“I’m coming your way, Mia,” I say.

“Good,” she says. “I’m stuck in Hangover Station and can’t catch a ride out.” She sighs into the line. “My boss is already texting me about returning the ring, so make sure you bring it.”

“Oh, I have it with me and I’ll happily give it back. This ring is getting me in major trouble. Maybe there’s some curse that happens to women who pretend to be engaged?”

“Trouble and Lottie in the same sentence? That’s a combination you don’t hear often. I like it. Maybe you should keep the ring a little longer. I’m not above blackmailing my boss.”

“Not happening,” I say. “This ring is going back.”

I start down the steep steps to the Christopher Street station. “I’m getting on the subway. See you soon.”

“Bring Gatorade,” Mia shouts into the phone. “Purple. Large size. Please.”

I sit on the train, my left hand curled into a fist. How could something so small ruin my chance with my dream guy? But this is what I deserve for pretending to be something I’m not. For pretending to be someone I’m not.

Mental note: Call Elsa May and make sure she doesn’t think any more fake bachelorettes are on the docket. I’m done.

* * *

Jane and Mia have melded into the couch. They are both enveloped in fuzzy blankets, and there’s an empty pizza box on the ottoman. They’re the perfect vignette for laziness, and even my type A–self wants to join in.

“We’re watching The Bachelorette,” Jane says. “For my research,” she clarifies, pointing to a pen and paper on the coffee table.

“Uh-huh,” I say, pulling two mammoth Gatorades out of a plastic shopping bag.

Jane and Mia reach up for them like they’re the elixir of life. When you’re this hungover, they pretty much are.

“I have a headache too,” I admit, snuggling in between the two of them on the couch. “This is why you’re only supposed to have one bachelorette party in your life. The aftereffects are brutal.”

“But it was so much fun,” Jane says genuinely. “And surprisingly so for something that has origins in such enforced patriarchy.”

Mia nods and turns to me. “I’ll translate that: hashtag bachelorettes do have more fun. Elsa May was right on that one.”

“It was exciting . . . for one night,” I say, looking down at the ring, then yanking it off my finger. “But here.” I place it in Mia’s hand while taking a huge gulp of her Gatorade. “Ta-da. I’m Single, Boring Lottie again.”

“Aww,” Jane says. “I was very much looking forward to your Tuscan wedding.” Which makes all of us laugh.

“Well,” Mia says as she tucks the ring into a velvet black box and sets it on the ottoman. “If you bump into Fun Lottie again, give her my phone number. She was awesome.”

I laugh. “Did last night really happen?” I ask, gesturing to the ring. “And get this, the drama kept going this morning.” I tell them the story of how I both met and lost the man of my dreams in one hour.

Mia and Jane listen intently—after first breaking to pause the TV. When I’m finished, Jane gapes at me.

“So what are you going to do?” she asks. “I mean, you can’t let the man of your dreams slip away. It’s sounds like a plot out of a romance novel.” She looks up with a white face. “I read those for research.”

“I’m going to do nothing, of course,” I say. “If I try to explain, he thinks I’m crazy and doesn’t want to date me. If I do nothing, he doesn’t date me. Either way, we’re not dating. Who would want to date a woman who pretends to be engaged for attention? Plus, if I don’t say anything, at least I can still get the commission.”

I take another gulp of Gatorade. “I deserve this situation after last night. I have a rule about not dating clients, anyway. It was wrong to even consider that.”

I try to play out scenarios where it could work out with me and Harry, but there are none.

I go on: “What we would tell our kids? Oh yeah, Mommy was pretending to be engaged but then she met Daddy.” I stick out my bottom lip. “Pathetic. This is why I live by my dating rules.”

Mia sticks out her tongue. “I bet you have a rule for wiping your ass too.”

No, only a rule about toilet paper, I think.

Then Mia’s green eyes glimmer. She pulls her laptop off a side table and opens it. “What’s his last name?” she demands.

“We’re not doing this,” I say. “I don’t Google men. Period. It ruins the whole get-to-know-you experience and starts the relationship on the wrong foot. Besides, the entire thing was over before it even started.”

Mia’s fingers are poised on the keyboard. “Lottie, really. Enter 2017 and join the rest of us. Everyone Googles now.” She shakes her head. “You really need to up your social media game. It’s important to have a solid digital footprint, both for your career and for personal life.”

“ ‘Digital footprint’?” I repeat. I can see Jane taking mental notes.

Mia types her own name into Google. Images of her looking like a fashion model flood the screen. “It’s important to show your best face,” she says. “On the internet, you get to control your image for the most part. Plus, stalking via the internet is so fun. I believe it’s even legal, which seems hard to believe.”

Her green eyes focus on mine. “So, Harry blank,” she demands.

“I’m so not telling you his last name,” I say, taking the laptop away from her. “I agreed to the bachelorette party, but that’s it. I’m back to being rule-abiding, no-online-stalking Lottie.”

I open up my email. “It’s almost noon and I haven’t exercised. Hell, this is the first time I’ve checked my email. I need to get back on track.”

Mia sighs her signature I’m-annoyed-with-Lottie sigh and restarts The Bachelorette.

“Would you ever be on this show?” Jane asks her as the rose ceremony unfolds on TV.

Mia shrugs. “I’d only be on The Bachelorette, not The Bachelor. Life’s a lot less heartbreaking when you’re the one in control.”

Jane nods and chugs her Gatorade.

“Agreed,” I chime in, taking another swig of Mia’s drink.

I retrieve the laptop, pull up my inbox, and let out an audible groan.

“What now, Eeyore?” Mia asks.

“Listen to this,” I say, looking at an email with the ominous subject line “Last Night,” and then read aloud from the email:

“ ‘Hi, Lottie. This is Tyler. Not sure if you remember much since it was your bachelorette party after all, but we met last night. My brother’s looking for a place downtown and you gave me your card and said you could help. Could you meet us tomorrow to check out a few places? I know you’d probably rather spend the weekend with your fiancé, but having my brother live on my couch is getting old. Like prehipster Brooklyn old. Thanks! Tyler.’ ”

Mia starts laughing.

“This is not funny,” I say over and over again while nudging her. “Stop laughing.”

Jane looks at me with the same look as before. “What are you going to do?”

I’m about to answer “nothing,” but I stop myself. Wouldn’t that be unprofessional? Not to mention that a young male investment banker looking for a place downtown is one of the easiest sells ever. Show him an apartment with a bar around the block and an Equinox gym nearby, and he’s basically sold.

Mia stops laughing and looks at me. “Are you really thinking about this? Is Straight-Edge Lottie going to pretend to be Betrothed-Lottie again to get a sale?” She laughs again. “Damn, you really are serious about your job.”

“I’ve never turned away a potential broker fee,” I say. “Plus, my karma’s already screwed now. I can’t get the dream guy, but I can rent the heck out of an apartment.”

Mia whisks the laptop away from me. She types “Tyler King” into Google. Images of rings pop up.

They’re funkier than normal rings—some are metallic and others hammered, distressed gold—but very cool.

She snaps her fingers. “I thought I knew that name. He’s a majorly up-and-coming designer. We sell two of his rings at Trinity Jewels. They’re totally geared to the artsy, be-different crowd, but he’s definitely got a buzz around him.”

“That’s right,” I say, flashing back to last night. “He mentioned he was a ring designer. But get this: the funny and ironic part is that he’s against marriage.”

“Men,” Jane scoffs.

Mia types a few more things into the search bar and brings up his Facebook picture.

“Hold the iPhone. Forget the fairy tale Brit all together,” she says. “Tyler’s gorgeous. Go for him.”

Jane nods enthusiastically. “Totally a Mr. Darcy.” Both Mia and I give her a look. “Jane Austen reference,” she explains.

“Mr. Darcy or not, he’s a big no.” I count using my fingers. “One, he’s the opposite of my type. Two, he also thinks I’m engaged. Three, this is a work thing. Four, stop Googling. It’s a recipe for disaster.”

“So what are you going to do?” Mia asks, clicking away on the laptop. “Oh wait,” she says, pointing to a photograph of Tyler on Facebook with his arm around a brunette who could be Gisele Bündchen’s little sister. “Looks like he has a girlfriend, though,” she says with utter disappointment.

I shake my head while trying to ignore how pretty she is. “Harry, not Tyler, is my dream guy. And it doesn’t matter anyway.” I take the diamond ring from the box and put it back on. “I’m engaged, remember?”

“I like this new naughty Lottie,” Mia says. She pushes the laptop back to me. “Write him back.” She raises her enviously thick eyebrows. “I dare you. Downtown is right by my work. You can borrow the faux engagement ring for a few hours tomorrow. I have to go into work anyway.” She dramatically curls into a fetal position. “It’s almost the holiday season, which means overtime for me. It’s so wonderful to work at a jeweler when you’re single. Truly.”

I smile. “Fine.” I take the laptop and write Tyler the same form email I write all potential clients to gather information. “If I can get a commission out of this whole bachelorette fiasco, maybe it’ll actually have been worth it. And it’s just one afternoon, right?” I stand up. “I need to go work out. This day has been too weird. I need to sweat until I’m the real me again.”

“Can I tell Elsa May about all this?” Mia asks. She holds up her phone and it’s a pic of Elsa May lying on the floor while Birdie crawls over her. “She texted that she’s in a low place, but already wondering when we can do it again.”

“Fine,” I say. “Tell Elsa May that her silly game cost me a dream man but got me a commission.” As I open the front door, I call over my shoulder, “And tell her that we’re done with this social experiment. D-O-N-E.”

* * *

On Sunday, I’m standing right by the famous Wall Street Bull statue at 10 a.m., waiting for Tyler and his brother to show. I usually try to meet clients by an iconic New York landmark because it reminds them of the New York dream. You know, the one people take from TV and movies—Carrie Bradshaw’s front stoop in Sex and the City, the Friends coffee shop, the Seinfeld diner.

Wall Street is almost completely dead on the weekends. Personally, I like the quiet. It feels like it’s just you and New York for a few blissful moments. By 8 a.m. tomorrow, this place will be a zoo of suits, tourists, and hustle and bustle.

I see Tyler and his brother walking up the block to me. His brother’s wearing what I call a “Southern frat-bro outfit”: khakis, a belt embroidered with whales, and a button-down shirt under a Barbour jacket. He’s as preppy as Tyler is rugged. Tyler is wearing jeans and a lumber flannel with Doc Martens. It’s hard to believe they’re brothers. But as they get closer, I see that they have the same piercing blue eyes and lush dark hair. They might dress differently but they both won the DNA lottery.

“Lottie,” Tyler says with a smile. He looks me up and down. “Hey, where’s your neon?”

“I forgot it back in 1990 where it should stay permanently,” I quip.

Tyler laughs and points at his brother. “JR, this is Lottie.” I reach out for a firm handshake.

Tyler eyes me again. “She didn’t look like this when I met her,” he tells his brother. “I’m not sure which one is the costume. The other night or today?”

I don’t laugh. I look down at my “uniform.” I’m actually surprised he recognized me. I’m going to kill Elsa May for that whole neon getup. I don’t like Tyler imagining me in it. Or anyone, for that matter.

“These are my work clothes,” I say. Professional clothes I carefully curate in order to create a controlled vision of myself.

JR laughs. “Tyler doesn’t know anything about work clothes,” he says.

Tyler rolls his eyes at his brother. “Just because I’m not a suit doesn’t mean I don’t work,” he says and then turns to me. “For what it’s worth, I liked your hair crimped,” he says. “It was very Beverly Hills 90210. Reminded me of my childhood crush on Brenda Walsh.”

I ignore him. Tyler irritates me like a fancy wool sweater—even though he looks good on the outside, he scratches against my insides. “Should we go find you an apartment?” I ask JR. “The benefits of living downtown include tons of doorman buildings and super upscale amenities. Plus, you can roll out of bed to go to work.” I walk closely to him and lean in. “Did you know commuting has been scientifically proven to negatively affect your happiness quotient? It’s a huge plus to live near your work.”

Statistics about happiness help when it comes to selling real estate. Everyone wants to think they are one good decision away from changing their lives. I use that to my advantage and try to convince them that happiness is one rental contract away.

“Unfortunately, I think I’ll probably be sleeping at work,” JR says.

I nod. “Then it’s probably best you live close for when you need to shower.” I laugh, knowing I already have him and his type pegged. “We’re going to start with my favorite building, because why waste precious time with runners-up? Isn’t it the Wall Street types who always say ‘time is money’?”

JR nods, and Tyler leans over and whispers, “Nice pitch.” It sounds sarcastic and I can feel my body tensing. I make a fist. Why does this guy have this effect on me?

Relax, I say to myself, unclenching my fingers.

I sigh and play with my diamond ring, pretending it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Tyler watches me. “Lottie’s getting married in Italy,” he says to JR. He has a good memory . . . unfortunately.

JR checks out my hand. “Congrats,” he says. “It’s a nice ring, but I know of this designer guy, if you’re ever looking for an upgrade. His stuff is one of a kind.”

Tyler chuckles. “Thanks for the hard sell, brother, but she’s not the type of girl who likes my rings.”

For a moment, I’m offended. But then I realize he’s right. “We all have our types,” I say, shrugging. Like my type is the British guy who asked me out yesterday before finding out I was engaged. My type is the opposite of Tyler.

“Here’s the building,” I say, pointing up to a fifty-seven-story Art Deco building. “It’s 20 Exchange. I’ve had two friends who lived here and loved it. ‘Top-notch,’ as my grandpa would say.” I head for the front doors. “Let’s go check out this unit. It’s not even officially listed.” I shrug. “I’m sure it won’t last a day once it is, so we need to move on this fast. But I know someone who knows someone, and it’ll be available for move-in next week.”

JR does some stretches. “I’m not sure my back can handle seven more days of Tyler’s couch.”

“Hey,” I say. “If you rent this place, I’ll give you the name of my masseur. He’ll fix your back.”

Tyler rolls his eyes. I’m glad JR is my client—not him.

“So when’s the big day?” JR asks as we ride the elevator.

“March fourth,” I lie. It’s getting easier. I can see why some people do this all the time. It’s a memory muscle. It gets stronger with time.

“Don’t worry, little bro,” Tyler says to JR and winks. “Plenty of other pretty girls in this city.”

Did Tyler just call me pretty? I bite the inside of my cheek. I read that it keeps you from blushing. If I were actually engaged, I might be offended that Tyler’s sort of hitting on a taken woman. And doesn’t he have a girlfriend? Like one who could walk down the catwalk, possibly wearing wings and a diamond bra? Although based on his speech last night, I can’t imagine he’s very faithful.

Strike 500 for Tyler. Even though he called me pretty, which hasn’t happened in a long time. I bite my cheek again when I feel my face begin to warm.

We step out of the elevator. “Lucky floor seven,” I say. “There’s going to be stellar views from up here.”

JR shrugs. “I’m just enjoying breathing. Tyler’s place is a fourth-floor walk-up. Having an elevator is like riding on a magic carpet.”

Tyler shrugs. “Okay, Aladdin, but my building has character.”

I can tell he’s passively knocking this place, and the last thing I need is a Negative Ned wingman whispering into my client’s ear. This is exactly why I prefer to meet clients alone. Wingmen might help at a bar, but they are dead weight when it comes to helping rent a place. Too much chirping in my client’s ear.

“While it’s hard to believe since it’s so thoroughly updated, 20 Exchange is actually on the National Register of Historic Places. It was built in 1931,” I casually mention as I open the door. This way I’m hard-selling the place whether JR likes new or old, and I’m keeping his brother from influencing him.

“Let’s check out the bedroom first,” I say, walking through the small entryway to the back of the apartment. With single guys, I always start with the bedroom. Like I said, getting someone to even think of sex sells.

I walk the brothers through the bedroom. “Room in here for a king,” I comment, adding a wink for the double meaning

Tyler groans at my joke but I don’t make eye contact. He’s not my audience. I continue on: “Plus, there’s a cave of a walk-in closet. A bear could hibernate in here—not that guys care about that,” I add.

JR laughs, but I can tell he’s eyeing the closet and its large size. Based on the way he’s dressed, he’s a total clothes horse. While he might not admit out loud to wanting a walk-in closet, especially not in front of his big brother, I can tell by his grin that he’s pleased.

It’s important to notice what your clients want, but don’t—or won’t—say out loud.

Tyler nudges him. “Perfect place to house all your pastel polos.” He pauses and looks out the bedroom window to the backdrop of towering skyscrapers. He turns back around toward me. “I’ll admit it has a nice view, Lottie.”

“It’s a sick view, bro,” JR corrects him. “I can’t believe I can actually afford this place.”

“It’s actually three hundred under your price limit,” I say. “I might be able—with some negotiating—to get another hundred dollars a month knocked off too. Maybe.”

“A girl who likes to make a deal,” JR says. “I like it.”

Now I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“It’s 2017, little bro,” Tyler says. “Girls rule the world. Let’s go check out that updated kitchen that you’re never going to use.”

We head to the kitchen, which is completely brand new. The appliances are the coveted stainless steel that every couple on House Hunters gushes over, and the cabinets are white with silver hardware. It’s the exact look everyone wants these days. I don’t even have to launch into my “I know cherry wood is on the verge of making a comeback” bullshit spiel.

“It’s pretty nice,” I admit.

“Nice?” Tyler says. “You need to spend more time in Williamsburg, honey. This place looks like Martha Stewart’s kitchen. I might have to train JR over here to cook.”

“You like to cook?” I ask.

“He’s scary good,” JR says. “That’s the only reason that I could bear to live in his place so long. He makes our mom’s cooking seem pedestrian. He’s one of those people with an annoying amount of talent.”

“Thanks, little bro,” Tyler says.

“I said ‘annoying,’ ” JR clarifies.

Tyler is—well, surprising. And apparently, very good with his hands.

“Does your fiancé cook?” Tyler asks, which whips me back into the moment and the fact that I’m masquerading as an engaged woman just to get a commission.

“Not really,” I say. “Too busy.” I’ve never actually dated a guy that could cook. That’s a rare breed in New York. It’s on my dream checklist for a guy, but not a total deal breaker.

Sale, Lottie. Focus on the sale. Then I can drop the ball—the diamond ring. And the chain—Tyler.

“So, JR, do you need to see the five-thousand-square-foot gym or the sun deck? Or are you already sold?”

“I’m completely sold,” he answers. “I can look them up online anyways.”

“Just like that, little brother . . . ,” Tyler says, eyebrows raised. “Damn. You’re easy. You don’t want to see other places?”

“Hey, when you know, you know,” I say, reaching out to shake JR’s hand. I’m not going to let Tyler ruin this sale for me.

“Whatever,” Tyler says, slapping JR on the back. “At least I’ll get my couch back. I’ll probably need to disinfect it, though.”

JR shoves Tyler and they both laugh.

“We can meet up tomorrow to do all the paperwork,” I say. “The leasing office isn’t open today.”

JR shakes his head. “No can do. My first day is tomorrow. I can’t leave work. Can we do it via phone or email?”

I pull out the lease from my folder as we take the elevator down to the lobby. I’m always prepared for the yes. “If you fill this out and drop it by the leasing office tomorrow with a check, I can handle the details from there.”

JR looks at Tyler, who sighs knowingly. “Yes, I guess I can drop it off for you tomorrow.” He shrugs. “Being the big brother sucks,” he says with a smile.

Mia and Jane were right. He’s a handsome Mr. Darcy, even if he is a total doofus. Of course, I’m admiring him strictly from a not-my-type perspective. Like how I can enjoy visiting the MoMA but still not want to hang up a Pollock in my bedroom.

Business, Lottie. Back to business.

“Can you do it by ten a.m.?” I ask Tyler.

He nods. “That works. I usually do my best work after noon anyway.”

Artists are lucky to be able to talk like that.

“That’s funny,” I say. “I do my best work when I’m working.”

Tyler actually laughs. His laugh is jolly. More Santa Claus than hipster.

“I guess I asked for that,” he concedes.

I nod.

“Good one,” JR adds, holding his hand up for a high five.

I awkwardly reach up and high-five him. I can feel Tyler’s eyes on me and I nearly miss. Somehow, Tyler’s presence makes me feel all uncoordinated.

Tyler wags his finger at JR. “Watch it, bro. You’re still living on my couch.”

We head to the front door, pausing before going outside. “You should see his studio sometime,” JR says. “Girls find it alluring. All the metal, jewels, and stones.”

Tyler elbows JR. “Okay, okay, let Lottie get back to her soon-to-be husband. We can go out to dinner and celebrate your fancy place. And you’re paying, deep pockets.” Holding the door open for me, Tyler adds, “Thanks, Lottie, for helping me give the little bird a push from his nest. Have a good afternoon with your fiancé. Tell him thanks for letting us steal you away for a little bit.”

I nod and give my best fake smile. “Thank you, guys,” I say. “I appreciate the referral, Tyler, and I think you’ll be very happy here, JR.” I turn to leave.

“Lottie,” Tyler calls out as I open the door. He saunters over and holds it for me.

“Thanks,” I say. I guess he has his moments.

“Tell your fiancé to cook for you sometime,” he says in a low voice. “You shouldn’t get married without knowing what someone’s like in the”—he pauses—kitchen.”

He smirks after catching himself.

I twist my hair around my finger, which is a childhood habit that I worked hard to outgrow.

I’m not sure what he’s trying to do. He’s certainly something else. I unwind my hair from my finger. “Take care of yourself, Tyler,” I say.

I walk onto the deserted block, think back to my empty apartment, and get a bit sad that the waiting fiancé is all a lie.

I feel my phone vibrate.

It’s a text from Elsa May.

“Heard you had quite the weekend. Know you’re working so you haven’t seen . . . but Ansell got engaged. It’s all over Facebook. Know you said you were done, but we need to do another one for Mia, bless her heart. Next Friday. Last one. Promise.”

I sigh and turn off my phone. I know that I can’t say no to that. It took Mia months to unglue herself from the couch after she found out Ansell was cheating on her. And she still really hasn’t recovered. While she’s constantly messaging with some new guy, she always ghosts before anything real can happen. I sigh loudly. I can’t let her go into her hole again, even if that does mean doing another faux bachelorette party.

I pull the engagement ring off my finger and place it carefully into the small zip pocket inside my purse. I’m glad it will be someone else pretending this time.