Enzo catches someone’s eye and points to a dapper man in a suit. “I must go talk to Carlos about a painting.”

“Oh yes, the one that reminds us of an Edward Hopper. Get it for us.”

He makes a growling sound at her, as if this art acquisition is part of their foreplay. “Consider it done.”

He heads off, and Valerie cocks her head, her brown eyes locked with mine. “Now, tell me stuff. I want to know more about you. I’m so fascinated by your job. I absolutely love hearing about all sorts of new professions.”

But now isn’t the time to spill the details that clients don’t need to know. “There’s not really much to tell. It’s a simple job,” I say, lying through my teeth, because it’s completely complicated. “You find me, you hire me, I do a job.” I subscribe to the less-is-more approach.

“Yes, I know that. I hired you. Because I wanted more groomsmen. Because Enzo doesn’t know many people here in New York yet. But I’m not interested in my story. I’m interested in yours. Tell me how you came to be in this field, because I doubt you were trying to imitate Kevin Hart from that film.”

I push out a laugh. “You’re correct. I started before that movie came out. I can write the hell out of a best man’s speech. That’s how I got started.”

But that’s not enough for Valerie. She asks where I’m from, and since that’s innocuous enough, I tell her just outside of London. We chat about the neighborhoods in that city, also a safe topic.

“London is one of my favorite cities. I find it so much more civilized to attend the theater in London.”

“I can’t say I disagree. The relative lack of ticket scalpers does help the civility there.”

“In general, you can’t beat the politeness in England. I do enjoy good manners.”

I chuckle. “Manners are pretty cool.”

She narrows her eyes as if studying me. “There’s something about you that feels so familiar.”

A doubt of worry shoots down my spine. Was it my manners comment? That can’t possibly be enough to give anything away. Surely I can’t be the only writer/blogger/podcaster/media expert who gives a damn about manners. I’ve worked hard to keep my worlds separate—fake names on this side, no photos on the other. I work in a business where privacy and discretion are critical. “I’m sure I sound familiar because, well, I probably just sound like Daniel Craig,” I say, doing my best to keep the answer light and airy.

She shakes her finger at me, a sly smile sneaking across her face as she gestures to her ear. “But I swear I can hear something else in your voice. Something in the way you speak, in your command of words and the things you say about cities and life, and men and women.”

My muscles tighten, and I weigh my best options. Run and hide behind the bar for the rest of the night and hope she won’t find me, or deny, deny, deny.

“After a while, all Englishmen sound the same, I suspect.”

She snaps her fingers. “I know. Did I meet you at Ryder Lockhart’s⁠—”

I go cold everywhere. Ice freezes in my veins. Walker’s warning rings loud and terrifyingly close. Someday, you’re going to be waxing eloquent on the radio about how to land a promotion, and when you leave, the guy down the hall will remember the toast you gave at some wedding as Jay the best man, or Jackson or Jackoff.

Or the reverse, I’m learning.

“His ping-pong match. He’s a business associate of mine. Weren’t you there? I swear I saw you there.”

I breathe again, grateful to tell the whole truth when I say, “You should see my ping-pong game. It’s total rubbish. Must have been someone else.”

She drums her fingers against the bar. “Perhaps.”

But the fact that she’s friends with him underscores the bigger issue. I need to move on my exit plan, and I need to move fast.

I can’t shake the feeling that planets are on a collision course tonight. Even as I chat with Truly, Enzo, and other guests at the party, I can’t completely let go of that encounter.

Troy seems to sense my unease, and he pulls me aside. “You’re distracted. What’s going on? Whatever it is, you can’t let it get to you right now. It’s showtime.”

He’s right. Damn it. He’s absolutely right. I’m letting this worry knock me off my game. “It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s something. Will talking about it help?”

“I actually don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sometimes things are better when you talk about them.”

I drag a hand through my hair, then serve it up in a whisper. “I think Enzo’s fiancée is starting to draw the connections. I think she knows what I do in my other job.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“I want to keep everything separate.”

“Why?”

“How would it look? My work depends on me being credible and trustworthy. If someone like Ryder finds out I’m a paid friend, how would that look?”

“Like you’re a man making a living. Like you’re figuring out how to chase your dreams and pay your bills. Isn’t that what your schtick is all about? Helping men be the best?”

“Yes, but . . .”

He clasps my shoulder. “You need to remember you’re not dealing drugs, you’re not running illegal pit bull fights, and you’re not sex trafficking. You’re helping people have the wedding of their dreams. I feel like that’s exactly what a modern gentleman would do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go play that role, and you should let this all go.”

He weaves his way back into the crowd, saying hi, making conversation, and playing the part to a T. Perhaps I’ve trained him better than I thought.

I make my way back to Truly, deciding to follow Troy’s advice. What’s the worst that could happen? What is Valerie going to do? Out me before her entire wedding? Declare for everyone here that Jay the best man is actually Jason Reynolds, the Modern Gentleman? What good would that do?

Later, I raise a glass, give a toast, and say a brief speech about Enzo, ending it with “And what is most lovely of all is to see two people who support each other, who care deeply for each other, and who have shared passions. That’s what I see when I look at Enzo and Valerie.”

As I lock eyes with Truly, my heart seems to expand beyond the space allotted in my chest. The way she looks at me, the way I see so much of my future in her eyes, is all I need to shed whatever remaining worries are setting up camp. Everything is going to be fine. How could anything be less than fine when my woman looks at me like she feels the same damn way?

When the event is over, I take her hand, bring her close, and say, “Come home with me tonight.”

“I’m already there.”

On the way home we have the safety talk. She tells me she’s on the pill, and I want to kiss the sky. I’m going to take my time with her tonight, to savor every bare inch of her.

At my apartment, we’re not fevered and frenzied. We don’t strip in a mad rush, and I don’t bend her over the couch. I put on music, bring her to my bed, and undress her slowly, then lay her out before me. After I take off my clothes, she pulls me to her, whispering, “Get in my system. Because that’s where you are.”

She’s not saying she’s falling for me. But I know this woman—she won’t jump first. I have to.