Charlotte: But what was I right about? Was it that a wedding would make you relapse? About the number of days it took? Or how hard it would be to resist him?

Truly: All of the above. And it was out of this world. We’re talking mind-bending Os.

Charlotte: Mmm. Best kind to have. Also, I’m shocked. So shocked. Here’s my shocked face. *sends selfie of shocked face*

Truly: Yes, I can see from the blank expression that it’s a HUGE surprise to you.

Charlotte: You’re into him, you went to a wedding, you were in a limo. Doesn’t take a world-class detective to add up the clues. But I suppose it’s sorta maybe kinda cool to know that the second time was excellent? Yay to good sex and all. :)

Truly: I love that you’re trying to see the positive in me breaking a promise a second time.

Charlotte: I’m upbeat like that. Also, stop beating yourself up. You’re still a good person underneath that horny-for-Jason exterior.

Truly: Shut up!

Charlotte: I’m just saying. I still love you.

Truly: And I still love you . . . but it would have been nice if the sex was terrible.

Charlotte: Really? Would it really have been nice to have awful sex?

Truly: YES! Because if it had been terrible, I wouldn't be thinking about him all the time. I wouldn't want to do it again or have wanted to invite him over to my house last night. If it were terrible, I wouldn’t be wide awake at seven in the morning wishing that things were different.

Charlotte: What exactly do you wish were different?

Truly: That’s what I’m trying to figure out.

28

“How do I look? As good as, say, when I did the Gigante ad?”

I draw a blank as I consider Enzo’s reflection in the mirror at the tuxedo shop. Gigante—what the hell is that? A Spanish brand of tequila? Some new make of cigarettes from Barcelona? Or perhaps condoms for the fellas for whom jumbo is a tight squeeze?

I finesse my answer. After all, he is a supermodel, so I’m sure there’s only one answer to his question. “Better. You look even better.”

He arches a brow, giving me a come-hither look that I don’t think contains any emotion but is, rather, one of his cache of expressions. Open a bureau, pick a look from a drawer. “Excellent. Then I’d say I look pretty fucking fabulous. At least, that’s what they all said when I posed in my underwear for Gigante. You should have seen the billboards. But the traffic accidents. I still feel terrible for all the accidents caused when people stopped to stare.”

Ah, Gigante is underwear. I should have known that. I’ll berate myself later for not prepping with a complete list of underwear brands worn by supermodels.

“That’s a shame,” I say. “But hey, hazard of the job, right?”

“My God, yes. One time when I was crossing Fifth Avenue, a woman tripped and nearly fell into a manhole from ogling me.”

“Who knew the risk to society you could be as a superstar model?”

“I caught her just in time though. I didn’t want to have that on my conscience.”

“I bet you made her swoon when you caught her.”

He flashes his ten-million-dollar grin. “I did. But I’d already met Valerie, so I was a taken man. Valerie and I met on my undies shoot. She’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“Yeah, about that. Can I give you a tip about undies?”

“Of course.” His brown eyes go wide and earnest. Enzo contains an interesting mix of Royal Caribbean cruise ship–size confidence and a doe-eyed desire to learn. Then again, anyone who looks like this man really ought to have universe-level stores of bravado. I don’t care for lads, not one bit, and I never have. But I can tell he’s not made like the rest of us. He’s not even in the top one percent. He’s the one percent of the one percent of the one percent, with cheekbones carved by a hundred vestal virgins and eyes that would Svengali anyone into anything. I bet he could even charm a lion into becoming a vegetarian with a single smoldering look.

Or convince men to buy skin-tight briefs. Come to think of it, the way his backside looks in those trousers, I bet his ass was sculpted by the same crew who did his cheeks. But there’s still one thing about this man that is not going to make women swoon, no matter the firmness of those abs.

“Here’s my tip: don’t call them undies. You’re in America now, and clearly you’re a rock star at the language. But sometimes we need to master the lingo too. Even I’ve had to adapt. All I want to do is call them pants, but no one would understand me. It’s either boxers or briefs here.”

“Ah, boxers or briefs. But what about when I wear nothing? What do you call that?”

I go stock-still for a second. But of course. It makes perfect sense. Naturally Enzo, the six-foot-two, twenty-six-year-old Spanish model who recently moved from Madrid to New York City to marry Valerie Wu, the nearly-twice-his-age CEO of a media and advertising conglomerate, walks around in the buff. “We call that commando. But please tell me you’re not wearing nothing right now as you try on the tux?”

He gives me an eyebrow wriggle. “Wouldn’t you like to see?”

“No, I actually wouldn’t.”

He laughs then clasps my shoulder, doubling over. “Oh, the look on your face. I wound you up. Don’t worry. I have on pants too. Right?”

I wag a finger at him. “You took the piss out of me. Also, I’d say you’re ready for the wedding next weekend.”

He regards himself one final time in the mirror, shooting approving looks at his reflection. And those must be from the give-them-sex-eyes drawer. “Valerie will probably want to jump me the second she sees me. But she always wants to jump me. That’s a nice thing about women of a certain age. In fact,” he says, picking up his phone and checking the screen, “she’ll be here in a minute.”

“To jump you?”

“Please. She’d never do that in a store. Probably in her town car, though, and I’ll look forward to that. But she’s on her way, since I sent her a selfie after I tried it on and she wants to see me in this in the flesh. Selfies of me make her happy, and I want a happy bride.”

A few minutes later, a statuesque woman with striking cheekbones sweeps into the tux shop, red Jackie O shades perched atop her waterfall of silky black hair, flashing smiles at the sales associates.

“Hello. Good morning, Delia. Don’t you look dashing, Simon? That suit fits perfectly. And that tie! Do you sell it here? I’ll take one of each. Thank you so very much. Add it to my account.”

She arrives at the dressing room area, brown eyes taking a leisurely stroll up and down her fiancé’s body. “Yes. Just as I suspected. Even better than the photo.”

“I had a feeling you might think so.”

“And I’ve already added the photo to my private collection.”

“Of course you have. I knew you would. I know you so well,” he says, his tone laced with affection, his gaze only for her.

“You know I love to look at them when you’re away in Bali, in Paris, in Milan, and I’m left behind all by my lonesome,” she pouts playfully, her eyes only on him.

He chuckles. “You make it seem like you’re left behind to make casseroles.”

“As if I’d even touch an oven. How do they work? You use them to cook food?”

He laughs, clearly delighted with her. “I believe so. But the phone and all the wonderful apps on it do that just the same. So you can run your empire while I am away from you.”

“And that’s why I love when you indulge me with my favorite photos.” Valerie and Enzo share a secret smile, then she spins around. “Where are my manners? It’s a pleasure to meet you in person at last . . .”