Then a stranger sat beside me and said, “Just follow my lead and pretend you’re my date.” When he stood to speak, everyone turned and my sister stopped smiling.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning. From the moment I received that cream-colored invitation in the mail three months earlier.

The envelope arrived on a Tuesday morning in April. I was living in Denver then, working as a pastry chef at a boutique bakery downtown. My apartment was small but cozy, filled with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon from my experimental baking sessions. I’d been up since four that morning, perfecting a new recipe for honey-lavender croissants. So when I finally stumbled home around two in the afternoon, I almost missed the elegant envelope wedged between bills and grocery store circulars.