What I do wake up to is a pounding headache, the type that feels like a mixture of an ice-cream brain freeze and a heavy metal concert in your head. I open my eyes just long enough to see a note lying next to me. It’s in Elsa May’s perfect D’Nealian handwriting. “Last night was epic, Cinderella. Can’t wait for the next one. Back to Greenwich. :) EM P.S. That late-night guy was hot. Saw his card in your purse when I was looking for my lipstick I had you hold. You should call him.”

I’m embarrassed that I can feel the corners of my mouth upturning when I think back to Tyler. He was hot—but for someone else. Totally not my guy, I remind myself. And I would never call any guy for a date—and especially not him. Elsa May must have forgotten that without my bachelorette crown, I’m back to boring old Lottie.

I reach over to my nightstand and check my phone. 10:20 a.m.? Holy shit, I totally overslept, which means I don’t have time for my weekly five-mile jog along the West Side Highway and I have precisely fifteen minutes to make it to my morning showing. I try not to work too much on the weekends to create some work-life balance, but sometimes a client can only meet on a Saturday, and the showing is literally around the corner.

I only wish I had known it was going to be the night after my faux-bachelorette party. I’m going to kill Elsa May.

“You can do this, Lottie,” I say, giving myself a pep talk that provides just enough energy to get out of bed.

I pick up a warm water bottle from my nightstand and chug the entire thing. Then I go to the closet for my “uniform”: black shift dress and knee-high boots. I throw them on and add a long tortoiseshell necklace. I brush my hair about forty times in a futile attempt to get out the crimps before pulling it back into a tight bun. Then I’m out the door and in the elevator.

My head is still beating like the bass at a club, so it’s a good thing that the Archive Building in the West Village, where I’m headed, pretty much rents itself. Blake Lively lived there. Katie Holmes did too, pre-Tom. It towers over the rest of the neighborhood, half its apartments face the Hudson River, and it has an epic rooftop.

I know that if I have a client who can afford it, I can surely rent it, so I’m imagining this will be an easy-peasy job, even with an early-twenties-style hangover.

When I’m meeting a client for the first time, I usually try to see them before they see me. I want to be certain that I know more about them than they know about me. From a block away, I’m pretty sure I’ve scoped out my client. He’s about my age and dressed in a fitted suit. His shoes look nice; even from a distance I can tell they’re leather and polished, almost shining in the blinding sunlight.

Since he’s a referral from an old client, I don’t know much about him other than the fact that his name is Harry, he needs an apartment, and he needs it fast. My favorite type of client.

“Lo-ttie?” he asks as I approach.

I stop dead in my tracks when I realize he’s British, and my name sounds like a beautiful ballad when he says it. Even with my slightly blurry hangover vision, I realize he’s incredibly handsome. His suit is very fitted, and I catch myself looking too closely at the way it outlines his crotch. Maybe I’m still drunk.

“So nice to meet you, Harry,” I say, making eye contact. His handshake is as firm as mine and I try to ignore the tingles it causes down my spine. It’s from my hangover, I tell myself. My central nervous system is probably shutting down. I might need to see a doctor. This is all Elsa May’s fault.

Okay, mostly Elsa May’s fault.

“I don’t always dress like this on Saturdays,” he says, catching my eye. “Although you’ll never see me wearing a sports jersey with someone else’s name like all these American blokes. I think I’ve seen a dozen for Eli Manning in the last week alone.”

But you should always dress like this, I think. You should even go to sleep like this. And I’m totally with him on the jersey thing. It’s grown men playing dress-up.

“I came right from a meeting,” he explains. “I’m a bit of a workaholic, so I guess I’m in the proper city.”

Check, check, check. He is my type. To a perfect T.

“Shall we go in?” I ask, pointing to the 666 Greenwich Street entrance. I still feel trembly. It’s as if my fantasy man stepped right off the page from that silly sheet Elsa May had me fill out.

“After you,” Harry says, pulling open the door for me. This makes me swoon, which isn’t a good feeling in addition to my hangover. I steady myself on the railing.

“This place is one of my favorites in Manhattan,” I say. “I take it you just moved here?”

“Transferred from London. I know, I’m such an unlucky chap, right?”

“I love London,” I say. “Studied abroad there.” Then I put on my serious broker face. “But I can assure you that Manhattan has everything London does, and maybe even a little bit more.”

“I’ll reserve judgment for now,” Harry says flirtatiously. Or maybe it wasn’t flirtatiously. Maybe that’s just his accent. Can anyone not sound flirty with a British accent?

“Good morning, Muhammad,” I say to the doorman. “I’m going to show Harry here eight-fifteen.”

Muhammad nods, and Harry and I get on the elevator together. After a few seconds, it’s Harry who finally pushes the button for the eighth floor.

For the first time ever, I’m fumbling at my routine. This apartment better actually sell itself. Usually within the first five minutes, I’ve sized up my clients’ weaknesses and how I’m going to hard-sell them. But right now, the only sizing up I’m doing is of what his body looks like under the suit.

Get it together, Lottie. This must be what happens when you start breaking all your rules. You are going to write Elsa May after this appointment and tell her we are done with this faux bachelorette thing.

Harry begins to whistle, and I realize I’m being the worst broker ever.

“All the apartments are loft-style,” I say. “Some of them are studios and others are one-bedroom. Eight fifteen is one of the few corner apartments, which means extra square footage, and it has a direct sunset view.”

I know that I sound like a generic Zillow real estate description, but I’m too worked up over the fact that my seemingly dream guy is standing just four feet away from me.

But, he probably has a wife. I check his left hand. No ring.

Then I quickly look down at my own left hand. Holy shit, I’m still wearing the ring. I’ve finally met a guy who seems to fulfill everything I’m looking for, and I’m wearing an engagement ring. Worse, a borrowed engagement ring from an imaginary fiancé.

Harry insists I exit the elevator before him, which makes my heart drop a few floors. As I do, I slyly slip my left hand out of sight.

I turn the key to the unit and push open the door to 815. As I do, Harry says, “I love it. I’ll take it.”

“Are you serious?” I say. “I had this whole spiel planned.”

“Let me confess something: I already did the online virtual tour,” he explains. He points to the kitchen. “Granite countertops.” He points to the window. “Western exposure. Sunsets on the Hudson.” He starts to list on his fingers: “Hardwood floors, concierge service, the West Village. What else is there to say? It’s perfect.”

I want to reply, “You’re perfect too,” but instead I smile.

“Well, that makes my weekend,” I finally say, trying to not wonder if he’s this easygoing in all aspects of his life. I compose myself for the hundredth time. “And I know you’ll be happy here. I live around here too, and it feels more like home than anywhere else I’ve been. Maybe it’ll be that way for you too?”

And even though I know better, I point toward the extra bedroom with my right hand while keeping my left hand firmly behind my back. “It’s great that this place has room for guests—or even a roommate.”

I’m totally digging into his life. I might as well be holding a shovel. Usually I do this in order to rent a place, but right now I’m doing it for totally personal—not to mention unprofessional—reasons.

Harry shakes his head. “No roommate. I’m a bachelor.” And I blush because I think he knows exactly what I’m thinking—and it’s not business.

“I’ll get the paperwork lined up for you to sign at the office Monday,” I say, steering the conversation back on track. “This is the type of place that you have to grab immediately because it’s going to be gone in a flash.”

“Thanks, Lottie,” he says. “And one more thing: Is your number a work number or a personal number?”

“Work,” I say.

Harry leans in close. His breath—no joke—smells like mint and flowers. “Would it be too forward to ask for your personal one?” he asks. I smile so big that my cheek muscles nearly cramp.

While I’ve never mixed business with pleasure (it’s like my uncle, a bartender, says, “your first drink is your last call”), I’d do that for Harry.

But I hesitate for a millisecond, and while I do, Harry’s face scrunches up. He’s looking at my left hand, which I have just accidently revealed.

“Oh my,” he says, apologetically. “I didn’t see your ring until now. I don’t know how I could’ve missed it. It’s beautiful. Congratulations!” he exclaims. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come across as a bloody bastard. I’m not like that. Truly.” He pretends to wipe sweat of his brow. It’s adorable. “Forgive me?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Don’t worry,” I say, but catch myself before launching into an explanation.

If I explain the truth, he’ll think I’m crazy and won’t want to date me or rent the apartment. “I’m getting married in Italy on March fourth,” I say like an idiot.

And just like that, my dream guy thinks I’m engaged. And just like that, it’s over.

I’m quickly realizing the problem with pretending to be someone else is that you start to forget who you actually are.