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as Dominic climbs out of his truck and goes to the back, hauling planks of wood off the flatbed.
    â€œAre you kidding?” she says. “He’s ridiculously sexy.”
    â€œNot going to happen,” says Emma. “We couldn’t be more different.”
    â€œYou don’t have to marry him, but a summer fling would be an excellent idea. Whoa. Who is that?” A small boy, a miniature version of Dominic who looks to be about six years old but sports a Mohawk, climbs out of the passenger seat and walks to the back of the truck to help.
    â€œThat,” says Emma, “is his son. Jesse. Yet another reason not to get involved.”
    â€œWhat’s the story there?” Sophie is intrigued. “Divorced?”
    â€œI have no idea. Honestly, Sophie, I just met him. I certainly don’t want to start peppering the poor man with questions. He’s my landlord, after all, and he lives next door. I don’t want him to think I have any ulterior motives. I just want us to . . . be friends.” She pauses. “I did say I’d go and have a drink at the Fat Hen with him tonight, though.”
    Sophie turns to her, openmouthed. “Oh my God! Are you kidding? You’re having a date with him already?”
    â€œIt’s not a date. He’s the bartender there. He’s just trying to make me feel at home. He’s not trying to get into my knickers.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s an English expression. Never mind. Why don’t you come with me?”
    â€œAnd gate-crash your date? I don’t think so! What are you wearing?”
    â€œThis!” Emma gestures down at her old clothes. “Oh, go on. Come. It will be much more fun if you’re there.”
    â€œI guess Rob could put Jackson to bed. It will give me a chance to get the lowdown on Sexy Dominic and the small son.”
    Emma gives her a long, hard gaze. “I shouldn’t have invited you, should I?”
    â€œToo late now. How about I pick you up at seven?”

FIVE
    T he Fat Hen parking lot, just off Riverside Avenue, is filled with pickup trucks, motorcycles, and the odd Audi and Range Rover. As Sophie parks the car, she explains to Emma that it is indeed a Westport institution, home to bikers from all over the state, as well as a popular spot for the brave hedge-fund manager who likes to experience the rough-and-ready of the real world from time to time. It’s known for having the best burgers for miles, as well as live music three times a week, and karaoke on Mondays.
    Neon signs adorn the walls, throwing glowing light into the otherwise dark space. A long bar runs along the wall, packed three deep, with a small restaurant area at the back. It is loud and raucous, filled with a mix of regulars and people stopping in to experience the famous joint.
    And it is probably the last place on earth Emma would ever chooseto go. Her world, at least the world she has most recently left in New York City, is filled with genteel cocktail bars. In her world, she orders French martinis, Prosecco cocktails with St. Germain, Negroni Royales. She perches on bar stools surrounded by handsome, clean-cut men in sharp suits who eye her as soon as she walks in, determining whether to talk to her. This scene is about as far away from that world as you can get, and even though she willingly left all that behind, she’s a little intimidated by what greets her here.
    Emma grins as she pushes through the throng of people at the bar, trying to catch Dominic’s eye to let him know she’s arrived. Her blond, naturally curly hair is scooped up in a clip at the back of her head, with a few tendrils hanging loose. She’s wearing an oversized white shirt and dark jeans, with flat espadrilles on her feet, only because she figured flip-flops probably weren’t right for a night out, even to the Fat Hen. The only jewelry she wears is a large gold cuff on her right wrist, the last gift she