The strong aroma of coffee brewing is one of the best ways to wake up. Last night was a blur. I recall the soothing sound of Bach’s “Prelude in C Major” in the background. I faintly remember Julian bending down to kiss my forehead. His heady scent surrounding me as he whispered, “I’ll be on your couch if you need me. Sweet dreams, darling.” It was the first time he’s ever called me darling and the thought warms me. The last image I have is of my childhood friend, standing by the door for a few minutes before gently closing it behind him.

Laying in the comfort of my king-size bed in my downtown loft, I take it all in. My bed. My room. My home. My city. And although a part of me aches from leaving Andrew, the other part of me feels revived. As I wipe the sleep away from my eyes, a slight knock startles me, and the door slowly opens. Peering in, a deep voice greets me. “Good morning, sleepyhead. I’m coming in.”

With a large white coffee mug in his hand, Julian looks gloriously delicious. His hair is messy and adorable. And he’s wearing glasses. Sexy, black rimmed glasses that accentuate his beautiful eyes. Clark Kent has nothing on this man. Dressed in only a pair of dark jeans, I need to do a double take and wonder if I am dreaming. He’s shirtless and so clueless as to how he’s affecting me. Walking toward me, he sits on the side of my bed, placing the white mug on the nightstand.

Leaning over, he wipes the hair away from my face before studying me. “How are you feeling? You were pretty gone last night.”

I scoot over to make more room for him on the bed. He touches my forehead and then my cheeks. “Darling, you feel warm. I think you might have caught a cold.” He hands me the coffee while I shamelessly peruse his body. A rush of heat rises to my cheeks.

“Oh, I usually feel hot in the morning because I cover myself with a million comforters.” I gesture to the three comforters on my body. Liar.

It’s all you, Julian. It’s all you.

He laughs. “Yeah, that’s a lot of comforters. It’s not winter anymore. I don’t remember you sleeping with so many layers when we were younger. Do you really need all these covers?”

I reach for the covers and place them all on top of my body. “Yes.” I admire him from head to toe as he remains seated next to me on my bed. Dirty thoughts come over me. With only jeans on, there’s not much left to the imagination. Julian is HOT. His muscular arms are not too big. His six-pack abdomen reveals not an ounce of fat and his thighs, which are planted on my bed, are strong and firm. There’s just the right amount of hair on his chest. The tips of my fingers wiggle a little. I would love to run my fingers … Oh, for Christ’s sake, just fuck me, please!

“Excuse me?”

I really need to stop this. Lina, get a grip. This is embarrassing. “Oh, I said fuck me. I … I completely forgot to do something.” I bite my lower lip.

Just a few minutes ago, I was despondent over my former fiancé, and now, the man before me has me blurting out things I’ve been fantasizing about for the past few weeks.

“Well, then, what is it that you forgot to do?” Julian inquires although he has figured me out already. He knows I’m nervous. He knows I have no filter. He knows me.

Period.

“Oh, some things I need to do for a friend of mine, but it can wait.” When I reach to grab the coffee mug next to my bed, my breast brushes his arm, and another volt of electricity runs through me. This really needs to stop. When did I become so unbelievably horny? Julian Caine. Yes, Julian is quite pleasing to the eyes. Well, more than pleasing. His smile alone can make any straight woman drop her panties. If I’m not careful, I might be included. But it is so much more.

Something about Julian … mysterious, slightly dangerous, attentive, and sexy … makes me a bit crazy. But this is more than crazy. It is definitely more than crazy when I’ve spent too many sleepless nights obsessing over him while my fiancé slept next to me.

Former fiancé.

After lusting for a good few minutes, I fidget and ask him to turn around so I can get out of bed and put a robe on.

“I’ll let you get dress.” He excuses himself from my room and heads to the living area.

I take a sip of the delicious Italian Roast coffee and walk over to the window that faces the square. Along the way, I do a double take, staring at the mirror that is only a few inches away from the view. Shit, I look like crap. Drinking way too many gin and tonics on the flight yesterday has made my face puffy and blotchy. Add in the fact I just left my fiancé of over five years and in the next room is the man who I have been lusting over the past few weeks. I am at a crossroads. What am I going to do?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

In the next room, reggae music plays loud and clear. I begin to grin upon realizing it’s 311’s version of “Lovesong” in the background. The song always reminds me of my teenage years. The Caines’ housekeeper, Miss Pendleton, introduced us to 80s English music back then. The original version by The Cure was in constant rotation while she prepared our meals. I walk to my en-suite bathroom and brush my teeth before placing my hair in a messy bun. I wrap my white robe tightly and head out.

The living area is empty. The sound of pots and pans crashing come from the kitchen. But how? I don’t understand how my guest is able to prepare something since I know there was nothing in the fridge last night. Roger can’t cook to save his life and the only things he keeps in the fridge are beer and wine.

My houseguest glances up and that carefree grin of his greets me. “Lina, I am always reminded of you every time I hear this song.”

I listen to the lyrics, and it reminds me of him, too. Julian Caine makes me feel like I’m home again.

With his form-fitting jeans and a vintage Waterboys t-shirt he just put on a few minutes ago, my gorgeous friend looks delicious enough to eat. Mmm, did I just imagine licking him? Wait, I’m licking my lips. His sapphire eyes have enlarged. His luscious lips slightly part.

I don’t get it. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I left my fiancé, and instead of being distraught, I am craving the man before me. Lusting. Salivating. All I can think about is having him take me in my bedroom, on my kitchen counter, my bathroom shower … anywhere he wants to take me.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“You must be hungry, Lina, because you just licked your lips. By the way, that was quite sexy.” Did he just say sexy? He stops chopping the vegetables, raising the knife slightly, and stares at me. Breathe, Lina. Breathe. Good God, those beautiful eyes are going to be the death of me. Shaking his head as he smiles, he continues to chop, completely unaware of my salacious thoughts. “Frittatas okay with you?”

“Yes!” I am giddy with excitement. Calm down. He’s just making you breakfast. I am way too excited. Andrew used to make me breakfast when we first moved in together. I can’t even remember the last time he made me a cup of coffee. I pinch myself. Ouch. Yes, this is all real. Noticing I just pinched myself, he laughs. “Lina, this will be ready in a few minutes. Relax. You’re home now.”

I survey the apartment, and all I feel is ... at home. I am home. Everything is the way I left it. It’s been so long since I’ve felt at home. I visit the loft a few times a year, and it is always here that I am most comfortable. At this moment, watching Julian in the kitchen, singing along to “Lovesong” while he prepares our breakfast, I feel content.

The scent of prosciutto and vegetable frittata is incredible. “Lovesong” has me swaying from side to side as I sit at the kitchen island. “I love this reggae version.”

When the song ends, Julian presses repeat. “One more time.” I love his playfulness and his easygoing attitude. He continues to sing every word as he rounds about the kitchen island, setting the dish in front of me. Pressing a kiss on my cheek, he says, “Enjoy.”

“I can’t believe you cooked.” I stare at the frittata and it looks perfect along with the fresh-squeezed orange juice. “How did you manage to do this?”

Turning to face me, he then points at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall. It reads 10:48 a.m. “While you were passed out on your bed.” He winks. “I decided to go to the corner supermarket and grab some items.”

“Wow, I’m shocked. One, I can’t believe you can cook. Two, I can’t see you going to the grocery store.” I laugh before taking a bite of the frittata. It is even more delicious than I expected. “This is seriously awesome.”

“Awesome, eh?” he asks while studying my appearance. “You look much better this morning than you did yesterday. How are you feeling?”

I place my fork down and gaze up at him. “I’m … I’m actually well. Really, I am better than I thought I would be. I think having you here has helped me.”

My phone that sits on the kitchen island pings, and I glance at the gadget, noticing a text from my former fiancé.

ANDREW: I hope you made it safely. Good luck.

Good luck?

Andrew and I spent almost sixteen years together, and he sends me a ‘Good Luck’ text as if I had just been fired from a job. I guess I had been fired as Andrew Nielsen’s fiancée.

Fucking good luck.

“What the fuck?” Julian asks as he peers over my shoulder, also stunned by my ex-fiancé’s parting text. “Is that really a ‘good luck’ in that text?”

I turn my head slightly, and if I wasn’t so exhausted, I might have laughed. Yes, laughed. All I can think of is Andrew’s parting words or rather lack of. Yeah, good fucking luck.

And that’s what I text the man I will no longer be spending the rest of my life with:

ME: Good. Fucking. Luck.

I turn my phone off and focus my attention on the man who cooked me breakfast. Offering him a slight smile, I say, “I’m fine, Julian. Really, I’m fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Are you really okay?”

“Yes, I am. I think Andrew’s text just confirmed I did the right thing.”

“I don’t want to leave you right now, but I have to get home to Mugpie. Cecelia called to tell me he hasn’t been feeling well. Why don’t you join me? Mugpie is quite fond of you.” He glances at the kitchen clock. “I also need to shower and change. I have a meeting in a couple of hours.” His eyes are now on mine. “But Lina, just say the word, and I’ll cancel it.”

“I’m more than fine. I’d like to stay in today and nurse this hangover.” I point at my right temple. “Do what you need to do and don’t forget to give Mugpie a sloppy kiss for me.”

Why didn’t I just ask him to shower here and if I could join him?

Because you’re just friends.

“Lucky him.” Julian retrieves a photo out of his dark brown leather wallet. The photograph is that of Mugpie, sitting up like an old man, cradling a bottle of Maker’s Mark. The photo is so amusing it makes me spit out some of my juice.

Even with a trickle of juice running down my chin, I ask, “Did you really let him?”

Leaning forward with a napkin, he wipes my chin. “You’re a beautiful mess; you know that?”

A beautiful mess.

That’s what he thinks of me.

The devilish smirk on his face widens when he asks, “What do you think?”

I honestly can’t answer his question. Instead, I thank him for sharing his hilarious photo of Mugpie with Maker’s Mark. As he steps away from the kitchen island, I reach out for his hand. “Julian, thank you. Thank you for being with me. Thank you for the delicious breakfast. And thank you in advance for trekking uptown.”

He kisses my hand. “You’re welcome. I’m actually not trekking too far. My place is only a few blocks south of here. Come over anytime.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course, really,” he answers with a bit of exaggeration before tapping my nose with his forefinger. “By the way, I love what you’ve done with your loft … your home. This is definitely more your style. And your piano is calling you.” He nods to the Steinway in my living room. “I’ll call you later. I want to spend as much time with you as humanly possible while you’re here. I also expect to hear some of your new music.” He gives me a chaste kiss on my blushing cheek before leaving the room. A kiss that immediately sets my heart racing.

The next few days go by without a word from Andrew. Julian has been busy with work. Roger is out of town on business, and Patti is with her man, holed up in some hotel, extending their vacation for another week.

New York has been able to help me get through this difficult time. At moments I would reach for my phone, my fingers hovering over Andrew’s name. Although I left him, a part of me still clings to him. Even with his stupid, parting text, I still miss him. I miss the guy who used to make me laugh. The guy who would spend hours listening to my babbling in the middle of the night.

The guy who wanted to be with me.

As the days progress, each day gets better. Being home has revived me, giving me a new chapter in my life. Leaving LA and drowning in the everyday humdrum of a passionless relationship has done something to me. Today, I experience everything like a child−walking around the Village, revisiting my favorite haunts−as if seeing things for the first time, and it is a wonderful gift.