyes with Justin, who shakes his head. We may be eating dinner at his house, but he’s got to give way to Mom on everything, like all of us do. Like always.

Dad, meanwhile, is listening to a podcast. No one but me is paying attention to what he does.

“You have such a vulgar way of putting things,” Mom huffs. “That’s got to be why you’re still single, Emmy. It’s why a man like Fraser Drake, with all his wealth and looks, isn’t going to pay you any attention.” She clucks and takes a bite of roasted vegetable. I’m too busy drinking myself under the table to respond, but Charlotte, my stalwart sister-in-law, is having none of this. She shoots Mom a death glare.

“If a man like Fraser Drake is so full of himself that he can’t see the value in someone as funny and bright as Emma, that’s his problem. Not hers.” She smiles thinly. “Mom.”

“Oh, Charlotte. You know how I feel about you calling me Mom.” My mother says it in a bright, fluting kind of voice to disguise the fact that she can’t stand it. Charlotte knows this; that’s why she does it. I swear, this is better than ringside seats at the Mayweather vs. McGregor boxing match.

“I have an announcement!” Lily, my baby sister, holds up her hand like we’re in class. “I’m going to be an actress.”

“That’s wonderful, angel.” Mom beams at her youngest. Lily’s ten years younger than I am, the surprise addition to the family. The miracle after-forty baby. Mom almost called her Manhattan, because apparently “it took five Manhattans to get your father in the mood.” That story is the reason I will never drink a Manhattan. Not ever.

“Great news, Lil.” Justin beams at her, supportive as always. World’s perfect big brother, right here. “Do you want to go back to school for acting classes? I’d pay for them.”

Is it my imagination, or did Charlotte wince at that? Weird. But for real, the acting school thing is a good idea.

“I could help you look at some of the best programs. Maybe you could audition for UCLA,” I tell her. Lily dropped out of college two years ago because school was apparently interfering with her ability to find herself, or something. Unsurprisingly, Dad was pissed, and Mom was delighted. She said something to the tune of ‘Lily’s pretty enough that she doesn’t need school.’ That led to one of the few shouting matches that Dad cared to get involved in. They had it out here in Justin’s living room, while my big brother tried to keep the peace and Charlotte and I snuck outside to split a bottle of wine. Ah, family.

Lily shakes her head at my suggestion of school or UCLA. “You guys are so sweet, but I, like, don’t need school. Education and practice, like, impedes your feelings. All the best actors didn’t go to school for acting.”

“I’m pretty sure Meryl Streep went to Yale?”

Lily waves her hand. “She’s old. She’s not on Instagram. It doesn’t count.”

“So what are you going to do to become an actress?” Justin smiles, trying to keep this conversation on track. Lily tosses her blonde, ombre-d hair.

“Jus, you don’t become an actress. You just are one.”

Mom crows over this, and it takes everything in my soul not to turn the goddamn table over. I mean, I couldn’t do that even if I was strong enough. The kids are still eating: Sawyer, Sage, and little Sebastian in his high chair. The two girls are looking back and forth between Aunt Lily, Grandma, and me like it’s a game of strategic three-way tennis.

“Okay. Do you know how you’re going to get auditions? Do you have headshots?” I ask. Lily signs, rubbing her temples like I’m ruining her vibrations or something.

“Why can’t you just support your sister for once, Emma?” Mom purses her lips at me, displeased. “At least she’s doing something with her feminine gifts. You know, I kept telling you when you were younger what’d happen if you didn’t make more of an effort, and I was right. At thirty-two, you can’t find a man who wants to have a family, for God’s sake.”

Wow. That came out of left field to hit me right in the insecure feels. Even Dad’s started pulling his earbuds out. He doesn’t like it when people take potshots at me. Thanks, Pops.

“Mom, Jesus,” Justin says.

“It’s okay. We all just need to calm down,” I say, hands up. Middle child all the way right now. But Charlotte has had about enough. She stops cutting up Sebastian’s hamburger and grits her teeth at my mother. Oh shit. Get the popcorn.

“I don’t know why you keep bringing your Fox News ‘I thought Handmaid’s Tale was a funny story’ regressive bullshit into my house, Delia, but if you can’t keep a lid on it, it leaves now!” She punctuates this with a fork jabbed in the air. The fact that the fork has a plastic SpongeBob handle only makes this better.

“Bullshit!” Sage, who is seven, giggles. Meanwhile, Sawyer frowns.

“What’s ‘regressive’ mean?” she asks me.

“It means Grandma,” I whisper, then hush her. I don’t want to miss a second of this. Mom’s nostrils flare, but she adopts that sweet ‘who, little ol’ me? Why’s everyone so mad at me?’ smile. The one Charlotte can’t stand.

“Don’t you think cursing around the children is a bit juvenile?” She dabs at her mouth with a napkin. So ladylike.

“I’d rather Sage know a few curse words than think that her entire worth in life is tied to a man.” I think Charlotte’s going to head for the kitchen and a bottle of vodka the second this dinner is over.

“Charlotte, don’t take attacks on Emma so personally. I’m not insulting you. You’ve got the family she should have had by now.”

“With family like this, who needs enemies?” I say, but of course she’s not listening. I think Charlotte’s going to get on top of the table and charge.

“Emma can still have a family, if she wants one!”

“Thanks, sis in law. Don’t damage yourself,” I whisper, but Charlotte’s tuned me out as well. It’s the battle of the Brightman matriarchs. Maybe we should clear the kids before they start throwing things. Or maybe we should record it, either way.

Mom clucks her tongue. “I’m just saying, you found yourself a good man and had a lovely family.” She beams at Justin, who’s looking coiled and ready to spring. “You never took any other ambition seriously, and that’s exactly right!”

“Excuse me?” Charlotte’s jaw clenches shut. Oh shit. It’s a little family secret—not that secret, really—that Sawyer was a surprise baby. Charlotte and Justin had just graduated when she found out she was pregnant. We always knew they wanted to get married, but they’d be lying if they said they wanted to get married so soon. The first three years were kind of tough, until Justin graduated law school. In fact, Charlotte was the one working to give him time to study while he stayed at home with Sawyer. Once he landed a job with his firm, Charlotte quit to raise the family. She’s happy to be a stay at home mom, but I know that a. she wishes Mom would give her some credit for being the breadwinner for three years, and b. she wants to go back to some kind of work after Sebastian’s in elementary school.

Long story short: this is not what Charlotte wants to hear right now. Or ever.

“Hey, I have an idea!” I stand up, and pick up my plate. “Who wants to play ‘clean up mambo?’ We all dance into the kitchen with our plates, and wash up together! Who’s with me?”

The whole table stares at me. Then Mom says, “Besides, Charlotte, it’s impressive you managed to get some of your figure back after Sebastian. I know it was hard work.’

And that’s it, folks. Charlotte stands up. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you around your third glass of wine, Delia. Need another?”

Mom acts affronted while Dad turns up the volume on his iPod. Justin also stands up and starts snapping at Mom, while Lily cuts up her zucchini into neat sections and won’t look at anyone. That means it’s up to me to corral the kids until this blows over.

“Wow, Mom’s got a lot of veins in her neck!” Sage says in awe while I hustle her from the table. “They all stand out so much!” Sawyer follows behind us carrying Sebastian, who’s started wailing. Aw, poor boy. We take him to his room, where Sage calms him down by playing a stacking block game with him. Meanwhile, Sawyer sits on the blue reading sofa—you know, the perfect venue for bedtime stories—and looks worried.

“Don’t worry. Your mom and grandma go nuts on each other all the time.” I sit next to her. “It’s kind of what they’re best at.”

“I know. I just wish Mom wasn’t so upset right now.” Sawyer sighs and I give her a hug.

“Give it five minutes. It’ll blow over.” It surprises me when she shrugs me off. Oh no, have the adolescent blues come to claim my perfect angel niece?

“Not just now. All the time.” Sawyer gets up and huffs out of the room. Huh. What’s she mean by that? I leave Sage tickling Sebastian and follow the eldest kid out of the room. Sawyer’s done a disappearing act—she must be a twelve-year-old ninja. I wander back into the kitchen, where Lily is now texting rapid fire to someone. I look over her shoulder.

“What’s new in social media?”

“Emma, please. I’m working on my profile. It’s acting work,” Lily says. I give her a side hug and head for the kitchen. The screen door is open, and I see Mom trooping across the back lawn while Dad follows her, talking about something. The way this goes is, Dad talks, Mom ignores, and then they switch it and repeat until death do them part. Sometimes I’m amazed they’ve made it this long. But at least their children have healthier, more stable ideas of relationships.

Okay, not really counting me. Or Lily, for that matter.

At least Justin has a healthier, more stable idea—

“I can’t believe you offered to pay for her classes! I know your mother’s like, well, that, but you should tell them for God’s sake!”

That voice you just heard? That is Charlotte’s voice. And yes, it is in fact coming from the walk in pantry right next to me. I freeze like a, well, frozen thing. I know I should clear out, but I can’t help myself. This night has gone sideways enough as it is; I might as well hear everyone’s dark secrets before I get into my car and drive back to Palms.

“I said I needed a little more time. Bert Goldstein has an interview set up for me next week, and if that goes well—”

Why the hell is Justin interviewing with Bert Goldstein for a job? And why are he and his wife sequestered in the pantry when they have a nice roomy bedroom to argue in? And how much of an asshole am I if I knock and ask them to pass me the Bakewell chocolate chip cookies?

The answers: I don’t know, I don’t know, and major league asshole.

Charlotte, meanwhile, has interrupted my brother in the middle of his sentence. “If that goes well, it’ll be another ‘we love you, but you’re not a right fit for the firm.’ Baby, I told you, you should’ve sued those bastards for pushing you out! You’re a partner, for fuck’s sake. They can’t do this to us.”

Charlotte is one of the toughest chicks I know. She kicks ass in the family softball game every year, and she knows Krav Maga to such a degree that she could disarm a home invader with a gun, then throw him through a window. So when I hear the tears in her voice, two things happen. One, I get a nice taste of fear, an unpleasant coppery taste at the back of the throat. Two, I realize what a jackass I’m being by listening in on their private anguish, and bolt the hell back to the living room. Lily’s on the couch now, taking selfies. I go up behind her.

“More acting work?”

“I can’t work all the time, Emmy. This is for fun.” She makes duck lips and snaps a picture. Aw, she looks pretty. Then she adds a filter that gives her little deer antlers, sparkling cheeks, and long-lashed eyes.

Aw, nightmare fuel. I step out the front door and stand in the neighborhood twilight, trying to breathe the tension out of my body. Well, now I know what Sawyer was talking about. Justin lost his job? I’m no expert, but even I think it must’ve been hard to push out a partner. What did he do to make them can him like that?

Then again, as Dad would tell you, the Brightman XY chromosome pairing tends to be weaker than the XX. That’s bio-Dad speak for ‘BrightMen are from Venus, BrightWomen are from Mars.’ My Dad and Justin are two of the sweetest, best, kindest men on the planet. But effective? I hate to say it, but that’s not on the top of the attribute list.

Is it possible to find a man with both qualities? Both a great, supportive, nurturing person and a guy who can Krav Maga the shit out of a bad guy’s head? Can you eat your hot, sexy cake and have it, too? Who could I find that has that magic combination?

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I find an unknown number is calling me. Maybe this telemarketer has the magic answer. And if he doesn’t, I can chat pleasantly for thirty seconds, then scream bloody murder and fake my own violent death before hanging up. I’ve done that in public once before. It went down great. I can never go back to that Wendy’s, but it was worth it.

“Hello?” I speak with a thick Russian accent. “Ees thees my long-lost lovah?” I guess I’ve decided to be Olga the Soviet spy this evening. Excellent choice, if I may say so. “Hev you the plens for vorld dominayshun?”

“Come again?” Fraser says.

“Oh shit, it’s you.” I don’t mean that to sound as insulting as it obviously does. I was surprised, that’s all. “Well, er. What’ve you got on? You? Got on you, you know, not like clothes. I don’t need to know what you’re wearing. If you’re wearing anything. And why shouldn’t you wear clothes? It’s only seven o’clock. Do they still dress for dinner in England? They should. Very Downton Abbey.”

That verbal diarrhea brought to you by a moment of mania-inducing panic. If you need me, I’m going down to the local skateboard rink to lie down and wait for a bunch of preteen wannabe tough boys to run me over and put me out of this misery.

A long moment of silence. “By ‘what’ve I got on,’ do you mean ‘what plans have I?’”

“If that makes this less awkward, that is exactly what I meant.”

Then Fraser laughs. Something about the sound of it isn’t insulting, like it probably should be. Instead, it’s toe-curling. Panty-melting. Sin-scintillating. His laugh is like a well-aged scotch. I have a feeling I could get drunk off it, swept off my feet.

And all that on a cell phone, folks. Why is this man capable of bringing me almost to my knees with the help of only his voice and Verizon?

“Are you enjoying how much of a dumbass I am?” I ask. I’ve got to keep on the offensive. Can’t let him know how out of control the mere sound of his voice makes me.

“I’m enjoying you, Emma. Very much.”

This feels like the right place for a snappy comeback. However, I got a bit lost on the word ‘come,’ and now I’m of no use to anybody.

“Can I help you, Fras?”

Hey, that shuts him up a little. Emma, you moron.

“I simply wanted to know what time Sawyer’s recital starts tomorrow.”

Right, Sawyer’s dance recital. She’s something of a prima ballerina, I’m proud to announce. She’s got the lead in the Sleeping Beauty scene with the four princes. She tells me it’s one of the most difficult numbers for a ballerina, so I’m showing up with plenty of roses and band-aids, in case her feet need them. The band-aids, of course, not the roses.

And Fraser freakin’ Drake wants to come along?

“You’re coming to the recital?” I ask, because nothing is too obvious where I’m concerned.

“No, I merely wanted to know the time for my own personal clarity,” he drawls in response. Ah, there’s the maddening Fraser I know. The maddeningly sensual Fras—stop it, Emma.

“You could’ve clarified with Justin.”

“Indeed. I chose you.”

Is it my imagination, or does his voice get even richer and deeper on the words ‘chose you’? Trick question. It doesn’t matter; I’m too turned on to care. There are questions I could ask right now, such as ‘how did you get my number’ or ‘will you take me now, you gorgeous beast’ but neither seems like something I want the NSA to hear.

“Show starts at seven. I’ll be surprised if you show up.”

Challenge him, just the way I like it. Challenge him so he’ll be sure to turn up, just to spite me. The hot, spiteful bastard.

“Seven it is. I’ll see you then.”

He hangs up, and I shove the phone back in my pocket, heart tap-dancing in my chest. That is not medically safe, by the way. As I stand there, staring up at the streetlights as they come on down the block, I consider. Here I was, musing about the perfect type of man, and Fraser Drake happens to call my phone. It’s got to be a coincidence. There’s no way the universe is sending me such a loud and clear signal.

But having a drink with me at the bar? Calling me, and not Justin about Sawyer’s recital? Coming to Sawyer’s recital, when he knows I’ll be there?

Could be Mr. Drake is sending some clear signals of his own.