When my alarm goes off the next morning, I can barely open my eyes. My head feels like it’s hosting a construction site. Elsa May, with all her perfect planning and foresight, should pass out Advil Extra Strength caplets before these faux bachelorettes. But to be fair, I know this is more than a hangover-induced headache.

This is one of those headaches that’s about everything, not just too much champagne.

But there’s no time to lie in bed and mull how it all went wrong. I’m meeting Tyler in ninety minutes. I get out of bed, and I’m not amused to see a few errant sequins found their way into my sheets. I pick up each and every one and throw them in the trash—where they belong.

After my shower, I look through my closet of black and navy pencil skirts and solid Ann Taylor button-downs. I examine rows of seasonably appropriate pumps, waiting to assault my feet. I think about pulling some athleisure and showing up wildly underdressed, but then I think better of it. Today’s about getting back on track—and the Real Lottie dresses for the job.

I put on a sensible J. Crew pencil skirt with a coordinating sweater. I look professional—I look like me.

On the subway, Elsa May’s words “tell the truth” join the heavy machinery playing on a loop. I’m happy when I get off the subway with twenty minutes to spare. One, I like to be early as a rule. Two, I’m in desperate need of a coffee, even some fancy, overpriced, free-trade, Brooklyn coffee.

I rush to join the line at Caffeinated when I notice that Tyler beat me to the coffee shop. He’s sitting in the corner window seat. His head is down, so he doesn’t spot me. I can see that he’s sketching in a book with charcoal sticks. He puts his stick down and smiles, seemingly at nothing in particular. I don’t think I ever once saw Rock smiling about anything other than signing a deal.

I can’t lie. I feel something when I see Tyler. I feel warm. Maybe this is what Elsa May meant when she went all Dr. Phil on me. I push away the flashbacks from last night. Having feelings for Tyler doesn’t mean I should act on them. After all, I also harbor a secret crush on Zac Efron, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to send him fan mail and plot our marriage.

Some things aren’t meant to be. Some things are distractions, and I don’t like to waste time.

“A mocha latte, please. With extra whipped cream,” I say to the barista, forgoing my normal skinny, no-taste, heavy-caffeine order. “The name is Lottie,” I add in almost a whisper.

I wait for my coffee out of sight of Tyler, but I keep sneaking peeks over at him. He’s wearing a camel-colored wool sweater and dark jeans. And he looks so cozy here. Maybe this will be his new local spot, I tell myself.

Usually, I try to sell my clients on the neighborhood as a tactic to get the sale. But with Tyler, I genuinely believe he will be happy here. That thought makes me feel better than I have in a long time.

Maybe my job is about more than just the dotted line and commission. Or maybe it was this one time.

“Mocha Latte for Lottie,” the barista calls out in a booming voice.

Tyler’s head pops up from his sketchbook. He looks around the shop until he finds me and waves enthusiastically.

As I walk over, Tyler carries over a chair from another table.

We have that awkward moment when we are both standing over the table.

“Can we hug now?” Tyler says, reaching out. “I know you do this all the time, but it’s a big moment for me. I kind of thought I’d be Williamsburg for life.”

I nod, since this is the signing, after all. You always hug on signing, I remind myself. If you hug, it’s just because that’s what you always do.

Tyler pulls me in close and gives me a big bear hug. I count to three. Three seconds is professional, I tell myself. After a five count, I finally pull away.

Five seconds is not professional, I scold myself. Suddenly, the coffee shop seems way too warm for a sweater. I wish I had worn a blouse underneath.

“Sit down,” Tyler says, pulling out my chair.

He looks at my latte. “I’m getting that next time,” he says, pointing.

I pull a stack of papers out of my bag. “Here are the contracts,” I say, turning the conversation back to business. Focus, Lottie. Your life is a mess, you’re in a fight with your best friend, and you’ve been masquerading as an engaged woman for weeks. This is not the time to be debating your impossible and completely inappropriate crush on some guy who thinks you’re engaged.

I hand Tyler a copy. “The owner’s broker emailed these to me last night. It’s a good thing no one takes weekends off in New York.”

“I always do,” Tyler says matter-of-factly. “I’m a nine-to-five guy in a city that’s not.”

Another sign from the universe that Tyler is not for me.

“It’s different when you’re an artist,” I reply. I look over at his sketch pad. “Aren’t you working now anyway?”

Tyler tucks his long hair behind his left ear. “This?” he says. “These are just sketches for fun,” he says.

Who is this guy? I ask myself.

What’s the last thing I did for fun? The bachelorette parties? And look how that turned out.

“They’re nice sketches,” I say.

“Thanks,” Tyler says with a humble nod.

And I swear that Tyler blushes. Like my opinion matters to him. I know the feeling because I held my breath from the time I showed him the brownstone until he finally called and said he wanted it.

I pull out my special, expensive, signing-day pen. “We have a lot of initialing to do, so let’s get started,” I say. I show Tyler where I carefully placed tabs to indicate where he has to initial.

“So what took you so long to decide?” I ask Tyler as gets to work. “You know, about the apartment.”

Tyler shrugs. “It was a big decision, and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t persuaded for the wrong reasons, like an extremely talented saleswoman.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, and I definitely think you made the right decision,” I say. “This neighborhood is great. You’ll have that amazing kitchen to tinker around in. Trust me, this place is once in a lifetime.”

“I think so too,” he says. “It feels sort of like it was made for me. Is that weird to say?”

I shake my head. It’s not weird, I think. In fact, that’s what I thought when I found it. Normally, I convince the person that it’s the place for them. But with Tyler, I searched until I found a place I actually thought was suited exactly for him.

But I should have never met Tyler, I shouldn’t be sitting here, and I definitely shouldn’t feel the way I do when he looks at me.

The only way to fix any of this is to walk away and shut all these doors behind me. That’s the closest I can come to resetting the clock—and my equilibrium.

Tyler puts his final “TK” on the papers. “Well, thank you, Lottie. It sounds strange, but I don’t think I would’ve done this without you. You’re a terrific saleswoman.”

Saleswoman. That’s the second time he’s said it. That’s how he thinks of me. Normally, I love a good compliment about my work, but today it stings.

Tyler points at my left hand. “Ring is still getting cleaned? It must have been really dirty,” he says with a raised eyebrow.

I shake my head. “Tell the truth,” Elsa May’s voice echoes.

And I realize it’s time to do so. Not because Elsa May told me to do so, but because I can’t get back on track until I do.

“Uh,” I say. “I’m not actually engaged,” I confess.

“Shit. You broke up?” Tyler asks. His eyes sparkle all kaleidoscope-like again before he reaches out and puts his hand on mine. His skin is rough, but comforting. “I’m really sorry, Lottie,” he says.

I shiver and retract my hand, even though Tyler sounds nothing but genuine.

The coffee shop now feels like a walk-in freezer. I rub my sleeves for warmth.

“Not broken up,” I clarify. “I was actually never engaged. This is going to sound totally bizarre, but my friends thought it would be fun to do a fake bachelorette party and somehow, I got elected to play the part and then I met you . . . and, well, it snowballed.”

There, I finally said it. I take a deep breath and get up the courage to meet Tyler’s eyes.

When I do, he breaks out in hysterical laughter. He’s laughing so hard that he shakes the table. I hold it steady, so our drinks don’t spill.

“You think it’s funny?” I say.

“Very much so,” he says. “A little cuckoo, but mostly funny. Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

I put my hands in my face and then peer out. “Would it be awful if I said it was because I wanted the commission and thought I’d lose it if I told the truth?”

Tyler bangs his fist on the table and cracks up all over again. “I can’t believe you did this for a commission.” He shrugs, then says, “Well, actually, I can sort of believe it.”

And I join in laughing because it’s a pretty ridiculous thing to do for a broker’s fee. But that’s not why I kept up the ruse after leasing JR’s apartment. I know I kept lying because if I was engaged, then I didn’t have to consider the possibility of me and Tyler.

And now, the truth is out and it’s clear that he just finds the whole thing funny, which is great. It means whatever might have been there wasn’t actually there, and I can move on.

Tyler leans across the table, over the stack of papers.

“Can I confess something too?”

“Sure,” I say. All of a sudden, my stomach feels like it’s hosting a butterfly migration.

“I’m glad you’re not engaged, because I’ve spent the past month feeling like a total douchebag for having a crush on an engaged woman,” he says.

“You have a crush on me?” I repeat, leaning back in my seat. I look away from him and back down at the contracts.

Today is about starting over.

“That’s very flattering,” I say and I mean it. In some alternate galaxy, maybe Tyler and I could work. But not here in the Milky Way.

“But I don’t date”—I pause and take a deep breath—“I don’t date people I’ve worked with,” I finish.

“In that case, I’d be willing to get a new broker,” Tyler says. He raises his eyebrows expectantly. It’s an extremely hard face to say no to. “I dig my new apartment and all, but . . .”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But it’s more than just that.” I want to say more, to explain, but I fear that would only make things worse.

Tyler nods. “Okay,” he says. “I can take a hint. Hey, it was worth a shot.”

I nervously shuffle the papers.

“Well, back to business,” I say out loud. At that, Tyler’s face crumples into an expression I haven’t seen before—true hurt.

But I know I’m doing the right thing. Without this mess in my life, I can focus on work and on meeting the right kind of guy. I’ll steer back onto course, and once that happens, I’ll feel normal again.

I stack the papers neatly and paperclip them.

“The owner’s broker should be in touch with the keys,” I say in an even tone. “You can move in on the fifteenth. Do you need any recommendations for movers?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll do it myself,” he says. “Okay, I’ll make JR do it,” he admits.

I stand. “Well, thank you, Tyler.”

Tyler watches as I take the last sip of my latte before turning to go.

“Take care of yourself, Lottie,” he says as I walk away.

“I will,” I say over my shoulder. “Goodbye,” I whisper.

I know this is the only way in the long run, but I wish it didn’t hurt so much.