I relaxed; I had almost forgotten how charming she could be with new people.

It took only one round of champagne for Sam to convince Carmen that Patrón wouldn’t be a bad idea at all, but I opted out. As they ordered the shots from the bartender, I saw Peter guiding his rail-thin platinum-blond wife through the crowd. I willed myself not to stare, but my eyes would not oblige. She was even more striking than when I had seen her at Benihana. I took in the red soles of her black patent pumps and the indented delineation of muscle between her calf and shin along her outer leg—the line I’d never been able to achieve even when I’d worked out a few times a week. She’s perfect, I thought. They’re the perfect couple.

“Wait!” I yelled. Sam and Carmen stopped mid-cheers. “Sam, just come meet Peter and his wife so we can thank them for the ski weekend, and then I promise you can drink whatever you want.”

Sam nodded, and I watched him make an effort to look sincere. I beckoned for Carmen to come with us, but she vehemently shook her head.

“I’ll be here,” she said, turning back to the bar.

“We’ll be just a minute,” I promised Carmen as I pulled Sam behind me by the wrist and we caught up to the Dunns.

“Peter, I wanted you to meet my boyfriend, Sam.”

“Hi there!” Peter extended his hand, and I cringed as I watched him take in Sam’s blazer. “And this is my wife, Marcie.” We all shook hands, Marcie meeting my enthusiastic grin with a wan smile.

“Mini brie and fig tartlet?” A tray was thrust into the middle of our foursome.

Sam popped one in his mouth, and I politely declined. Peter took one, but his wife gave a small shake of her head, her thick blond hair sweeping her shoulders. She was exactly what I thought of when I heard the word statuesque: beautiful but frigid. Her skin was impossibly taut. Her nose, delicate. Her lips, plump. She wasn’t a natural beauty and had certainly been nipped and tucked over the years, but she was unarguably beautiful. The quintessential wife of a partner—plastic, but perfect.

“So nice to meet both of you. And we just wanted to say thank you again for lending us your Killington house. It was the nicest getaway.” I nudged Sam.

“Yes, thanks!” he added, swallowing the last bit of tartlet as he spoke.

“You have the loveliest home,” I said to Marcie. She smiled graciously but said nothing, the way only truly rich and elegant women can do without seeming rude.

Another tray appeared. “Shrimp cocktail?” I felt the wine resting in my stomach, so I took two shrimp, and Peter and Sam followed my lead.

“Excuse me just a moment,” Marcie said. “Pleasure to meet you both.” Then she turned away, her eyes focused on something at the far end of the ballroom.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed the house,” Peter said. “We never get up there, so somebody might as well use it.”

“Yeah, it’s a great spot,” Sam said flatly, fidgeting with his lone blazer button, now looking uncomfortable with his choice of attire.

“Did you ski?” Peter asked, taking a sip of the auburn liquid in his stout crystal glass.

“I was so tired after that closing that we did almost nothing. We totally wasted the weekend,” I answered. Because Sam didn’t want to do anything fun, I refrained from adding. He just wanted to talk and eat and stay in pajamas. No nice dinners out. No good wine. No skiing.

“I aspire to waste a weekend someday,” Peter said, then patted the puffy half-moon under his right eye with a fingertip. “Wait to have kids,” he said to us with a short laugh. For the first time, I wondered if he was happy in his perfect-looking life.

“Hey, Skippy!” Matt had suddenly joined our group, given me a side hug, and slapped Peter’s back. I saw Peter tense his shoulders, but his face remained placid.

“Matt, this is my boyfriend, Sam. Sam, Matt Jaskel.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” Matt slurred, shaking his hand. “Skippy, you excited for tomorrow?”

“What’s tomorrow? Aside from a hangover on a Friday?” I sipped at my drink.

“So, just a normal Friday?” Peter smirked, and we clinked glasses.

“Bonus day!” Matt cheered. “The firm never announces it in advance, so people don’t complain if it’s a day late or something.”

“Holy shit! I figured we wouldn’t get them until January!” I exclaimed.

“I’m going to get a refill,” Sam announced, taking off toward the bar.

“Where’s Marcie?” Matt panned the room in slow motion.

“Off doing what she does best—hobnobbing with management.” Peter cocked his head toward his wife, chatting with Mike Baccard, who was wearing a double-breasted pinstripe suit and horn-rimmed glasses. I had only seen his picture on the bottom of press releases and in the firm Facebook, but never seen him in person. He had classic male-pattern baldness and, at well over six feet tall, a commanding presence, in a room full of people with presence.

“Can I give you a piece of advice?” Matt asked. I nodded. “You and Sam have a joint checking account, right?”

Peter coughed, looking uncomfortable, and I shook my head. “Why would you think that we do?”

“Because his eyes lit up when I mentioned your bonus.”

Had they? That didn’t seem like him. I bit my lower lip. “So what’s your advice?”

“Take half your bonus and be practical. Pay off loans, put it in savings, pay your bills. Whatever. Take a quarter and leave it in your checking account.” He paused and smiled at me. “And take a quarter and blow it on yourself. Only yourself.”

“That’s good advice,” Peter agreed stiffly. My eyes bounced from Peter to Matt. Remembering what Jordan had mentioned about their personal relationship, the tension between them was suddenly obvious to me.

“I want those,” Matt announced as he left us and stalked over to a server balancing a silver platter on his palm.

Watching Matt throw his drink down his throat before taking a lamb chop, Peter and I stood in silence, but I felt his energy pulling at me. I had spent so much time around him and on the phone with him lately that I’d assumed my attraction to him must have dissipated, but I realized then that it had only been hidden temporarily by documents and deadlines. I just met his wife! I reminded myself. I should not be thinking about him like this. But without the pressure of an immediate deal-related deadline, the tension and the tingling had reappeared at the base of my spine.

“Matt’s enjoying himself,” I said, trying desperately to distract myself from the warmth spreading through my abdomen.

Peter shrugged. “Matt never used to drink. This place is strange. You develop a reputation, right or wrong, and then people sort of make you into it. Everybody now expects Matt to party. He’s like a caricature of himself. I guess we all are.”

I watched a group of my fellow junior associates surround Matt, who gesticulated wildly while he narrated whatever story he was telling and they all threw their heads back in laughter.

“All of us?” I asked Peter.

He locked his eyes with mine, throwing me off balance again.

“Carmen’s the tough one, Kevin is the sweet one, Derrick is the out-of-control one. All the partners identify you guys by an adjective for convenience’s sake. But it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

I opened my mouth to speak but closed it, needing to swallow down the anxiety that came from knowing I was about to train Peter’s discerning eye on myself.

“Which one am I?” I asked.

“Skippy,” Peter answered, as though it were obvious.

“No. I mean, what’s my adjective?”

“That is your adjective. Prissy, proper, perfect, ready for the country club,” he goaded, allowing a smile to creep into the corners of his mouth.

“That’s not me at all!” I protested.

“No?” He raised an eyebrow.

“What are you?” I asked.

Peter thought for a moment. “Happy,” he said flatly, draining his scotch. “I need air. Come.” He didn’t look at me, just turned and walked toward the exit. My heart thudded as I scanned the ballroom. Carmen was watching me intently as Sam ordered another drink at the bar. He must be at least four drinks in by now, I thought. I held up one finger to her, indicating I’d be right back, as I followed Peter down the plush carpeted hallway. There was a brief moment of silence, with nobody in front of me to navigate past, when I contemplated running back into the safe cacophony of the ballroom, with its deal talk, small talk, and slurred words.