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name wasn’t on her list. Daniel was a friend of Louise’s, and she would do her best to match him up with someone who was right for him. “I’ll be in touch. Excuse me, please,” she said, and went back to the party.
    —
    Later in the week a handwritten note appeared in her mail. The return address was Brooklyn, and the handwriting the square, blocky print of a man who fills out reports comprised of little boxes for name, address, offense, summons to appear in court. In front of her rested two brown leather card files, one for requests received, the other for matches made. She slit the end of the envelope and tugged out the folded note card, preparing to read Daniel’s request and file it until she could match him.
    Dear Tilda,
    I’d like to take you to dinner.
    Best,
Daniel Logan
    His phone number was printed neatly beneath his name. She picked up her phone from her desk and thumbed in the digits.
    “Logan.”
    Men the world over answered the phone with their last names, something that struck her as quintessentially British, until she moved to New York. “It’s Tilda.”
    The sound of voices diminished, then a door closed.
    “I thought Louise sent you to me because you needed a connection.”
    “No. I saw you sit on the ledge and thought I’d . . . get acquainted.”
    Or save her. A knight in a sumptuous blue velvet blazer. Charming, but the last thing she needed. “Why didn’t you simply ask me out while we were on the roof?” she asked, puzzled.
    “Because you started talking about
the process
, and I liked the idea of sending you a letter,” he said. His voice was slightly amused. “Are you going to keep me hanging by writing me back, or will you give me an answer now?”
    “Yes,” she said.
    “Yes, you’ll keep me hanging?”
    “No.”
    “Yes, you’ll give me an answer now?”
    “Yes.”
    “And your answer?”
    She thought about his broad shoulders, his easy manner, his wide smile, the way heat flickered through her when his arm locked around her waist, all the ways she could ruin someone like him. She thought about that luscious voice, and mentally calculated the odds a nice, white-collar crime specialist like him would know how to use it during sex. “No. Thank you for the invitation,” she said gently, and disconnected the call.

– THREE –
    July
    I want to go down on you.
    T he text banner glowed against Tilda’s screen background. Without breaking stride in the conversation with a man purchasing a gift for a client, she pushed the power button to deactivate the screen and slid her phone onto the shelf under the counter.
    “The paper is made from one hundred percent cotton, of course,” she said, “and the recipient’s name or initials can be added by engraving, thermography, or letterpress.” She held out options for each so he could feel the difference. Quality died even more slowly than tradition, and in the high-end goods market shopped by both old blue bloods and new money, nothing was more traditional and elegant than paper. Calling cards. Business cards. Personalized notecards. Thank-you notes. Invitations to events ranging from a quiet dinner to a ball. In the last year a placement in
InStyle
’s accessories section led to an inclusion in
O
magazine’s
Favorite Things spread. For millennials with money, she’d become an arbiter of taste with a caliber of luxury normally reserved for royalty.
    Her phone lit up again.
    Correction: I want to tie you to the bed and go down on you until you can’t talk.
    This time Tilda took the split second necessary to find out who was sexting her.
    Daniel Logan.
    “What size do you recommend?” the customer asked, thankfully oblivious to the heat rising in Tilda’s cheeks at the pornographic texts appearing on her screen.
    “Cards are a traditional and very safe choice, but some men prefer what’s called a social sheet,” she said. “He’ll have more room to write a note, and it’s folded then inserted into the envelope. I