Dater's Handbook. Cara Lockwood

the seventeenth,” I told Bob.

      “Invoice me, and we’ll get this started,” he said.

      “We’ll send you a confirmation by email. Thank you so much for your business. We appreciate it.” I did a little celebration dance on the inside. That deal could be huge!

      Dana quirked her head to one side, and I realized she didn’t know why I put off the delivery order by two days.

      “We’ll ship them on Wednesday and he’ll love us,” I said. “Can you make sure first thing Monday morning, we email those graphics?”

      “Okay.” Then Dana froze. “Oh…uh… No.” Dana frowned, uncharacteristic of her normally bubbly nature. “Uh, actually, Cass, Monday doesn’t work for me.” She waved her left hand at me, and the office light glinted on her giant diamond engagement ring.

      Ugh! That’s right. Dana was getting married on Saturday and planned to jet off to her honeymoon next week.

      “How could I forget? Yes! It’s your big weekend!”

      Dana literally looked like she might burst with happiness—literally burst.

      “Okay, fine, go abandon me and live happily ever after.” I took her hands and grinned. If anyone deserved a happily-ever-after, it was Dana.

      Dana pointed at the deliciously happy smile on her face. “I can’t stop doing this. I’ve tried! I can’t. I’m getting married! I’m going to be Mrs. Dana Schmointz!” Dana stomped her feet in a little celebratory dance and then let out a high-pitched squeal so intense it hurt my ears.

      “Mrs. Sch-moi-ntz,” I sounded out, trying to seem excited about the name but failing. I almost wanted to tell her she should consider keeping her maiden name, Abrams. It’s way less goofy than Schmointz, which, let’s be honest, sounds like Schmuck.

      Dana missed my lack of enthusiasm, as she was wrapped up in her own. She let out another yelp of joy.

      “Okay,” I said, and she grabbed my hands and bounced up and down, and we both did a little dance in the office before she calmed down a bit.

      “I hate to even ask this.” Her face still beamed with uncontrollable happiness. “But did you decide on the…you know…” She appeared a little uncomfortable now. “The plus one?”

      It was then that I remembered I hadn’t exactly, one hundred percent gotten Peter to agree to go with me…yet.

      “I am so sorry. I am the worst wedding guest ever,” I said. “Peter’s just not…” I was about to say “that into weddings,” but looking at Dana’s beaming face, I couldn’t even get the words out. Why spoil her good mood? Besides, it would be like I was speaking another language. “It’s a busy season at the bar, and he’s not one hundred percent sure he’s got all shifts covered. Can I tell you…tomorrow?”

      “Of course. Seriously, I hate to even ask. Really, it’s no trouble.” Dana bopped away, humming. I’d need to figure out if I did have a plus one or not, tonight, when I saw Peter at the bar. The last time we’d talked about it, he’d said “maybe,” and I needed to turn that maybe into a yes.

Two

      “Schmointz? She’s seriously taking his last name?” my sister Nadia said as I sat with her and her husband Michael at Peter’s bar, Sportz, that night.

      Michael sipped at his beer. “No hyphen?”

      Nadia continued, amazed. “What kind of name is Schmointz, anyway?”

      “An absolutely hilarious one,” Michael said and took another long swig. My brother-in-law had the driest sense of humor and happened to be one of the most patient men to ever live, which was why he tolerated my sister’s regular freakouts. Don’t get me wrong. Nadia is a wonderful, smart, and funny woman, but she’s also so Type A that she makes me look like a slacker. When we were kids, she refused to let me touch anything when we had tea parties. Everything had to be set up to her exact specifications, from the tiny plastic spoon to the miniature sugar bowl next to Mr. Giggles, the bear.

      Little had changed now that she was married and staying at home with my four-year-old nephew, Jeremy. She was the kind of mom who spent hours reading every bit of developmental research she could get her hands on, fretting about everything that could go wrong—from GMOs to childhood cancer. Now that she and Michael were expecting Baby Number Two, I’d wondered if she’d loosen her grip a little bit, but so far, I hadn’t seen any signs. She even had a binder filled with possible baby names—boy, girl, and neutral, listed alphabetically—sitting on her dining room table at home.

      “She was just so happy,” I said, glancing at my own beer in front of me at the narrow high-top table. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that excited about anything. Ever. I didn’t even know people got that excited.”

      “Of course, she’s excited. Marrying Schmointz is her fairy-tale dream,” said the woman who, before she had a binder for baby names, cherished her binder filled with bridal gowns and flower arrangements.

      “It’s kind of like our wedding, right, honey?” Michael piped in. “A fairy tale. A dream.”

      “Dream wasn’t the word.” Nadia sipped at her cranberry juice with a hint of soda water as she rested her hand on her now protruding belly. “More like…”

      “Nightmare?” I offered.

      “The word was nauseous,” Nadia said. “I tried to run…then I threw up.” She glanced at me.

      “She’s not kidding, because I had to hold the veil,” I said. Ugh. That was a memory I’d rather soon forget. I’d been crammed into the tiny bathroom at the church, desperately trying to keep the tulle out of the line of fire.

      “You’re such a good sister,” she said, and we exchanged a look. Oh, I know I am. Michael chuckled to himself into his beer, but that’s probably because even he had no idea how close he’d come to not marrying my sister that day. Nadia, the girl who’d dreamed of her wedding day her whole life, had suddenly gotten a horrible case of cold feet the very night before. I’d had to talk her out of running for the hills. Michael was a goofball, but he was a stand-up guy, and he loved my sister. And now look at her, happy—mostly—with baby number two on the way.

      I’d done my good deed that day.

      I glanced at the empty seat next to me and again wondered where Peter was. I knew he oversaw the bar and couldn’t spend the whole evening chatting with us, but he’d almost entirely ignored us since we came in. I’d gotten a quick wave and a hold-on-a-minute sign. That had been twenty minutes ago. I guessed they might be understaffed tonight. I didn’t see the usual number of waitresses. Peter always seemed to lose employees. People quit or just didn’t show up—one of the dangers of running a sports bar. I liked that Peter owned his own business. We bonded over being entrepreneurs. He understood the stress of meeting payroll and trying to find good employees. Besides, I thought he’d been smart to roll over his money from playing baseball for the Rockies into a place that could build him a stable financial future.

      I had to admit I liked telling people I was dating a semi-famous person, even if “dating” might not have been the right word for it. Peter seemed fine with hanging with my sister and Michael—usually because they picked up the tab when they took us out to eat—but he’d yet to go deeper and meet my mom or my friends. Even after two years, I honestly couldn’t say if I was his standing Saturday night date or not. But I decided not to push it. I hated relationship talks.

      I saw Peter near the kitchen doors now, holding a platter of wings and talking to a group of girls wearing Rockies shirts. I told myself he was only being a good bar owner, making sure his customers were having a good time. Yet, why did he linger so long at their table, near the girl with the low-cut shirt who seemed to be flipping her blonde hair constantly? Why didn’t