“Here,” my friend Katie says two nights later, turning away from the six-burner stove in her massive, professional-grade kitchen. She’s got a wooden spoon in one hand and a whisk in the other, and she’s whipping up something with enough calories to maybe make me forget the mess I’ve stumbled into. “Taste this. It’s a play on a chicken marbella, but I’m going for more ‘upscale New York bistro’ and less ‘suburban dinner party in 1992.’ ”

I reach out from my perch at the kitchen island and do as she tells me, tasting the rich, buttery sauce. “Amazing,” I pronounce, licking the spoon. “Seriously, Katie, I’d bathe in it if I could.”

“You’re easy,” she laughs, lowering the heat to a simmer and reaching for her wine glass. “Still, it’s an idea. They say you need to have a good gimmick to keep a restaurant afloat in New York these days.”

“They’d totally feature you on Food Network,” I tell her. “A chicken marbella soaking tub sounds like exactly the kind of thing Guy Fieri would be into.”

Katie almost snorts her pinot. “Well, thank you for putting that particular image in my head, Olivia. If you need me, I’ll be washing my brain out with bleach.”

I laugh, settling back into my leather barstool. Katie and her husband Seb have lived across the hall since before I moved in, and their apartment is as warm and inviting as they are. A tapestry from Morocco hangs above the huge leather sofa, and the Gypsy Kings croon while the slinky black cat, Bourdain, snoozes on the tufted ottoman in the living room. And the cozy ambiance isn’t the only draw—Katie and Seb run a restaurant that’s one of the few truly delicious, cozy spots to eat in Midtown, so I’m always happy to help with taste-testing.

“You definitely owe me a distraction,” Katie continues now, nudging a perfectly thrown-together cheese board in my direction. “Tell me more about this wicked stepmother. Is she really Cruella in the making?”

“She’d skin the dogs alive and livestream the whole thing if it would get her hits on YouTube.” I make a face. “Wait, I don’t want you to think I hate her just because she’s marrying my dad. He’s had some really nice wives. I actually liked Carolyn the Garden Club lady. And, the one who used to be a gymnast. Plus, you know.” I make a face. “My own mother.”

“I know,” Katie says with a gentle smile. “But Vanessa is her own special kind of hell, clearly.”

“I don’t know why I let her get under my skin like this,” I sigh. “I like my life! I have a great life! But as soon as I get in the same room with her, I just . . .”

“Revert back to all your worst teenage tendencies?”

“Yup! I might as well be wearing a pair of grubby sweats and eating Phish Food by the pint.” I laugh.

“Don’t you dare insult my two best friends Ben and Jerry!”

“I need your two best friends Ben and Jerry to come take me to this wedding,” I shoot back. “Are they attractive?”

“I am sorry to tell you they are emphatically not.” Katie shrugs. “You told her you were bringing a hot date, right? So. Let’s find you a hot date.”

“Like it’s that easy.”

“I mean, to listen to you talk all these years, I wouldn’t have thought it was quite this hard.” She pops a slice of cheddar into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “We could post a Craigslist ad,” she offers. “Or put something on the Jumbotron in Times Square: hot girl seeks wedding date.” She thinks. “I bet the Naked Cowboy would take you. Or that guy who dresses up as Elmo and poses for pictures with tourists.”

“Oh my God,” I say, shaking my head and motioning at the open wine bottle on the counter. “Give me that.”

I’m refilling both our glasses when a key turns in the deadbolt. “Something smells good,” Seb says, stepping into the apartment with a bag full of groceries.

“Why thank you,” Katie says, holding her face up for a kiss before pulling back and gazing him shrewdly. “Do you know any hot men?”

“You searching for a replacement already?” he asks with a grin. He’s in his late thirties, with shaggy brown hair and a quick, wry smile. He and Katie have been together since she was in culinary school and have the kind of easy, low-key relationship that comes with having been partners in every conceivable way for the last fifteen years.

Not that I’m jealous.

OK, maybe a little.

“Not one for me,” Katie says, handing him a spoon and waving him in the direction of the chicken marbella. “Olivia needs an emergency stand-in.”

I tuck into the cheeseboard as she tells him about it, spreading some brie on a cracker and trying not to be embarrassed by the fact that I’ve somehow become the kind of single person whose married friends discuss her various romantic failures. It’s true, what I said to Katie. I do love my life. But I also can’t pretend I don’t want something like she and Seb have between them. Someone to call me pet names and remember my favorite brand of sauvignon blanc—and, frankly, to bend me over the kitchen table from time to time. I can take care of business just fine on my own for the most part, but the reality is a girl has certain needs that a Kindle and a Lelo vibrator just won’t fix.

“Hmm,” Seb says once Katie is finished. He puts away the groceries, and then starts setting the table for dinner—unprompted. Talk about a prince among men. “I mean, there is that new host at the restaurant the waitresses can’t stop talking about. They all think he’s very handsome.”

Katie’s mouth drops open. “We are not setting her up on a date with Kevin!”

“Why?” I ask, suddenly suspicious. “What’s wrong with Kevin?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him,” Seb assures me. “We’d just have to see if he was . . . available, that’s all.”

“Yeah, to leave the state.” Katie snorts, turning to me. “What my husband is neglecting to tell you is that we get a tax break for hiring convicted felons. Kevin served hard time for burglary!”

“Gee, thanks!” I laugh, pelting Seb in the chest with an almond. “Jail-time is a dealbreaker for me.”

“We’ll come up with something,” Katie promises me. “Now, let’s eat.”

The rest of the weekend is pretty quiet, just a few quick errands and some quality time on the elliptical at the gym, old-school Beyoncé blasting in my ears. I get into the office early Monday morning, flicking the coffeemaker on and opening the windows to the warm summer breeze. It’s the kind of day that makes you happy to live in New York—last night’s rain drying on the pavement, the whole city washed clean and new.

I lose myself in work for the better part of an hour, sipping my latte and returning emails until I get a call from Hallie.

“Hey,” I answer happily. “How is life in newly-engaged bliss?”

“Terrible!” Hallie answers with a groan.

“What? Why?” I sit up straighter. I assigned Hallie to play fake girlfriend to Max, one of my clients—a publishing heir and seriously wealthy playboy bachelor. It turned out, they were perfect together. So perfect, they fell madly in love. It was against all my rules, but I don’t hold it against them. In fact, I credit myself with bringing them together in the first place. But if there’s trouble in paradise . . . ?

“The wedding plans!” Hallie replies. “We’re not even getting married for another year, and already his family is bugging me. White tie, or cocktail? Blush pink, or antique white? Destination, or church? Max is going crazy, and so am I. We might elope just to get away from them all.”

I let out a breath of relief. Weddings are clearly in the air this week, but this is one event I don’t want to see fall apart. “Leave it to me,” I reassure her. “I know a fantastic wedding planner, she can handle everything for you.”

“Will she stand up to three generations of Carlisles?” Hallie asks, sounding hopeful. “Because Max’s family can be . . . difficult, to say the least. OK, most of them are batshit crazy.”

I smile, already clicking through my address file. “She planned the nuptials for a minor royal in England last year, so if she can deal with the Queen, she can deal with anyone.”

“Thank you!” Hallie exclaims. “Seriously, Olivia. You’re a lifesaver. Is there any problem you can’t solve?”

How about my father’s taste in women, or the fact I need a perfect, drool-worthy date to their ceremony in just a couple of weeks?

“There,” I say, clicking send. “I’ve just emailed an introduction. She doesn’t come cheap,” I warn Hallie. “But I’m guessing that’s not a problem for you now.”

Hallie laughs. “No, it’s not. I owe you brunch. And bottomless mimosas.”

“Sounds great. Maybe next week?”

“Perfect.”

I hang up, just as Alice knocks on my office door at ten a.m. sharp. She looks sweetly polished in a navy-blue dress, demure gold studs winking at her ears.

“Hey there,” I say, looking up from the computer as she slides the pocket door shut behind her. “How was your weekend?”

“Good,” Alice says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach the top half of her face. “Uneventful.”

My eyes narrow. “You sure?” I look at her closely. Alice has been with The Agency since the beginning, and she’s invaluable as my assistant, but she’s seemed kind of restless lately. I’ve offered her a raise, more vacation time, you name it, but whatever’s going on with her seems deeper than that. “Anything you want to talk about?”

Alice shakes her head and smiles again, more convincingly this time. “I’m sure,” she says, before launching into the morning’s messages. “Emma called to debrief her date with the heir to the avocado fortune,” she tells me, ticking down her list. “And I got a call from an agent in Hollywood, wanting to talk about one of their clients. Very hush-hush, they wouldn’t even tell me the name.” Then she pauses. “Also, Ryan Callahan is waiting outside.”

“Way to bury the lede.” I scan the calendar on my computer screen to see if I somehow missed something. “He doesn’t have an appointment, does he?”

Alice shakes her head. “He said it was urgent, but I figured he could cool his heels for a while. He doesn’t get to set the schedule,” she says, lifting her chin defiantly.

I smile, but my mind is racing. Sure, Ryan’s been bugging me to find his perfect date, but I didn’t realize he was so antsy. But, he’s a big client, and my whole business relies on satisfied customers and word-of-mouth, so maybe it’s time to smooth things over. “Schedule Emma for tomorrow, tell the agent to send their non-disclosure and have them sign ours, and I’ll take care of Callahan.”

I plaster a smile on my face and follow Alice out to the waiting room.

“Ryan, hi. Sorry to keep you waiting,” I greet him.

“No trouble.” Ryan is lounging on the couch, all six-foot-three of him. Damn, I forget how handsome he is when all I have is a demanding voice on the other end of the phone, but now that he’s here in front of me?

Hello, lover.

Not that I would mix business and pleasure. I drag my eyes away from those baby blues and that muscular torso. Ryan is way too arrogant, thanks to years as pro football’s golden boy. He’s used to having women hurl themselves at his feet, which is probably why he’s such a pain in my ass, holding out for some mythical dream woman who will help him navigate the business world with charm and poise.

Right now, Ryan is looking anything but poised. Thor is hunched beside him, eyeing Ryan with deep and abiding malice.

“He’s friendly,” I promise, shooing the cat down onto the carpet.

“Oh yeah?” Ryan asks with a wary smile. He’s wearing jeans and a light-washed chambray shirt, his sandy hair a bit longer than it was back when he was still playing football. It’s no wonder he was voted the NFL’s Most Bangable by basically every women’s website in the blogosphere. He’s every inch the all-American golden boy—and doesn’t he know it. “Tell that to my hand.”

He holds it up, showing off a nasty-looking scratch.

“Ouch,” I wince. “Alice?”

“Already on it.” She opens a drawer, and then bustles around with salve and a band-aid. “All set,” she says, holding onto Ryan’s muscular forearm just a beat too long.

I give her a look, and she smiles, as if to say, “Can you blame me?”

“Let’s go into my office,” I tell him. “And you can explain the big emergency.”

Ryan follows me into my office, taking a seat in one of the deep leather chairs. When I think of professional football players I imagine giant meatheads the size of industrial refrigerators, but there’s something surprisingly elegant about him, a graceful ease in his body that almost reminds me of a dancer.

“So,” I say, reminding myself firmly of my own rule about not admiring the merchandise, “I’m guessing you’re not here to tell me how much you loved Ashley?”

Ryan shakes his head. “Don’t get me wrong, Ashley was a sweetheart. But she wasn’t the one.”

“OK,” I say gamely, biting my tongue to keep from reminding him that we’re looking for a date to some investor dinners and not the love of his life. “Tell me more?”

“I can’t explain it,” he says, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “It’s just a feeling. I need someone confident and capable—someone who screams trust me, I have my shit together just by walking into the room. Somebody sophisticated, who knows how to read people. Like you,” he adds. “Except, you know, fun and easy to be around.”

“Thanks,” I snort, flipping frantically through my mental Rolodex. The truth is, he’s vetoed most of my best girls already, and now that it’s summer, a lot of my contacts are heading out of town. “Well, if you’ll just give me some time . . .”

Ryan frowns. “My big meeting with Mason Dubeck is in two weeks, Olivia, and it’s all the way in Miami. If you can’t help me—”

“I can help you,” I interrupt, reassuring. And I can. I’ve matched movie stars and the CEOs of multi-national corporations and three different Euro princes. I’m not about to be flummoxed by some jock in a football jersey. “Two weeks,” I murmur, looking back at the calendar on my computer. “In Miami.”

Miami . . . which is only a four-hour drive from Key West.

Where a certain wedding is taking place. And I still don’t have a date.

I gaze across the desk at him, the beginnings of a crazy idea starting to bloom deep in the recesses of my mind.

His big, solid shoulders and my preternatural ability to read a room? Not a match made in heaven, maybe. But I could do worse. And so could he.

It’s ridiculous. It’s unprofessional. But it’s also kind of . . . perfect.

And it’s not like I have a whole lot of options, either.

“I’ll do it,” I say suddenly. Ryan looks surprised.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” I interrupt him, “But you said it yourself, I fit the bill. I know exactly how to deal with finance guys like Mason—and their wives. And on such short notice, you won’t find anyone better.”

Ryan narrows his eyes at me, and clearly, he’s not the empty-headed playboy he makes himself out to be, because a slow smile teases on the edge of his mouth. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a catch?”

I grin. “It’s not so much a catch as it is a deal. I scratch your back, and you scratch mine. Or, in this case . . . I play your fake girlfriend, and you return the favor.”

“You want a date with me?” Ryan’s smug smile is almost enough to make me regret the whole thing. Then I remember Vanessa’s pitying look and imagine a whole weekend of the same, trapped in Key West with her bridesmaids and wedding planner. “Well, gee, Olivia, all you had to do was ask. I mean, my schedule is pretty busy . . .”

“Not a date,” I correct him coolly. “An . . . arrangement. It just so happens that I have a function that weekend in Florida, too. I could use an escort. What do you say?” I raise an eyebrow and try not to reveal just how desperately I need this trade to work.

“Do we have ourselves a deal?”