I’m ready and waiting to board the sea plane twenty minutes early. There are a few other passengers, but for the most part, it looks as if the flight will be relatively empty. I board and settle into my seat for a peaceful thirty-minute flight to Male, praying that there has been a change of plans and I’m the only one from the wedding flying out today when who should happen to show at the last second? Yep. Leo and Jasper Nass.

I meet Leo’s gaze as he climbs aboard and takes the seat several rows back. Jasper boards after him and gives me a small pitying smile. God, if one more person looks at me like that this weekend—no, this lifetime—I’m going to go postal.

The two of them talk quietly amongst themselves. I can feel their eyes boring into me, but I keep my gaze fixed out the tiny window and thank God that I can’t hear what they’re saying above the roar of the engines.

Once we’re up in the sky, Leo yells at Jasper, and Jasper’s six-foot-five self, covered in tattoos, and in every way the exact opposite of his brother, flops down on the seat beside me.

“Hey, Pop Tart,” he says.

I roll my eyes. Again, with that goddamn nickname. “You know, eventually you’re going to realize I’m a grown woman, and that nickname isn’t really appropriate. Not that it was when I was ten, seventeen or twenty-three.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot you have a stick up your ass now.”

I glare at him. “I do not have a stick up my ass, thank you.”

“Right, I suppose you exited the womb wearing pearls and a sweater set.”

I glance down at the clothing in question. “For a start, I don’t wear pearls, and there’s nothing wrong with sweater sets. Besides, lots of people get cold on planes.”

“What’s with the brooch, though?” He flicks the Peppy Chapette Starstruck Sadie brooch pinned to my sweater.

I bat his hands away, because these things are a collector item and virtually impossible to get your hands on. This one also reminds me of Castiel—who’s always been my favorite cat. “They’re cute, and they make people happy.”

“Oh, Poppy, it’s adorable how clueless you are. Cleavage makes people happy.”

“Cleavage makes horndogs like you and your brother happy. Brooches make other people happy.”

“Whatever,” he says with a typical Nass grin. “So listen . . . it wasn’t a real bet.”

“If you came over here to plead his case, you can quit right now. I’m not ever making the mistake of letting Leo Nass between these legs again.”

“Would you let another Nass between your legs?”

“Eww.” I stare at him in horror.

Jasper just shrugs. “I had to ask.”

“No, you really didn’t.”

“I think you messed with his head, Pop Tart.”

“Oh, please. Leo has a two-second rebound rate. He’ll be back to screwing everything that moves in Manhattan the second we land. Now, if you’re done annoying the shit out of me, I have work to do.”

“Fine, but don’t come crying to me when you’re still single and he’s fucking his way through the Upper East Side just to forget you.”

Gee, thanks, Jasper. Because apparently I’m that pathetic.

“The only thing I’ll be crying about are my test results when they come back positive for syphilis.”

He chuckles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just promise me you’ll think about accepting his apology?”

I shake my head. “Not even if this plane went down, he was impaled on the propeller, and his dying wish was my forgiveness.”

“Jeez, Pop Tart. You’re a stone-cold killer.”

“And you are getting on my last nerve, Jas.”

“Okay, cranky girl. I’m going. No need to get your panties in a wad.” He stands and wanders off down the aisle. I don’t look back.

***

When I exit the plane in Male, Leo grabs my wrist and pulls me back toward him. “Poppy—”

“Don’t touch me.”

“You gotta talk to me sometime. You can’t avoid me forever.”

“Sure, I can,” I say, and I grab my bag and stalk away.

I spend the next three hours dodging the Nass brothers at the Male airport, and this time I’m thankful for sitting in coach while they’re in business class. I make it through the twenty-three-hour flight to JFK without seeing either one of them, and when I finally get back to my apartment, I sigh contentedly as I slide my key in the lock and let myself in.

My relief is short-lived. Home sweet home is a goddamn mess. I make a note to fire my new pet-sitter. I drop my bag near the door.

Dean rushes over, meowing at my feet, more than likely because my entrance typically means food. Sam lazily flicks his tail from his perch on the top of the cat jungle gym, and Castiel glares from the window again.

“Well, hello to you too,” I snap, and realize how insane I sound talking to my cats. Leo was right—I’m one step away from being a crazy cat lady. Maybe I’m already there.

I set my house to rights, and then I separate my clean and dirty clothes from my trip and when I’m finally showered and sitting on the couch with a TV dinner for one, the weight of this week hits me. Almost getting fired from my job, sleeping with Leo, watching my ex marry my best friend? It’s been humiliating beyond belief.

Shoving aside my dinner. I decide I need something stronger and I head straight to my freezer for the pint of ice cream. I’d consider making a late-night visit to Magnolia Bakery, but after how that turned out last time, I’d really rather not. Instead, I do what every heartbroken woman in Manhattan does: I put on The Notebook and drown myself in calories as I cry and dream of a man who will love me the way Noah loves Allie.

Once again, I find myself wallowing in a calorie-induced coma two days later. And I’m out of ice cream.

I switch my pajama bottoms for sweats, but I leave on my Grumpy Cat T-shirt—it’s not like anyone will know it’s pajamas—and I grab my coat. I don’t bother fixing my hair, and simply leave it be in its messy bun on top of my head. Then I snatch my purse and keys from the kitchen counter, and flee in search of ice cream and maybe a Magnolia cupcake . . . or two. Hell, why stop there? I decide, as I’m staring at the cashier. I should just buy a whole damn cake. German Chocolate. Yes. A three-tiered, rich, sweet-chocolate cake layered with coconut, caramel, and pecan filling is just what I need.

“I’ll have the German Chocolate please?

The guy tilts his chin toward me. Most people would find him rude, but this is New York. “A slice? Or the whole thing?”

“The whole thing,” I say, and then I add, “It’s not all for me.”

“Uh-huh,” the guy says, and I know he doesn’t believe me.

“It’s true, I have a . . . brunch to get to.” I turn and stare out the window. I’m pretty sure it’s after ten p.m, though I’m not sure what day it is. “Tomorrow. The brunch is tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay. It’s eighty-five dollars.”

Damn it. I hand over my credit card. I still don’t know if Jacinta will fire me after the cake fiasco, not to mention calling in sick the last two days in a row. It’s a real possibility that I’m soon to be homeless. I might as well live it up while I can. I doubt I’ll be eating Magnolia Bakery cakes while living out of a cardboard box.

I take the carton from his outstretched hands, but then I remember I have no coffee at home, so I order one of those too. The cashier rolls his eyes; this dude seriously needs an attitude adjustment. He runs my card again and hands it back to me before he wanders off to make my coffee.

I turn and decide to peruse the window display, but I find myself face-to-face yet again with my archnemesis. “Hey, Pop Tart. We really need to stop meeting like this.”

I fold my arms over my chest and decide ignoring him in the hope that he will go away is probably childish. Also, it doesn’t work. “Maybe you just need to leave New York. Haven’t you exhausted every part of this city already? I’m pretty sure you’ve slept with more than half of it.”

He grins. “Including you, remember?”

“How could I forget? I’m still awaiting my test results.”

“Are you eating your feelings again, Pop Tart?” He looks me up and down with a grin on his stupid, pretty, smug face.

“I don’t have feelings,” I lie. “Men broke them all.”

“That’s a shame, ’cause even though you’re standing there in sweats and your Grumpy Cat pajamas, and it looks like you haven’t washed your hair in days, I’m having some feelings of my own. In my pants.”

“Well, isn’t that nice? You’ll be able to use your hard little pecker there as a chisel and carve another groove in your bedpost. Don’t add mine, though. I faked it.”

He wraps his hand around my waist and pulls me into him, whispering, “You didn’t fake it. You can’t fake your legs shaking when my head was between them, or when my cock was inside you and you woke the entire resort screaming my name.”

I shove at him, feeling color flood my cheeks. “You know there’s a special place in hell for men like you. Excuse me. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”

I stalk out of the store, but he follows. “Poppy.”

“Just don’t.” I shake my head and turn to glare at him. “Aren’t you exhausted from all the games you play with women? Don’t you ever feel any remorse? If you care about me at all as a friend, or a frenemy, or just a person you fucked once, please just leave me alone.”

“I do care about you, Poppy. Why the fuck do you think I can’t stay away? I tried.” He takes a slow, deep breath in—likely in frustration. For the first time I notice the dark circles under his eyes, his rumpled clothes, messy hair, and the scruffy beard covering his jaw. “I tried to give you space, but I’ve been hanging around this store for days hoping I’d see you.”

My shoulders sag in defeat. I’m weary to the bone, and my heart is a pathetic bruised and battered thing that just doesn’t know when to quit. I still want him, even now. I can’t help it. “God, do they teach guys like you in school how to wear a woman down?”

“Is it working?”

“No,” I whine, and I may be lying just the teensiest little bit. “I might have fallen for it on the island because I was miserable, but you know what’s better than being miserable, Leo?”

“What?”

“Being miserable but smart enough to say no.” I turn and walk away.

“You know what’s better than being miserable, Poppy?”

The question stops me in my tracks. He sounds dejected, which is ridiculous because this is Leo we’re talking about. This man wouldn’t know rejection if it hit him in the face because no one has ever said no to him before. Well, except me just now, but that’s beside the point.

“Being happy.”

I turn and face him. I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. I’m happy—aren’t I? Okay, maybe not at this very moment, but I’ve been rocking this Single Woman in the City thing for a while now and I don’t need a man to . . . Leo strides toward me, and it’s as if I’m stuck on glue. I don’t move. I don’t back away.

“I’m an idiot.” His hands cup my cheeks.

“You’ll get no arguments here.” I close my eyes, loving the feel of his touch, hating myself for it, and wishing I could go back to just hating him.

“I made a bet, and it was a stupid, thoughtless decision, but I don’t regret it because it made me realize one thing that should have been obvious all along.”

“What?” I whisper, hanging on every word. What the hell is wrong with me?

“That I need my fucking head checked because I’m crazy about you.” He pulls me in, but pauses just inches from my face, as if he’s gauging my reaction, and then he plants a kiss on my lips. I’m so surprised that I attempt to reel back, and I drop my box. It hits the pavement with a loud thud. Leo’s hands are on me, one cupping the nape of my neck, the other splayed against my back. My arms involuntarily wrap around his neck.

His hands slide lower, until he’s grabbing my ass. I’m sure half the bakery’s patrons are watching us, because there’s a loud applause and I pull away to look at them, and then down at the box by my feet.

“You ruined my cake,” I accuse.

“It always tastes better ruined anyway,” he says, and presses a kiss to my lips before bending to pick it up. The box is still intact, but when he lifts the lid, inside is a sloppy mess of chocolate frosting and crumbs. Leo sticks his hand in and scoops some of the goop, and I stare in horror as he shoves the handful in my face. My mouth drops open.

“Oh my God, you did not just do that.” I lift the corner of my shirt and wipe away the frosting on my nose and mouth. I don’t even care that half of Bleecker Street can see my untoned pasty chest and my old bra.

“Jesus, Pop Tart. What the fuck are you wearing?”

“It’s washing day. You know how hard it is to get laundry done in this city.”

He chuckles. “Relax, I’m kidding. I only care about your underwear so long as it’s on the floor of your apartment, or mine.”

“Mine’s closer.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

It’s only another few feet to my door, but we spend the walk with hungry lips and desperate hands. Once we enter my apartment, those lips and hands are everywhere. Leo yanks off my jacket and shirt and grabs a fistful of cake. Smothering my breasts in frosting, he licks them clean. I squeeze my eyes shut, both hating and loving the sensation of it all. I pull his shirt off, discarding it on the floor with my own, and grab a fistful of cake, smooshing it in his face and along the hard planes of his chest and stomach. He draws my fingers into his mouth, sucking them hard, and I can’t help but smash my lips into his. He tugs at my sweats, slipping his hand inside. I moan as he teases my clit through the thin cotton of my panties, and I don’t want to wait any longer. I unfasten his belt, unzip his pants and shove them down his hips, then I push his hand away and yank my sweats and panties off so I’m completely naked.

He eyes me appreciatively and groans, abruptly pulling me toward him. My hands flail and knock the bakery box off the table, and we all go down in a heap. I straddle Leo’s hips and kiss him hard, rubbing myself along his thick shaft. Then I slide a hand between us and guide him inside.

***

Afterward, we’re a mess. As we lie in the wreckage, sated and sore, I curl into his chest and breathe in his woodsy sage scent.

“Leo.”

“Mmm,” he says, drawing lazy circles over my messy stomach.

“What happens now?”

“Well, I go home, and you take a goddamn shower. ’Cause you’re a hot mess.”

My mouth drops open. I sit up and glare at him. My blood begins to boil, and just when I’m about to let him have it, he chuckles.

“Ah, Pop Tart, you’ve got to stop making this so much fun.” He pulls me closer, and I lean into him, but it’s not without pouting.

“I hate you, Leo Nass.”

“Nope, pretty sure you love me,” he says, pressing a kiss to my hair. “Just like I love you.”

I lift my head again. “You love me?”

“Yeah, Pop Tart. I love you.”

I smile. “Well, I am very charming, and I do grow on people.”

He nods, tracing his fingertips over my back. “Like mold.”

“Hey, I’m far too young and pretty for mold.”

“You forgot crazy.”

“That too.” He smiles. Sam comes and jumps on Leo’s washboard abs. He settles in, purring, drooling and flexing his paws. Leo gives him a scratch behind the ears and I find myself suddenly jealous.

“My crazy little cat lady.” He shoves the cat away and rolls on top of me, squishing me into even more German Chocolate cake.

“You love me,” I mock, dipping my finger into a blob of frosting and drawing a heart on his chest. “Leo Nass loves Poppy Porter.”

He grabs my hand and traces the heart, then he writes 4 EVA inside it. I raise a brow. “Forever, huh?”

He gives me that old Nass the Ass grin, and I melt completely.