I make my way to the Mad Cow Steakhouse on foot. Marc didn’t offer to pick me up. In fact, he said he had all of five minutes to shower and change at the gym after his last client, so I decided to walk. There’s not much point in driving, since it’s less than ten minutes from my apartment, and it’s nice out. Cold, but nice. Besides, it’s not like I can’t use the exercise. And hell, maybe if I burn calories on the way to the date, I can eat fries.

Hmm. I don’t want to walk so fast that I sweat all my makeup off though. I slow my roll to a clipped stroll. That way, I’m burning calories, and my foundation and highlight are still on fleek. Oh crap, I think that word already went out. Either way, I’m strolling and looking hot doing it. Though maybe the hot is on account of me actually breaking a sweat.

Two doors down from the steakhouse, I pass the window of a second-hand bookstore. I linger at the display like a kid in front of a candy store. Spines, some lined with age, others fresh and crisp, are color-coded in a rainbow-themed decoration with the pot of gold at the end, a trove of literary treasures. To celebrate the season, orange leaves have been painted gracefully dancing across the window, and a warm-looking plaid blanket is draped over a large armchair, implying you could come right in and escape the elements, escape the world right now. I reach out to touch the glass. That’s all I want to do.

What is wrong with me? I’m about to go on a date with a guy who has the hottest body I’ve ever seen. The only blanket I should want to get under is one on Marc’s bed, with him naked underneath it.

I’m about to keep going when one of the spines catches my eye. The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky—the guy who wrote Crime and Punishment. Elio would love that.

I hate the thought.

I hate that I know that fact about him when I didn’t know so many other important things about the man.

He led me on. He called me a hot piece of ass. That isn’t the sort of thing a married man should say to someone, even if the ass in question is probably financing an upgrade to his coffee machine thanks to her serious love for muffins.

But as I will my feet to keep walking, I find I’m stuck. Frozen.

I want that book.

I want to leave it at his café for him, because I know just how much he’d love it.

No.

Elio is a selfish, sleazy asshole who doesn’t deserve a preloved book, and especially not one from a stunning window display such as this. He doesn’t deserve that, and he doesn’t deserve me.

My stomach is full of butterflies as I enter the steakhouse and tell the host what party I’m with. He leads me straight through to the back of the wild west-themed restaurant, past families with screaming kids, and groups of rowdy men watching the NHL game on giant flat-screens around the bar. It’s not exactly where I envisioned my first date with my hot trainer, but the food here is good, and at least I’ll be able to zone out and watch the Avalanches kick the Knights’ butts. Okay so, that’s likely not going to happen, but a girl can dream.

The host brings me to a stop at Marc’s table, and my date stands and kisses my cheek. He smells good, like aftershave and normal boy smells. I sigh. I miss boy smells.

“Hi, Romy.”

“Hi,” I say, taking the seat opposite.

“You look . . .” His gaze rolls over me before finally settling on my boobs. “Hot. You look hot.”

The compliment doesn’t sit right with me. It might have something to do with the fact that he’s already turned his gaze back to the menu in his hands. “Thanks. So, how was your day?”

“Long. Too many clients who didn’t want to work hard.”

I gulp, because he spears me with a look as he says this.

“Sorry. I’m just . . . I don’t know. It kind of pisses me off, you know? Like I’m happy to take your money, but Get More with Moretti has a 100 percent success rate.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of people getting fit, huh?”

“Yeah, and as a trainer, I don’t accept anything less than perfect.” He continues to prattle on and on about the strong vision he has for changing the world one kale leaf at a time.

I nod as if I’m hanging off every word, but honestly? I thought we’d be able to discuss more than just training and Marc’s gym, and I’m a little annoyed that he hasn’t asked me anything yet, not even, “Did you have a good day?” but then I remember what Emma said: "If you don't take a chance soon, you’re going to wind up spending your life alone."

Up until now, I’ve been picky, finding the smallest of flaws in men and deciding a relationship was doomed before it even began, because they weren’t perfect. They weren’t Elio. God, what an idiot I was. And what an asshole he is. Who goes around pretending they’re not married when they have the perfect family at home? Did he ever once think about what he was risking by flirting with me? Or did he just not give a damn because he’s a man, and men like to play with things until they’re all played out, and then discard us like broken toys?

“Whoa, what are you doing?” Marc’s harsh tone pulls me from my reverie and I glance down at the water in front of me. The one I’m sloshing all over the table by jabbing my straw violently into the ice.

I give a nervous laugh and work to clean up the mess with several of the paper napkins from the dispenser on our table. “Sorry. My hands get carried away sometimes.”

“Remind me not to hand you a steak knife then.”

“Ha! You’re really funny. Do you know that?” Marc Moretti isn’t funny, but I need an excuse to draw the attention away from my mental instability.

“I have heard it once or twice before.” He shoots me a wink. “It’s not my best attribute, though. Want to guess what most people think that is?”

I open my mouth and close it like a goldfish. His ego? Is that it?

Thankfully, I’m saved by the waiter.

“I’ll have the steak, well done,” I blurt out before the man can even announce the specials. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and Marc screws up his nose.

“Would you like fries with that, ma’am?”

“Sure,” I say automatically. Because I do want fries. I also want to order a cheeseburger, but I figure fries are treat enough.

Marc shakes his head. “No, she won’t have fries. She’ll have a salad, and make her steak about half the size. We need a hell of a lot more cardio sessions before she can even look at fries.”

Marc gives me his stern personal trainer face and I actually cower. The server glares at my date, then he looks to me for confirmation. I give a sheepish nod and sink lower in my seat because it would be really useful if the floor just opened up beneath me right now. I wouldn’t even scream. I’d just ride that fiery Slip ‘N’ Slide all the way to hell and high-five Satan when I got there.

The server takes Marc’s order and I pout because . . . why does he get fries? This man is a sadist.

When our waiter is gone, Marc’s gaze zeroes in on me.

“I know that was a little controlling, but I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked this week. You can’t blow it all on a bowl of fries.” He smiles, almost apologetically, and it’s kind of sweet. “I was gonna tell you this later. But damn it, I’m going to tell you now.”

“O-kay.” I nod slowly.

“My best attribute, that I mentioned before—it’s my ability to motivate people. And I’m going to motivate you to not just lose weight but be a better person.” He holds his hands out either side, as if he’s presenting me with an award-winning idea.

Visions of a beefcake, supergirl version of me saving kittens from trees, and helping old ladies with their shopping flash through my mind. It’s entirely possible I may need to be committed.

“I want you to start right now. I want you to go home tonight and write down every item of food in your kitchen, and then, I want you to write out what a typical day is like for you. You're going to start a food diary. Keeping accountable is one of the first steps to success.”

Wow. I’ve never had homework on a date before. I wonder if Mr. Moretti will spank me with his ruler if I don’t hand my assignment in on time.

Laughter bubbles up my throat and Marc stops midsentence to narrow his eyes at me. I was so lost in my thoughts, I wasn’t even aware he was still speaking.

“What about this is funny, Romy?”

“Er . . . nothing. I was just . . . it’s nothing. My mind gets carried away sometimes.”

“That’s also something we need to work on. You need to learn how to keep focused so that your body can follow suit. I can already tell you’re going to be a handful for me.”

“Only one? Surely you can use both hands.” I give him a coy smile, attempting to bring this date around because it can’t be too late. Can it?

“Oh, I’ll be using both hands, Romy.” Marc leans across the table and grips my forearm, giving it a playful squeeze. His eyes smolder. My breath catches. Apparently, it isn't too late. “I’ve been told I’m very good with them.”

Marc and I really do have chemistry. Maybe I’ve been so caught up in trying to piece my heart back together after Elio slaughtered it that I haven’t given Marc a fair chance. Instead of putting up roadblocks to protect against another head-on collision, maybe I should be opening the gate, and letting this man in.

* * *

Later, as we leave the restaurant, Marc grabs my hand and pulls me close. I’m startled, so I sort of wind up whacking him in the thigh in an attempt to get free.

He laughs. “Geez, you’re so awkward, Romy.”

I cringe. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. By the time Marc’s done with you, there will be no awkwardness left in sight. Just a fucking hot bod.”

My brow furrows. “Huh, okay. Well, I’m not sure awkward is really something you can change with workouts, but sure.”

“Coordination comes with practice,” Marc says, and surveys the parking lot. “So where are you parked?”

“Oh, I walked.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah, it was still light out when I left. It was nice, actually.”

“Come on, I’ll drive you. No date of mine walks home alone.”

“No, really, it’s fine. I’m good to walk.”

“You’re not walking, Romy,” he says sharply, as if I have no say in the matter. Then, because he appears to have clued in to the fact that I don’t like being told what to do, he lowers his tone and says, “Let me drive you. Let me take care of you.”

My heart squeezes. And there it is: that spark, that glimmer of hope. The desire to have someone take care of me, to cherish me, and see to my safety fills me up. The sweet promise of a man who’ll do anything to protect me shrouds me in warmth. I accept his offer and he leads me to a bright red Dodge Challenger. Not one of the really cool retro ones, but a new one, that’s shiny and that kind of looks like Lightning McQueen but without all of the stickers.

I climb in and Marc revs his engine.

He pulls out of the lot and after an uncomfortable few minutes’ drive, during which some very bad techno music blares through the speakers, we finally pull up in front of my apartment.

I give myself a mental pat on the back. I did it. I went on a date. Go me. And while it wasn't amazing, it wasn’t terrible either. It was just new. Not exactly exciting, and not like walking into Bittersweet every day and seeing those gorgeous eyes, those expert hands, and that incredible smile. God, Romy, enough of the torture already. He’s married.

I need to get him out of my head.

I glance at Marc as we sit curbside, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the storefront behind me. “Hey, you live right above—”

I kiss him. It’s terrible. An all-out, open-mouthed, tongue-flailing-while-seeking-his kind of kiss. It’s truly awful. The worst kiss ever.

I pull away before I can embarrass myself any further, and beat a hasty retreat, throwing an awkward goodbye over my shoulder before I slam the car door. “Thanks for dinner. Bye.”

He doesn’t wait until I’ve made it safely inside before zooming off, and that irks me because I’m hit with the memory of Elio walking me to my door and waiting until I was in my apartment before he walked away. Without a proper good night kiss.

I guess I should be grateful. I feel bad enough that I’ve spent the year flirting with a married man. Kissing him and then finding out about his beautiful family would have destroyed me.

Thoughts of that lying, almost-cheating bastard put me in a funk, or maybe I’m already there thanks to the lack of spark I felt with Marc. Either way, I head straight to the only two men I’ve relied on for most of my adult life—and some of my childhood—Ben & Jerry. I open the freezer, grab a spoon from the dish rack and dig in. It isn’t until I’m halfway through the pint that the remorse and guilt set in. My stomach twists, and I set the carton down on the coffee table and pat my distended belly. Even my old pals Ben and Jerry have forsaken me. This is a truly sad day, but on the plus side, at least I’ll have one less item to write on my list for Marc.