Page 172 of Over Her Dead Body

“What is it?”

“Something requiring a partner.”

I slide the folder back toward him.

He smiles.

I decide this is both a reminder that I wanted partnership and a deliberate attempt to ruin whatever personal life I might still have.

This is probably giving Owen too much credit for subtlety.

He leaves before I can throw anything.

I wait until he is gone before touching the folder again.

Partner.

I spent more than a decade wanting that word.

Now it is printed beside my name on an email signature, on the proof for new cards someone ordered without asking me, and apparently means Owen can put more work on my desk with a straight face.

Turns out dreams come with paperwork.

By six, I am home.

For the first time since I left for Vienna and ended up in Lisbon, there is nowhere else I am supposed to be.

My apartment looks exactly the way I left it.

I do not.

The wine in the refrigerator survived.

I pour a glass and take it to the sofa.

There is a message from Sarah waiting on my phone.

Sarah: Engagement party next Saturday. You’re coming.

And then because it’s Sarah, everything gets its own message.

Sarah: And you get a plus-one.

Then:

Sarah: I can’t wait to meet him!

I stare at the screen.

Nothing about the last week has prepared me to attend a celebration of Owen Mercer successfully responding to an ultimatum.

On the other hand, I have survived worse.

My dating app has accumulated messages from men I matched with before my life became international.

Pilates Todd wants to know whether I ever made it to Vienna.

Tax Todd has sent me an article about changes to charitable deductions with the note Thought of you.