Avoiding the man who runs a business underneath you is hard.

Avoiding the man who supplied your addiction to coffee and sugar is harder.

After the pumpkin-picking incident—also known as The Day My Ovaries Caused A Revolt because of how cute little Coco is—I’ve taken extra steps to stay out of Elio’s way, and Coco’s, and B’s. I rush down the stairs, oversized sunglasses in place and a scarf around my head, like a celebrity trying to avoid getting papped. When I reach the front door to the building, I check the street—nope, no meddling sister here—then turn right instead of left, head down, determined not to look, not to be seen by the man I’ve come to rely upon. I don’t need him. I don’t need him, or his stupid, perfect family.

I glance back.

Elio hands some money over to a woman in front of the counter, then slides a chocolate brownie into a paper bag for her. My mouth waters at the sight of those forearms, that smile . . .

That smile you can’t have.

Just like that brownie, Elio is no good for me.

And drooling over things that hurt my heart and my hips won’t do me any good.

I turn back in the direction I was headed and charge down the street. There are plenty of other cafés in Colorado Springs. I’ll just find a new one. Easy.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my bag as I walk.

Emma: How’s my favorite girl holding up?

Miserable. Sore, after the training session from hell.

Lonely.

Romy: Oh, you know, just the usual. On the hunt for a café that’s free from married men who lead on innocent women.

Emma: I still can’t believe he’s married. He doesn’t even wear a ring!

Romy: He’s a baker. He probably doesn’t want to get it dirty while he’s kneading someone else’s buns.

Emma: LOL!

Emma: Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You’re deflecting that sadness with humor again. I know it’s hard, but you’re amazing! Don’t ever forget that.

I smile at my phone and tuck it back in my purse. Thank God for Emma.

After passing a few cafés I dismiss upon observation—too crowded, smells too much like bleach, too many tempting treats on display in the window—I find the perfect location.

Everything is white is everywhere, from the tiles to the walls to the high-gloss tables and chairs. It lines the bottom of the display cabinet that houses the sort of treats I need to drool over—the sort of food that should be on my mind after grueling workouts like the one I completed last night.

Fruit.

Vegetables.

There’s no reason why a smoothie bar couldn’t become my new morning normal. This is the perfect place to work.

I head inside and shove my sunglasses into my hair, then pull my cardigan tighter around me at the chill from the air-conditioner blasting overhead. It’s like an igloo in here. I inspect one of the protein balls on the counter, squinting to read the fine print on the package to see how many calories are in each one.

“Hi!” A woman pops up from under the display cabinet.

“Holy shit!” The protein ball flies across the room, and I clutch my hand to my chest to steady my heartbeat. Where the hell did she come from?

“Sorry, did I startle you?” she asks, her ponytail swinging from side to side. She looks like she’s had ten coffees already, and it’s barely nine a.m. The girl is buzzing.

I locate the protein missile and pick it up, dust off the packaging, and set it back on the counter with a sheepish smile. “No, it’s fine. I was just—”

“You wanna know the specials?” she squeaks, and I nod. “Great! We are running a pick-me-up deal today, where you get one shot of wheatgrass with every large green smoothie, and for those looking for a little something on the side, we can do a protein bar discount if you join our members’ club.”

“Oh. Okay.” I nod. Wheatgrass?

The old me would never have said yes to something like that. I’d have run a mile, opting instead for something with more chocolate, more pastry, more Elio.

No.

I can’t think like that.

There’s no point wanting what you can’t have.

“Sounds great.” I nod to the girl, whose Colgate-white teeth gleam as she grins back at me.

“Right! You take a seat and I’ll get started.” She skips through a doorway to a room in the back, and I make my way over to the bench that runs along the window.

I open my computer and start my morning ritual. The Wi-Fi password is listed on the wall, and I hook up in no time. Easy. That’s how my life is going to be from now on. Easy. Because I’m making the choices that are good for me. Smart choices. Ones for the best.

Loud, obnoxious dance music pumps from the speakers above me. I flinch. Um . . . did I just unknowingly join a rave? What the hell?

“Do you like techno?” Smoothie Girl yells to be heard over the music. “It’s better than coffee in the morning. Wooo!”

She dances with a smoothie jug in one hand, adding a host of ingredients from the display in front of her to it. I cringe. Maybe she’ll just listen to one song like this. Maybe, just like coffee and a muffin used to be my morning ritual, one crazy song and a dance around the café is hers. Maybe this won’t be as bad as it feels.

I open my e-mail app, try to block out the hideous music, and wait for the data to load. A wedding submission. A press release about a new florist.

A cancellation from an advertiser.

Ugh.

I thread my fingers through my hair, reading the e-mail twice to make sure it’s true.

It is.

It absolutely is.

“Damn it,” I mutter, looking out the window to the street. They’re not my only client, but they’re a big one, and the fact that they don’t see value in the blog anymore not only hurts my wallet, it hurts me. It’s easy to say don’t take business personally, but when you give so much of yourself, put so much out there, well, it’s hard not to.

My eyes gaze out onto the street, the businessmen and women rushing to get to their jobs, walking with determined faces that speak of places to go, people to see. I’ve never been able to do that. I’ve always wanted to do my own thing.

I look to my screen again. Focus, Romy. If I don’t focus, “my own thing” is going to become moving back in with my parents.

Tap, tap.

I startle. Marc Moretti stands on the other side of the window, his lips raised in a half smile.

“Hey,” I mouth, waving, and he walks around to the door of the café.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Marc strides across the white tiles and pulls out the stool next to mine, not waiting for an invitation.

“Fancy.” I smile, because something about the way his eyes sparkle makes it hard not to. “Am I going to get in trouble for visiting a café when I’m supposed to be on a diet?”

Something dark flashes across his features. “Trouble?” He lets loose a low chuckle. “I’m sure if you were, I could find appropriate punishment.”

My breath catches. Is he . . . did he just . . .

Is my personal trainer flirting with me?

“Hey, Marc!” the blonde behind the counter calls, her high-pitched voice just audible above the music. “The regular?”

“Yes please, Angie.” He gives her a thumbs-up.

“All right!” she calls, her head bobbing in time to the music as she twirls and adds more fruit to the jug before placing it on the blender. The roar of the machinery makes it too loud to talk, giving me an opportunity to study Marc more closely, to try and get a handle on this man outside of his natural environment.

Away from the gym, Marc seems softer, as if the fluorescent lights made all the planes and angles of his face that much more severe. He looks at me, and the way his dark eyes linger on my lips . . . a shiver runs through me. One week ago, it was as if he were studying me like I was a science experiment, someone whose body—and life—was on a downward spiral, thanks to having no impulse control when it came to indulging in food. Now, the spark in his eyes says he’s a starving man and he could eat me whole.

I lower my gaze, lingering on those broad shoulders. Those arm muscles—biceps, triceps, Tyrannosaurus-reps for all I know the difference between them—they bulge out of the black tank he’s wearing. Yummy.

But they don’t have that natural curve Elio’s arms have . . .

No.

Do not think about him.

The blender throbs into peace, and Marc’s lips lift in a smile. “Let me guess: you’re writing the next great American novel.”

“Huh?”

“You’re sitting in a café with a laptop. I’m just running through the options here.” He nods to my computer then back to me.

“Oh. No. Nothing literary like that.” I link my fingers together and rest them in my lap.

“The next erotic romance then.” His voice lowers, and there it is again—that flash of something naughty in his gaze.

“Actually, I focus on a different kind of happily ever after,” I say, flirting a little too, and he laughs. My chest warms. I can do this. There can be life after Elio. “I write about weddings for a blog I run, Love, Romy.”

“Weddings, huh?” His gaze roams to my lap. What is he looking at?

He doesn’t look away. I press my legs tighter together, as if he can somehow see through my jeans and discover what lies beneath, but it does nothing to deter him. Any thoughts of flirting I have disappear. What a creep! “Um, are you looking at my—” vagina? The word is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t seem to say it. “My thighs?” I settle on instead.

“What? No.” He looks at me as if I’m one muffin short of a bakery. “I’m looking at your hands.”

My hands?

But my hands are—

Oh.

My hands are in my lap.

“I was checking out your ring finger. Trying to see if you were married.”

Oh.

He wasn’t trying to use his supersonic personal trainer powers to see through my layers of clothing to my lady bits underneath.

Got it.

Heat flushes my chest, and he’s still looking at me like he’s expecting an answer to his question, so I wave my fingers at him in proof. “No. Not married. I know it seems strange—I write about love all day, every day, and yet I don’t have it myself. But, here I am.” I wave around to the sterile walls of the café, trying not to sound too much like I’m engaged in a pity party for one. “Focused on weddings and perfectly single.”

“Good to know.” Marc smiles.

“Is it?” I counter.

“It definitely is.” His eyes flash with that hint of flirtiness again, and I find I don’t hate it. It’s nice to feel appreciated, wanted. Especially after my recent rejection.

Although . . . “Do you have a girlfriend, Marc?” I blurt out.

“No.” He smiles.

“A wife?” Best to be specific.

“No.”

“A live-in lover? A child? Any relationship with any woman or man that might be considered sexual or romantic in nature?”

“No.” He laughs, shaking his head. “But I wouldn’t mind changing that sometime soon.”

And there we are once again, back on the train to Flirt Town with those sexy eyes he keeps making at me.

“So tell me more about yourself,” Marc says, angling his body toward me. “How are you finding your journey toward better health and fitness?”

I suppress a snort. Oh, it’s great, thanks. You know that feeling you get when you look in the mirror and think ‘looking this way is worth it?’

It’s not happening.

Not even close.

“Oh, you know. It’s fine.”

He nods his understanding. “It’s a good life change to make. The diet restrictions can be challenging at first, but once you get through those initial few weeks, things really open up. Now, one of my biggest challenges is finding the time to eat—I like to have six small meals per day.”

“Six small meals?” Well, that doesn’t sound so bad. “I love food. I could do that.”

Marc laughs. “My mother would adore you.” His gaze lingers a moment longer. “I’d love to introduce you sometime.”

Be still my beating heart. What a charmer. With those looks, the compliments, the fact he owns his own business and looks like a demigod—if a slightly short one—I’m beginning to think my mother would adore him, too.

“Here ya go.” Angie bounces between us, sliding my smoothie and a small shot glass of something green in front of me. “One special with a side of wheatgrass.”

“Thanks.” I smile at her departing figure, take the shooter, and knock it back.

Ugh.

It’s hideous.

Still, with a name like wheatgrass, I expected nothing less, so I grab the smoothie to chase it and—

It also tastes like grass.

Like grass that has been rinsed in grass water and blended with grass ice cream.

I cough, covering my mouth. It’s hideous. It’s the most revolting thing I’ve ever tasted.

“Good, huh?” Marc asks, nodding to the drink.

I shake my head. “Are you kidding? This thing is trying to kill me.”

“It’s a homicidal smoothie?”

“Yes! It’s going to bore my taste buds to death.” I reach into my bag and pull out my bottle of water, then take a sip to wash the remnants of the taste from my mouth. Ugh.

“You could always come back to my place. I don’t start my next session for another hour, and I only live a short walk away.” Marc leans in closer, his breath heating the skin on my neck. “And I won’t need an hour to make you the best goddamn drink you’ve ever had.”

I widen my eyes.

My personal trainer wants to take me back to his place for a “smoothie.” Only, I get the feeling I’m the only thing he has an appetite for.

I shouldn’t go. It’s ridiculous. I have feelings for Elio. Even though we weren’t really in a relationship, I’m mourning the loss of him in my life as if we were, as if I meant to him what he means to me.

Not only that, but I barely know this Marc guy. Sure, he’s appetizing to look at, but it’s not as if we have some deep connection.

“I don’t know . . .” I say, just as Angie skips over again and this time places a drink in front of Marc.

“For my favorite customer,” she says.

He’s her favorite customer. He’s her favorite, and he’s flirting with me.

The guy I like has a family. My parents signed me up for Tinder. My ex-best friend is getting married.

If I don’t make a change in my life, I’m going to end up as a crazy cat lady, and I don’t even particularly like cats.

I snap my laptop shut, decision made. “Let’s get out of here.”