I look forward to the day I’m not a hashtag.

A little later, we reach Geneva’s block.

“I feel a little guilty going in there,” Summer says softly.

“Because it’s a charade?”

She smiles softly. “Yes, to be honest.”

“Same here. I guess I’m not as Machiavellian as I thought.”

“Did you think you were?”

“I’m a lawyer. I have to be a little Machiavellian. The ends justify the means and all.” I puff up my chest and put on my best dickhead voice. “I’m an asshole. I can do this.”

She laughs, then her laughter fades. “But in this case, I do think the end justifies the means. Maybe I’m Machiavellian.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I think it’s stupid that you were judged for what I said. I think it’s stupid, too, that I judged you for being”—she waves her hand at me—“for being pretty.”

I flutter my hand across my chest. “I’ve always wanted to be pretty.”

“You know what I mean. It’s ridiculous. Society judges women based on looks, and, frankly, on a million other things too. And then we turn around and judge other people. The internet judged you. Your client judged you for a letter I wrote about how awesome you are.” She’s winding herself up, building a head of steam. “It’s insane. I mean, so what if you had truly broken my heart. Does that mean you’re a bad lawyer?”

“Probably means I’m a good lawyer.”

“But see, that’s the thing—the letter was supposed to be a thank you,” she says, turning to me, touching my arm. “It was supposed to be between us.”

I take a breath, thinking carefully before I say the next thing. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

She’s quiet, the cogs in her brain whirring. “Because I don’t think I realized what it was at the time. I wrote it from the heart, and it felt like a secret, something only we would know.”

Her confession feels like the true secret. She’s telling me something private, something meaningful.

I stroke her hair, tucking some strands behind her ear. “Then next time, just tell me.”

She raises her hand to clutch my wrist, but not like she’s stopping me—more like she’s clinging to me. “I’ll do that. I promise. And I’m glad you’re not mad at me.”

I lean in closer, press my forehead to hers. “Do you want me to pretend I am? To fake being mad?”

She laughs. “Don’t fake that. I’m sorry you have to play this game because of me.”

But maybe I don’t mind the game after all. I slide my hand down her hair, savoring the softness, and consider saying fuck the world and kissing her.

Instead, I let go.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m having a blast with you. Let’s go inside and fake it—and give her this infernal cookie-batter hostess gift.”

Once inside, we give Geneva the batter, which delights her.

“I’ve never had someone bring me cookie batter,” she says, her eyes shifting from Summer to me. “I suspect this is your fiancée’s doing.”

“It absolutely is.”

We mingle with her guests, as well as Jane, and I feel nothing but honest as I take Summer’s hand, thread my fingers through hers, and introduce her as my fiancée.

She looks like she belongs to me.

She feels like she belongs to me.

And when I hold her hand during the cocktail hour, I don’t think anyone can tell otherwise.

Geneva introduces me to some of the other partners at her media firm. “This is my attorney, Oliver Harris. He’s tops at contracts and business, and he looks out for me like a tiger,” she says. “And this is his fiancée, Summer.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Summer says to a tall woman with horn-rimmed glasses.

“And you as well,” the woman answers. “How long have you two been engaged?”

“Two weeks.” Summer gives the story that we practiced after the bacon-wine almost-fiasco.

“Congrats. And when is the wedding?” the inquisitor continues.

“In ten months,” she says, squeezing my hand. “We’re getting married in Central Park. We’ve always loved it there.”

“Right.” I pitch to sell our story. “We had our first kiss there.”

“Oh, how romantic,” Geneva puts in. “Where in Central Park?”

Summer meets my gaze, her brown eyes twinkling. “By the carousel.” She touches my arm. “Do you remember what I said in high school about kissing at that spot?”

My mind is a blank—a white slate of nothing. Then, like the sun rising, the memory returns. “Right. On one of our visits there. You said you wanted your first real kiss to be there. And I just laughed.”

“Why did you laugh?” Geneva asks curiously.

I don’t look at Geneva. I look at Summer and speak the truth. “Because I knew then, on some level, I wanted her first kiss to be with me.”

“Ohh! That’s so lovely.” Geneva clasps her hands to her chest. The other woman coos.

And Summer just smiles at me, only me. “I wanted it to be you too.”

I have no choice. I step closer, sweep my lips across hers, and kiss her the way I want to now.

Well, not entirely. I’d like to kiss her with no one else around. But here in the middle of a dinner party, I’ll take this.

Nothing about it feels fake. Not the gust of breath that escapes her lips. Not the slightest murmur she gives. And not how she responds.