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The bartender swaps lass for a full one and pushes it closer

“Thank you” I give hier I don’t know his naets me, and I appreciate him for that

Two spots over, a ray slacks and a crealance, praying it’s a stranger and not a wedding guest, and exhale a bit of relief when the striking gentleain, there are seven hundred people couests of the groouest and I wouldn’t even know it

“Boulevardier,” the stranger orders his drink—which happens to be the exact sa

What are the odds?

“Twins,” I say

He turns tohieous than I realized—not that I need to be noticing these things—but anyone with half a brain cell would agree withthe fabric of his sweater, that perfectly straight nose and those not-to-thin, not-too-full mouth of his Not to mention that splay of dark, luscious eyelashes that match his thick, inky black hair

For a second, I lose track of real life and get lost in his aaze, and then I shakebut a distraction—a break fro and ru in my head all week

“Pardon?” he asks

I lift my drink “Boulevardier”

The first tie in lower Manhattan, waiting to uy showed up with a friend—a wing his nu) At two o’clock toman

The bartender sets the er, who hands hiood in his hands, as if it’s a coordinated accessory The squared-off tumbler The dark amber cocktail, sharp and classic

“You in town for the wedding?” I ask, as ives er I hope I’ hi to keep my mind off tomorrow