Jessica inhales so sharply she sounds like she’s having an asthma attack as she exhales. Steve greedily takes a sip or ten of his wine without clinking glasses with anyone.

Declan gently nudges my wine with a punctuated connection of glass on glass, and eyes that blaze with so many unspoken words. His hand that moves from my thigh, up over my hip, and to the small of my back speaks a few thousand of them, though.

“I thought you were going to say, ‘To Toilet Girl,’” I confess quietly, leaning toward him. My lips are so close to his ear I could lick it. Only his slight movement backwards stops me, as he’s out of reach with a shift of air that makes me want to breathe him in forever. He could bottle that scent. Pure Declan.

He chuckles softly. “Too easy. Besides,” he murmurs, “if you really are on the hunt for a billionaire, you’re batting zero with me. I’m not even close. But you’re technically shopping for my father’s company, and he’s one.”

Before I can answer, Steve interrupts, and in a loud, commanding voice says, “I can’t compete. I’m only a millionaire.” Fake self-deprecating chuckle. Jessica gives him a honey-cheeked smile, one I thought she reserved only for men like Declan, who are an order of magnitude beyond Steve. I know—and Steve knows—he isn’t really a millionaire. “On paper,” he used to say. Um, okay. Even I, a mere marketing major, know that if you have $1.5 million in assets you’re not a millionaire if you also have $1.2 million in debts.

But what does a silly Mendon girl with a bachelor’s from UMass know? I’m guessing Jessica is a Wellesley girl. Too fragile for Smith, and too moneyed for Wheelock. Then again, she has a graduate degree from Harvard.

Steve’s gaze penetrates me, the look cold and hungry at the same time. As much as I hate it, he rattles me. It’s been nearly a year since he dumped me, so while I’m not a raw pile of goo living on ice cream and espresso between healthy doses of self-loathing and a nice injection of desolation, he’s still the man I thought I would marry. The guy who helped me have my first orgasm. The man who cheered me on at graduation. The one who patiently explained pivot tables on spreadsheets.

And hello? How rare is that? Because you can find anyone to have sex with you, but a pivot table expert who can explain it all in plain English? That’s some precious stuff.

Declan feels exotic. Extreme. Like a crazy risk you can only grab at a handful of times in your life but that you regret not grabbing for. Steve was the dependable, rusty old lawnmower in the garage. You weren’t riding it anywhere special, but it would start up every spring just like you came to expect it to, and it would always be there.

Until it wasn’t one day.

My analogies are getting really stupid as the wine makes me stretch with an unexpected yawn.

“Size doesn’t matter, right, Shannon?” That’s Jessica’s voice, coming from left field. “Size of the bank account, I mean,” she adds, winking at Declan.

Even Declan seems shocked. I think that comment would shut my mother up, and make Chuckles give her a high five. It’s so…catty. That thump you just heard?

The sound of Steve being dumped.

I feel kind of bad for him, but it’s hard to do that when Declan’s thumb is stroking my soft skin with whisper-light brushes that make me move slightly, just enough to make a rush of molten lava pour through my veins, my body one big thrumming pulse of need for him.

Wait! This is a business meeting. I’m not supposed to be leaning against a wall of muscle in a bespoke suit, the scent of my own rose corsage from my prom date…er, business associate making me tingly and open. I’m supposed to feel bad for Steve as his entire conceptual framework for how the world works flushes away (see how I did that?) as the waiter delivers our food.

I see he ordered the filet, too. We used to find that endearing, and yes, I ordered white wine with my steak back then. Until he was in his final year of his MBA, he found that endearing, too.

Right now, Steve is so focused on Declan he doesn’t seem to realize that Jessica just insulted his penis and bank account, and somehow managed to make me her girlfriend confidante. Impressive to do all that in one sentence. Perhaps I’ve misjudged her. If Chuckles were here, he’d defect to Jessicaland, happy to be united with his ancestral tribe.

Another glass of wine is needed to fully dissect the layers of Ms. Jessica. And a scalpel, too. Though she looks like she’s been under more than enough scalpels, if you know what I mean.

We all—except for Jessica—pretend she didn’t say what she said, instead ooohing and aahhhing over the food. I am feeling more and more like this is a date, and Declan confirms it by taking my hand and putting it on his thigh.

Oh, yes. I can feel how much this is a date, all right.

“How long have you two been dating?” Steve asks out of the blue. Holy non sequitur. The question is directed at Declan.

Only.

“We’re not dating—”

“Since this morning.” Our voices ring out in unison. You can guess who says what. Jessica gives her version of a snort, which sounds like a kitten sneezing.

I give Declan a distinct WTF? look and Steve glances down into Declan’s lap, obviously spotting my hand doing its own version of Magellan’s circumnavigation of big, round objects.

No, it isn’t that bad, but in dim lighting with an overcharged tension between the four of us that could power a small town for a week, it doesn’t look very businesslike.

Which means I just fulfilled Steve’s prophecy about me.

I just don’t know how to act properly in these sorts of settings.

Then again, he may be thinking that I’d never felt him up under the tablecloth of a fancy restaurant, surrounded by big-deal makers, but I have no idea whether that is true, because my phone starts to buzz.

My purse is right next to my thigh, so I leap into the air a bit, startled, my hand on Declan’s lap whacking the underside of the table and ricocheting back into his lap so hard he makes a very uncomfortable ooomph sound that makes Jessica and Steve both arch their right eyebrows, like synchronized cynics. If they make that a sport, they’d win the gold.

“Sorry,” I whisper as I simultaneously unzip my purse and stand. Bad move. Three (or is it four?) glasses of wine plus stiletto heels plus my ex-boyfriend and his date and an overly attentive business colleague so fine I could suck shots out of his belly button and have it called art by the Bromfield Gallery folks means the room spins and I crash back down into my seat.

Except it isn’t my seat.

“Business meeting,” Steve says as Declan snuggles with me in his lap, his nose nuzzling my neck, his arms wrapping around me less out of a lascivious nature and more to make sure I don’t slide off and land on his feet.

“The best kind,” Declan says, not looking at him. Jessica takes one bite of her fish and looks away.

Bzzzz. My phone won’t stop buzzing. I stand again, more sure-footed, and excuse myself, walking away as fast as I can. Fortunately, the restaurant is fairly empty, and my lurching goes without notice.

The women’s room is down a dark hallway with fake candles lighting the way. Monastery wine cellar look. It works. I get to the entrance in front of the ladies’ room and look at my phone. Amanda, of course.

Did you get the account? she asks. And bring condoms?

Yes and yes, I text back.

What? Of course I brought condoms. Bought new ones, too, because it’s been so long the ones I have might have reverted to their original element forms. I might not plan to have sex with Declan, but I’m damn sure going to plan just in case I have sex with Declan.

Kind of like buying a lottery ticket. You can’t win if you don’t play.

And…? she writes.

Yes, I text back, cryptic on purpose.

Make her freak out. Chuckles would be pleased.

To which? she types.

We got the account, I explain. The other one depends on Steve.

STEVE? Are you still carrying a torch for that asshole? We need to get you exorcised, Amanda types back.

It’s so hard to read her. She keeps her emotions hidden so well.

Steve is here. At dinner.

My phone rings suddenly. I answer it.

“Where are you and what the hell is Steve doing on your date with Declan?” she snaps.

“Business meeting,” I insist.

“You bring condoms to every business meeting you have? When we get the dental association account, you seriously bring condoms for dinner meetings with Dr. Jorgensson?” Dr. Jorgensson is the current president of the association and is in his late eighties. He looks like a nicely dressed orc. He has a home health aide attend all our meetings.

“Yep,” I say. “Even with him. Can never be too prepared.”

“Why is Steve there? And speaking of people I would sleep with before I’d ever touch your ex, Dr. Jorgensson looks damn fine compared to him.”

“Hey! I slept with Steve and that’s really insulting.”

Silence.

Then: “I’d still choose the colostomy bag over that piece of – ”

My phone buzzes with a text. “Gotta go. But we got the account!” I say in an excited voice.

“That is awesome,” she says, not ready to let me go. “But what is STEVE doing there?”

“He and his date”—bzzzzz—“appeared out of nowhere.”

“Where are you?”

I tell her.

She emits a low whistle. “Your car’s Blue Book isn’t close to the bill Declan will have for dinner.”

“I know.”

“And Steve brought—who’d he bring?”

“Some chick named Jessica Coffin. Boston Barbie.”

“Jessica Coffin?” Amanda says her name like I’m supposed to know who she is. “Oh my God. Steve is fishing in big waters.”

“Well, she clearly thinks his fishie is little.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Bzzz. “I really have to go.”

“Call or text me later!” Amanda says.

“Tell Greg the good news!”

“And you have fun, too. Let loose. Be wild, Shannon. It’s about time.”

Click. I tap over to messages. It’s Steve:

I think fate brought you here tonight.

Oh my God.