I’m worried sick as I stare at the television above the bar. The news is reporting that the hurricane has been upgraded to a category four and is projected to hit the North Carolina coast.

My roommate, Kristi, returns from the restroom just as the waitress appears with our drinks. With our eyes fixed on the news broadcast, we both take a sip from our cocktails.

“Did you get a hold of your parents?” Kristi asks. “Are they evacuating?”

I breathe a sigh of relief and nod. “My dad says they’re going to drive to my Aunt Vicki’s house and wait out the storm. I’m just glad he wasn’t stubborn this time. I guess because of my mom’s condition, he finally realized he’s better safe than sorry.” My mother suffered a stroke a few years ago and is confined to a wheelchair now. When news of the hurricane approaching North Carolina was first reported, I begged and pleaded with my dad to heed the warning and evacuate their home for safer ground.

“Maybe the storm will change course,” says Kristi, always the optimist.

“I hope so. Because right now, if it stays on this path, it’s going to directly hit my town.”

We continue watching the news coverage, above the din of the busy bar. Then I slowly realize, there’s not much good all my worrying will do. After all, I’m sitting in a bar, hundreds of miles away from the North Carolina coast. And thankfully, my parents are evacuating and going to stay with my Aunt Vicki – who lives much farther inland, so they should be safe. The worst that can happen now is that there will be damage to our home. But the most important thing is that my parents are safe.

I decide to stop fixating on the news broadcast. After all, Kristi and I came out to celebrate her debut performance in an off-Broadway play.

“You were awesome tonight,” I cheer.

Kristi appears doubtful. “You’re not just saying that because I’m your best friend?”

I shake my head. “No. I really mean it. In fact, it was a little weird. I almost didn’t recognize you up there. I’ve seen you perform a thousand times in college. But tonight, it was like you really transformed into the character. I don’t know how you do it. And I still don’t know how you manage to keep all those lines straight in your head.”

I take a sip of my Cosmopolitan and notice the happy look on Kristi’s face. She’s always wanted to be an actress. After college, we both moved to the city together to pursue our dreams. Kristi’s been paying the bills narrating romance audiobooks out of the makeshift recording studio in her bedroom closet. But what Kristi really wants to do is be on stage or in front of the camera. And after some time in the city, she finally managed to land a part in an off-Broadway play.

While Kristi’s been doing that, I’ve been pursuing my goal of becoming a pastry chef. I finally landed a prestigious position as an assistant pastry chef at a new upscale restaurant, The Blue Rose.

We’re both still struggling financially, though, and living in a rundown apartment in a sketchy part of town. But we’re both happy to be making strides toward a better and brighter future.

“I just hope the play doesn’t close after a week,” worries Kristi. “If we don’t get some positive reviews, or get the word out, there’s no way we’ll keep the doors open to the theater. Did you see how empty the theater was tonight? If you didn’t show up, there would only be five people there,” she laments. “And I think the other five people were family members of the lead actor,” she adds.

I shrug my shoulders. “Don’t worry about the size of the audience. Just be happy that you landed an off-Broadway role and you nailed it.” I shoot her a playful look. “I never thought you’d be able to play an upscale, rich bitch so well.”

Kristi sits up and smiles, throwing her hair back for dramatic effect. “It wasn’t that hard. I just channeled my inner bitch. It was very therapeutic.”

We both laugh and clink glasses.

“Here’s to you and me becoming rich and famous, Rebecca,” she says with a smirk.

I shake my head after taking a sip from my Cosmo. “I don’t care about being rich and famous,” I tell her. “I just want to have my own cafe one day. That’s it. If I can achieve that, I’ll be very happy.”

“What are you going to call it again?”

I’ve told her a million times, but she always seems to forget. “Becca’s Bakery & Cafe,” I remind her once again.

“That’s right,” says Kristi. “I don’t know why I always forget.” She then adds sarcastically, “Maybe I can’t remember it because it’s the most boring name for a cafe, ever! We need to come up with something better. Something that stands out. Something sexy,” she declares.

“Here we go again,” I mutter.

“What about Buns in the Oven?” she says excitedly.

“You’ve been narrating too many romance books.”

We both laugh and take another sip from our cocktails.

Kristi then changes the topic of our conversation. “Is your boss still being an asshole?”

“You mean, Rodrigo, the head chef?”

“Yeah.”

I nod. “I think he was born that way. But I guess if you’re a legend in the industry and considered one of the top chefs in the country, you get a license to be an asshole. He’s also stressed because the restaurant just opened, and we’re still getting a bunch of reviews.”

“When I become rich and famous,” Kristi says. “I’m going to be nice to everyone.” She then adds, “And I know for a fact, Rebecca, when you finally open your own cafe, that you’re going to be the nicest boss ever. You don’t have a mean bone in your body.”

I shrug my shoulders. “We’ll find out if that day ever comes.”

Kristi shakes her head, annoyed, and looks at me sternly. “When that day comes, Rebecca. When that day comes. You’re going to become even more famous than that asshole, Rodrigo. Trust me. I’ve had every single one of your desserts, remember? Which by the way, I have to stop eating. I can’t be your guinea pig any longer. My agent told me that I need to lose ten to fifteen pounds.” Kristi grabs her thighs and then rolls her eyes. “Which is going to be really hard because your desserts are so fucking good.”

I smirk and take another sip from my Cosmo.

Then I notice Kristi staring over my shoulder with the most curious expression.

“What is it?”

She leans forward and says under her breath, “The hottest guy I’ve ever seen is staring at you.”

“Yeah right,” I remark. “He’s probably looking at you. They always look at you. I might as well be wallpaper.”

It’s true. Kristi is much prettier than me. In college, every guy wanted to ask her out on a date. I always got stuck talking to the guy’s best friend, who was playing wingman and usually not that into me. I’m not complaining though, I prefer to keep to myself anyway. I’m much more comfortable being in a kitchen than out socially. Kristi is the opposite. It’s sort of funny how we became best friends after becoming roommates freshman year. We’re so different.

“I’m not bullshitting you,” whispers Kristi. “This guy is really hot and he’s staring at you. Oh my God,” she then says excitedly. “He’s walking over here. Act cool.”

“But I don’t know how to act cool,” I gripe. “And I don’t believe you anyway.”

But soon enough, I realize Kristi isn’t kidding. The most attractive and rugged man I have ever seen walks up to our table, and he’s staring straight at me. He doesn’t even acknowledge Kristi sitting beside me. He just stares at me with the most intense gaze I’ve ever seen. It’s almost like he’s hypnotized.

“Ashley?” he says in a somewhat haunted tone.

I shoot Kristi a puzzled look and then turn my gaze back on the handsome stranger. I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. “No. I’m Rebecca.”

The handsome stranger keeps his eyes focused directly on me. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at me with that intense gaze.

After a very prolonged silence – where he’s just staring at me – Kristi eventually asks, “Do you want to buy us a drink?”

“You look just like her,” the man finally says. “You look just like her.”

I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable under his powerful stare.

“I’m not Ashley,” I reply, struggling to find a way to handle this awkward situation.

“What’s your name, handsome?” asks Kristi, trying to lighten up an otherwise uneasy interaction.

He finally turns in Kristi’s direction and acknowledges her. “Jackson.”

“Jackson what?” Kristi prods.

“Jackson Miller,” he says disoriented, turning his gaze back on me.

I’ve never had someone look at me this way, so intensely. I must really resemble this woman, Ashley. And whatever connection he has to her, it must be very deep, based on the emotion in his dark, mysterious eyes.

I’m starting to feel really uncomfortable. This stranger, although handsome, just keeps staring at me, but says nothing.

Kristi comes to my rescue. “If you don’t mind,” she tells the stranger. “My friend and I are celebrating my first performance in an off-Broadway play.”

He doesn’t respond and just keeps looking at me.

“Listen, dude,” says Kristi, now getting up from her chair. “If you’re going to keep staring at my friend like that – and not even buy us a drink – then I’m going to have to ask the bouncer at the bar to make you leave us alone.”

He slowly looks at Kristi and then back at me. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “You just look exactly like her.”

He glances at me one last time, then slowly turns around and walks away. Kristi and I watch as he weaves through the crowded bar and exits, into the night.

“What a weirdo,” Kristi remarks as she sits back down. “Hot as hell. But a real weirdo.”

She takes a sip from her cocktail as I reach for my phone. I type his name, Jackson Miller, into my browser.

“He’s a painter,” I tell Kristi. “A really famous one. Look.”

I hand Kristi my phone and she scans the website I discovered.

“Shit,” she declares. “He’s famous and rich. His last painting sold for five million dollars!”

“Too bad he’s a weirdo,” I remind her as Kristi hands me back my phone.

“Don’t worry, Rebecca. The city is full of men. We’ll find you someone who isn’t crazy.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t care about finding a guy. I just need to focus on my work at The Blue Rose. I need to make sure I don’t do anything to piss off Rodrigo, so I don’t get fired.”

Kristi gives me a coy look. “Maybe you should start flirting with that other guy in the kitchen. What’s his name?”

“You mean Todd, the pastry chef?” I shake my head. “No way. I report directly to him. Todd’s awesome. Really nice.” Then I stress, “And gay.”

“The good ones always are,” laments Kristi as she takes a sip from her drink.

She then looks at me with the most stern and serious expression. She reaches for my hand. “All I know, Rebecca, is that it’s been like forever since you’ve had sex. It’s not healthy.” Then she raises her voice and proclaims, “You need some cock, and fast!”

I look around the bar nervously. I lean forward and whisper, “You don’t have to advertise it to the whole bar.”

Kristi looks around at the crowded room. “Maybe I should,” she says playfully. “Maybe I should put a sign on the back of your shirt saying how you haven’t been properly fucked in over a year.” Kristi says all this a little too loudly for my comfort.

“Kristi, if you don’t lower your voice,” I threaten. “I will never bake another dessert for you, ever again.”

My threat works. Kristi shakes her head in mock astonishment. “How dare you,” she replies. “There’s no reason to play so dirty, Rebecca. Especially when you know how addicted I am to your muffins.”

The look of disbelief on Kristi’s face makes me burst out in laughter. She soon joins in.

Once we both calm down, Kristi takes another sip from her drink. But then she looks at me with some concern. “But I am being sort of serious, Rebecca.” She leans forward and whispers, “You should get a man between your legs soon. It’s not good for your health to go this long without sex.”