“How’s Monday at twelve thirty?”
My forehead wrinkled. “Umm… Twelve thirty is fine.”
“Okay. Would Café Luce on Fifty-Third work? Is that too far for you? Do you live here in the City?”
My eyes bulged. She wanted to meet in person? I’d assumed she meant she was going to pencil me into her calendar for an email or a call.
“Yes, I live in the City. And Café Luce sounds good.”
“Perfect! It’s a date. Thanks, Stella! I can’t wait to meet you.”
Ten seconds later, the line was dead. I stared at my phone. Fisher had been watching the entire conversation play out on my face.
“Who was that?” he said.
“Olivia Royce.”
“And she is?”
“The bride whose wedding we crashed.”
***
The next day, I arrived twenty minutes early at the coffee shop. Ben had wanted to pick me up for our date, but I preferred to meet people I didn’t know well in public so I was always in full control of when I could leave. I bought a decaf latte and took a seat on a couch off to the side of the counter. My local coffeehouse always had newspapers and magazines for people to browse while they drank their overpriced coffees, so I picked up The New York Times and started to flip through the Sunday Style section. Halfway through, I froze when I saw a photo. After blinking a few times to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, I lifted the paper closer to read the announcement.
Olivia Paisley Rothschild and Mason Brighton Royce were married on July 13th at the New York Public Library in Manhattan. The Rev. Arthur Finch, an Episcopal priest, officiated.
Mrs. Royce, 28, whom the groom calls Livi, is a vice president of marketing. She graduated from the University of Pennsylvania and received an MBA from Columbia.
She is the daughter of Charlotte Bianchi Rothschild and Cooper E. Rothschild, both deceased, from New York City. The wedding was hosted by her brother, Hudson Rothschild.
Mr. Royce, also 28, founded his own IT firm and specializes in security and compliance. He graduated from the University of Boston and received an MS in Information Technology from NYU.
I couldn’t believe I’d stumbled on their wedding announcement. What were the chances? I hadn’t read the Sunday New York Times in years, so it felt like a freaky coincidence. Fisher always said if you put positive thoughts out there, positive things would come back to you. That might explain this. I’d certainly done enough thinking over the last week and a half about a certain man who had asked for my number, but then never called.
Earlier this week, I’d been flipping through the channels and happened to pass Dancing with the Stars. Even though I never watched it, for some reason I kept it on. When the couples slow danced, I reminisced about how it had felt to be in Hudson’s arms at his sister’s wedding. That had led to me remembering how much rhythm he’d had, which in turn made my mind wander to other things his good rhythm might be helpful with. Then, on Friday night when Fisher came over after work, he’d brought me a bottle of Hendricks gin. It reminded me of the way my arms had broken out in goose bumps when Hudson whispered in my ear, “The night’s young, Evelyn. Dance with me.”
I’d never in a million years expected him to ask me out when I showed up with my tail between my legs at his office to pick up my phone. But once he did, I’d let my imagination run away with itself. I’d even put off my second date with Ben. But after spending more than a week waiting for my phone to ring, I finally realized it was dumb to avoid a perfectly nice guy—one who had called multiple times—just because another guy might possibly dial my number.
Ben walked in a few minutes before the time we were supposed to meet. I took one last glance at the wedding photo in the newspaper before closing it. I was determined to not ruin my date by letting thoughts of another man sneak in.
“Hey.” Ben kissed me on the lips.
It was only our second kiss, since our first had been at the end of our last date, but it was nice enough. There was no tingle, and goose bumps didn’t run down my arms or anything, but we were in the middle of a coffee shop, so what did I expect? When Ben pulled back, he handed me a box of Godiva chocolate I hadn’t noticed in his hand. “I was going to get you flowers, but I figured you’d have to carry them with you all night. This you can probably toss in your purse.”
I smiled. “That’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you so much.”
“I made a reservation at a steak house. After, if you’re up for it, there’s a comedy club next door with an open-mic night tonight.”