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When I rendezvous with Charlie across the room, he looks pleased. “Neatly done.”
“Just earning my keep,” I reply, biting back a curious question about what, exactly, went down between them.
None of my business, I remind myself, and focus on more important things, like dinner.
The meal is delicious but served in tiny, delicate portions. We listen to toasts and watch first dances, before I excuse myself for a quick bathroom break and makeup check.
Also, boob-exposure check.
When I emerge from the stall, I nearly trip over someone. There’s a woman about my age, bent over to study something on her elegant slingback heels. I wash my hands, intent on minding my own business. But she groans in frustration, making eye contact. “The buckle broke! Can you believe it? They’re brand new!”
“Let’s see here,” I say, opening my bag. “I have some extremely adhesive boob tape. Might work in a pinch.”
“Would you mind? I can’t go hobbling around all night.”
“No problem.” I crouch down, wrapping the tape in a few tight loops. The girl moves her ankle delicately, trying it out.
“I think that’ll hold,” I announce. “Maybe not for vigorous dance moves, but at least for walking around.”
“Too bad,” she says, regretfully. “My fiancé’s a great dancer. So, you have the night off from Cinderella or something?”
I rise to my feet and give her a confused look. “Cinderella?”
“I assume you’re a fairy godmother of some kind,” she says with a cheeky grin.
“Almost,” I laugh. I snap my clutch shut. “Personal assistant. I deal more with complicated latte orders than glass slippers.”
“Well, you’re my hero. I was this close attempting a fix with chewing gum,” she admits. “I’m Poppy, by the way.”
“Grace.”
“I’ve got to tell you,” she says, gesturing at me, “You are completely rocking that dress.”
I flush at the flattery. “Thanks. It’s a little out of my comfort zone. Thus, the boob tape in my bag.”
We walk out of the bathroom together, swapping various fashion mishaps.
Back at the reception, Charlie’s holding two glasses and talking to a good-looking guy with dark hair. He hands me the gin and tonic, and I smile. “You remembered my order.”
“Impressed?” he teases, and I laugh.
“Wait, this is your date?” Poppy asks me, sizing up Charlie. Oh, no. Did I unwittingly bump into another ex?
“You know each other,” I ask cautiously, bracing myself for another papaya situation. But Poppy is still smiling, moving to stand with Charlie’s friend.
“Nice to see you too, Poppy,” Charlie says, grinning. Then, to me, “The New York hospitality scene is enormous and it’s also a small world. Dylan here owns a couple hotels.”
“And Grace,” Poppy tells Dylan, tugging up her hem to show off the taped-up shoe. “Is an angel of mercy who kept me from going barefoot at the Met.”
“Whatwould Bunny Collier-Huntington say?” Dylan jokes, in a prim voice. They all laugh.
“Is that a real person?” I ask.
They both nod solemnly. Then Poppy turns to Charlie. “You know a lot of people here, yes?”
“Yes…” he ventures, rightly sensing mischief.
“We don’t, really,” Poppy says with a gleam in her eyes. “So, let’s each try to guess a stranger’s name. If I’m totally wrong, I take a drink. If I get one name or initials, everyone drinks but me.”
