I'd like to say that later we pick up where we left off, but that doesn't happen. Instead, I take off for a bike ride to burn all this excess energy, my version of taking a cold shower.

As I power along Hudson River Greenway on a titanium-grade custom bike that my buddy Carlos shipped to me, I weigh what to do next.

Well, the very next thing I’m required to do by the Competitive Guy Act is to pass the cyclist in front of me, which I accomplish with a quick burst of adrenaline, leaving the dude in the banana-yellow jersey ample opportunity to enjoy the view of my back tire.

With a clear path in front of me, I try to approach the Mia quandary like a trail I’m guiding some newbies along. Do I keep marching down this path? Or is it time to fork left and veer away from my preconceived notions of how a relationship should unfold?

The wild card, though, is her—her presence.

And that changes the game.

She’s in town for the next eight days, and she’s only five floors up from me. Theoretically, I could see her every day. We could start a crash course in whether we are a good idea or a bad idea. I could take her out every night, plan things I know she’d enjoy. Go all in for eight days. That has to be enough time for us to figure out what the hell to do with all this tension between us.

But as I shoot past another cyclist—I’ll have to let Carlos know his custom ride, paired with some good old-fashioned energy, is a winning combo—I ask myself what actually changed this afternoon in the elevator.

Not that much, to be honest.

Logically, the only thing that has changed is information. I have evidence that she has the hots for me, too. Whoop-de-do. That doesn’t fix the big hurdle between us—the motherfucking continent.

Or does it?

Do the miles truly matter?

I’d like to call my sister and ask her advice. Maybe find out if she’s ever successfully set up a man and woman who live so far away from each other. Several weeks ago, Evie asked if there had ever been anything between Mia and me, saying she had seen the way I looked at her at the dinner party.

But my sister is away for the weekend with her new guy, and now that she’s finally found a match of her own, I don’t want to interrupt. I need to make this choice on my own. Is it worth pursuing something while Mia is here for the rest of the week?

As I burn off the rest of this lust, I feel I’m close to an answer.

But when I return home, the decision is snatched from me, courtesy of an SOS message from my East Coast manager.

Harvey has food poisoning! And the whitewater trip with Greenstone–Harrington Capital starts tomorrow afternoon.

My shoulders sag, and I drag a hand through my hair. Harvey is my most experienced guide. That means I just booked myself a trip out of town, and that also means there’s no chance with Mia this week.

I write back to my manager and tell him I’ll cover for Harvey. That’s my job. I didn’t start this company to sit at a desk and tell other people where to go, like an air-traffic controller. I started this company to be a pilot, flying the damn plane.

To be outside.

But ideally, not during the one damn week when the woman I’m crazy for is in town. But so it goes.

I flop onto my couch with my pussycat in my lap and dial my buddy Carlos in California. “Your bike kicks ass,” I tell him after he picks up. “I lapped twenty people, including Lance Armstrong look-alikes.”

He chuckles. “Only the finest for you. And how are the other models working out for your business?” he asks, since I’ve stocked his more economically priced models for the bike tours we recently launched.

“The customers love them. A few have even said they want to buy one, so maybe you’ll let me use that cabin of yours in Blue Canyon next time I’m in California. It can be my commission.”

“Ha. I loan it to no one. That’s my baby.”

I snap my fingers. “Shucks. I wish there were something I could do to convince you. Like, say, buying another dozen of your bikes for the East Coast, too.”

He’s silent for a few seconds. Then he clears his throat. “What did I say? I believe I said you can use it on your next Tahoe trip.”

I grin, and stretch my arms across the back of the couch. “Excellent.”

When I end the call, I spot a text from Mia, and my heart bounces around in my chest like a tennis ball. Jesus Christ, I have it bad for this girl.

My finger hovers above the last message for a few more seconds. Finally, I hit send, even if it might be a little too pushy, a little too suggestive.

Maybe it is, since her reply is straight down the middle of the I can’t read it road.

Mia: I wish I could. The dinner is running late. But we’re having fun!

I rub my hand over the back of my neck and heave a sigh. I want to tell her I’ll wait up. But that sounds really fucking lame. And that’s not where we are—we’re not hovering in I’ll wait up for you territory.

In fact, we’re not anywhere at all on the relationship road map.

We’re back to where we were yesterday. Friends who’ve never kissed.