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“I just ate lunch?—”

“How about something light?” There’s an unusual nervous edge in her tone.

“Where are they moving?”

She pulls a fruit and cheese platter from the fridge and sets it on the island between us. Natalie is the only person I know, besides her mom, who would have a handy-dandy cheese platter ready to go just in case company stops by. She replies, “Connecticut. Dolores is pregnant with her third baby, and they want land. They bought an old farm they’re redoing on some acreage.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Her current home is going to be gorgeous. I saw the designs this morning.” She pops a grape in her mouth as she gazes off into the distance. Her fingers tap against the cold stone of the counter, and I notice her lips twisting to the side. Her nerves are palpable, the frenzied energy contagious.What is going on with her today?

“I think I’m hungry, after all.” Taking a piece of brie, I pop it into my mouth and set my Birkin bag on the floor. She doesn’t miss the bag, as I knew she wouldn’t, and cocks an eyebrow at me before tugging open the door to the wine fridge set in the large island. “New bag?”

“Newguiltbag.”

“You have enough of those to fill a penthouse on Park Avenue.” She smirks. “Or the townhome next door.”

“Nice try, but I’m not selling my bags. Though I might be swayed, depending on the size of their closet.” I laugh. “The bags need a closet of their own.”

“Maybe an apartment at this point.”

“I’m not complaining.” Out loud, at least. I’d rather have my parents than an expensive bag any day. Glancing down at my newest pretty, I add, “My mom was invited to preview their private collection in Paris. Figured I’d carry it today since Hermés fits the Upper East Side.” Pulling out a barstool, I slide onto it and watch as she moves around the kitchen like a ballerina on stage—lithe and gracefully, as if she was born for the role of Mrs. Christiansen.

She’s so at ease in her own skin that sometimes it makes me uneasy in mine. I’m not jealous of her, but she has a lot to envy—a husband who adores her and would pluck the stars from the sky if she asked him to. She owns a business she loves, and she has the most awesome best friend ever if I do say so myself.Mine isn’t too shabby either.I laugh lightly to myself. But lately, there’s been a niggle, a bothersome feeling in my gut as though I’m forgetting something or missing out perhaps.

Though it sounds like it, I know it’s not jealousy. I’m fully aware we each find our destiny on our own timeline. Natalie St. James, now Christiansen, is fortunate to be smack dab in the middle of her love story. And one day, I hope to be that lucky.

“You make the Upper East Side sound like our parents—all fundraisers and no fun,” she says.

“I didn’t say you weren’t any fun. We have fun all the time. It’s just different. You’re married, and I’m still single.Painfully single.Everyone around me is pairing off like lobsters and swans, and I’m over here still hoping to meet someone, get asked out, and fall in love before your anniversary party just so I have a date.”

Her palm is pressed to the marble countertop, and I’m leveled with a look. “The party is Saturday night.”

I shrug. As a professional gift giver and experience architect, I make people’s dreams come true, from finding the perfect present to creating an unforgettable special event in their lives, or even elevating a simple date night to impress a significant other. I’m a tried-and-true people pleaser and I get paid for it. “That’s two days. I’ve accomplished greater feats in less time.”

Setting a bottle of wine on the island, she laughs. “As much as that’s true, you don’t have to bring a date. There’s no pressure. It’s not that kind of soiree. It’s friends, who are your friends too, and family. Just a small-ishcelebration. Wine or water?”

“Wine. Make it a double.”

“Stop worrying. You’re witty and smart.”

“Pretty.”

She grins. “Beautiful. A great catch.”

“I’m so ready to be caught. Maybe just for the night.”

Bursting out laughing, she adds, “I’m sure you have a phone full of theright guy for tonight. As for love, it will happen when it’s supposed to for you. Don’t force something because of someone else’s timeline.” Grabbing a glass from a cabinet, she sets it in front of me and starts to pour the wine. “You’ll know when it’s right.” A gentle smile slides into place. “There will be no denying no matter how hard you try. And I know you love to deny some very good opportunities.”

She takes a deep breath, peace softening her features. When she pushes the glass toward me, I ask, “You’re not drinking?”

Tapping the counter, she perks up. “No. I have too much to get done. I still need to make sure Mr. Wriggler’s surprise for his wife gets delivered.”

“I thought that was handled?”

“Me too.” She sighs and rolls her eyes. Yep, two peas. One pod. “But the jeweler can’t deliver the necklace until tomorrow night at nine. The dessert cart is scheduled for nine fifteen. If there are any delays, the necklace won’t be served when dessert is.”

“There won’t be. It will work out perfectly,” I reassure.