I balled up a spare syllabus from my TA section and tossed it at him as he walked out. He laughed at me one more time before he ducked into the elevator.

  I didn't even have to dig deep. I knew the only reason I was so pissed is that JJ was absolutely right. I couldn't stop thinking about Mark—basic, sloppy, inexplicably captivating Mark—and I'd only met him twenty-four hours ago.

  I was screwed, and not in the way I wanted to be.

  Chapter 10

  Mark

  Neither Toby nor I had had enough to drink to not remember what had happened the night before. Hell, I wasn't even hung over. Not even a little bit. The two and a half beers over two hours were just enough to have me lulled into a deep sleep and keep me there for the entire night.

  Of course, the peaceful sleep was haunted by dreams of Toby. Her lips, the way her hips curved when she pulled her knees to her chest, the throatiness of her laugh when she was truly surprised by a joke. And her freakish strength when she wanted something.

  I could only assume by the way she'd kissed me last night that she'd wanted to. She'd looked like she was steeling herself, like she was jumping into something she couldn't fully understand but was determined to do anyway.

  I hardly knew her, but I got the sense that was how she approached everything in life. Full-on or not at all.

  If I closed my eyes now, even as I took my first sips of coffee, I could still remember how she tasted.

  I wanted more.

  It was the first time I'd wanted anyone—anything—for as long as I could remember. I'd loved being with Kylie, felt safe and secure and at home with her. But how long had it been since I'd wanted her, felt desperate to be near her instead of just mourning the absence of her?

  Yes, I'd been lonely in a new place all by myself, which, I had to admit, was pretty lamely decorated. I felt Kylie's absence every day when I was cooking dinner alone or watching TV alone or folding laundry alone. But I never felt desperate to have her back—nothing even close to the way I felt about seeing Toby again. Like I was ready to crawl out of my skin just to get closer to the time we'd be in the same room again.

  I was able to keep my mind clear during my run, but the second I stepped foot in my apartment again, it was like the ghost of Toby followed me with every step. For the first time ever, my apartment held the faint echo of a different girl sharing my space. I could see her on the couch, hear her laugh, remember the things she'd said that made Hawthorne growl.

  He raised his head a couple inches when I opened the door, regarded me with his single eye for a couple seconds, then set his head back down and sighed heavily, as if my interruption of his nap was the most frustrating thing that had happened to him all week. Maybe it was. What a life.

  I chuckled as I dropped my keys on the counter and kicked my shoes off in the direction of the mat next to the door. “You are such a lazy asshole, Hawthorne.” His ear twitched but he didn't even bother to open his eye for that one.

  Even though Toby had never been in my shower, though, thoughts of her followed me there anyway. As I pulled my shirt over her head, I pictured her doing the same. Her hair was so long. What would it look like cascading down her naked back? Would it brush her waistband, maybe even get in the way of her fingers as they worked the button of her jeans open?

  Would Toby duck under the water first, or would she laugh as I pulled her in after me? Would the water bead up on her lips in a way that would make me want to lick it off? Would the chill of cool air on her damp skin make her nipples pucker? What color were they? Were they rosy, picking up the blush from her cheeks, or brown, like toffee?

  I groaned as my dick jumped at the thought. God, I was an idiot.

  Kylie had never agreed to take a shower with me. She was a curvy girl, petite and very round in all the places I loved, and always complaining about how she looked naked, how “nobody wanted to see that .”

  I'd wanted to see “that”, desperately, but she'd had a strict lights-out policy for sex, and I could count the number of times she'd agreed to be fully naked with me on one hand. The one hand that was now stroking my stiffening dick while I imagined what Toby Eisen would look like without a single stitch of clothing on.

  I imagined a world where Toby and I had gone out on a date and ended up back at my place, where she put my hands on her body like there was nothing she wanted more in the world, where she grabbed for me, her eyes full of feeling, like she wanted me just as badly as I wanted her.

  I wasn't blind. I'd noticed the way her eyes had raked over my body, had connected with my eyes, a handful of times last night. Maybe, if she really was agreeing to go out with me, another kiss was a possibility.

  And if a kiss was, maybe, someday, a shower would be.

  I imagined what it would feel like to press my wet body against hers, my rock-hard cock pressing close to her softest parts, and that was all it took. I came hard with a long, satisfied groan, my forehead crushing my other fist into the shower wall.

  I wiped down the shower wall, rinsed off, stepped out, and tugged some clothes on while my body was still half-wet. I needed to focus on getting ready for the show I had tickets to tonight—a set in an underground club that only opened when a new DJ impressed the owner.

  As much as I hated the ambiguity in Toby's offer, and hated myself even more for kind of sort of turning her down at first, I was hoping she'd give me a second chance to accept. My hopes were high, buoyed by the memory of her lips pressed hard and fast against mine. But if I was going to make the first “Mark Mahler looking for a girlfriend” segment that would have listeners asking for more, I had to determine if I already had my first date lined up.

  Which was a great excuse to text Toby now.

  * * *

  Me: Thanks for coming over last night.

  * * *

  She didn't answer right away, or even after several minutes. My fingers itched for something to do. I desperately wished I hadn't washed all the dishes. I walked around the living room, dusting off the top of the TV, picking up a t-shirt that had somehow ended up on the floor there a couple days ago.

  When my phone buzzed in my hand, I about had a heart attack.

  * * *

  Toby: Thanks for the beer. It was nice.

  * * *

  Dammit. That didn't further the conversation at all. She was smart enough—and experienced enough, I gathered—to know how to keep the ball in my court.

  * * *

  Me: So. About what you said Friday, in the office.

  Toby: What was that?

  * * *

  Oh, God. She was going to make me say it. I took a deep breath and commanded my fingers not to shake more than they already were.

  * * *

  Me: How you could help me out with this dating thing.

  * * *

  The reply dots appeared for several seconds, then nothing. Then more nothing. Nothing for five minutes, then ten.

  I decided to organize my drawer of graphic t-shirts. That took another eight minutes.

  My shower walls probably could stand to be scrubbed, considering what I’d just done in there. I dug under the sink for a sponge and was about to tackle them when I heard my phone buzz again, from where I'd left it in the kitchen.

  I practically catapulted myself across the house to get to it faster.

  * * *

  Toby: Yep. We hung out last night. That counts for week one.

  * * *

  Did it really count? We’d barely hung out for half an hour. But we had kissed. I could probably include that. As long as I asked her permission first. Maybe, when I talked about it, I could distract from the usual “dating” expectations of week one by making fun of my own apartment. Maybe leave the audience in suspense about whether I’d be seeing her again, considering that I was in suspense so desperate my heart felt like it would explode.

  Then again, maybe she was trying to tell me something. Maybe it had been so awful that she wanted to make it clear that she would not be going on another date with me. That had counted, that was enough, thanks very much.

  Just as my heart began its descent to its familiar miserable location in a sad, dark pit in my stomach, my phone buzzed again.

  * * *

  Toby: Still want to take your chances with me for a second week?

  * * *

  My eyes went wide. My hands shook as I tapped out a response before I could think twice about it. As dumb as I felt admitting it to myself, I’d really been expecting Toby to bail on the arrangement we’d made after our first date.

  * * *

  Me: Absolutely.

  * * *

  I stared at the phone. Yeah, I felt pathetic even to myself, but this girl, and the barrage of conflicting messages and feelings she caused to rain down on me, had me totally captivated. Shit. Maybe she was waiting for me to suggest some options, or plan something or…

  Honestly, Kylie and I had mostly sat around our apartment, or tagged on to plans her friends already had. When Ethan said I had no dating experience, it wasn’t an exaggeration. I didn’t even know where to start to plan one. Should I Google “Nice restaurants in Philly?”

  My palm vibrated again.

  * * *

  Toby: We'll be done at the studio by 7:00 Friday, right?

  Me: Maybe a little earlier. Shari usually likes to get out of there even sooner.

  Toby: Oh yeah? Is she a partier?

  Me: Like you wouldn't believe. She didn’t even want to come in on Friday when Ethan and I decided to move recording to that day, but she loves us.

  * * *

  The reply dots appeared and reappeared at least three times over the next five minutes, with no text actually coming through. Not that I was really counting or anything. Maybe she had plans, or at least a suggestion for what we could do. Maybe that was just what all girls did, some superpower or secret little-known ability they all had by default of their gender.

  Finally, Toby sent an attachment—a screenshot from a website, its colors muted teal and pink. “Sansom Yoga Studio”, it said at the top. Below the header was a class description:

  Hatha Yoga, Friday, 7:30 - deep, connected stretching. A combination of muscle-lengthening poses and breathing exercises, helping bring peace to the mind and body.

  I raised my eyebrows. Yoga? For a date?

  My phone buzzed with one last message.

  * * *

  Toby: Been meaning to try this place. Wear comfy clothes.

  * * *

  Comfy, I liked. The inability of sweats to keep my hard-ons in check? Not so much.

  This was going to be interesting.

  * * *

  Over the next few days, I tried to drown myself in work. In the music business, there was almost no limit to the artists you could explore, the clubs and venues you could reach out to, the business contacts you could build upon. I told myself when I started that I’d book any show but a wedding, and even though there were times I thought I’d have to do just that to make rent, I’d managed to keep myself afloat without breaking that original promise to myself.

  Luckily for Mark Mahler Management, there were plenty of starving artists in Philly who couldn’t quite afford to move to New York, just angling to be noticed.

  I managed to pack the weekend full of shows where I scouted new artists, brunched with club owners who hadn’t even gone to sleep since the previous night’s show, and met up for drinks with a producer at a small record label. I didn’t like to get my hopes up, but there was no denying that my efforts to get M3 off the ground were finally starting to pay off.

  Before the Bro Show planning meeting Tuesday, I paced in front of my closet for half an hour, tugging shirts over my head, realizing almost every non-button-down I owned was old or stained or fit funny, tossing each one on the floor in turn. Finally, I found a thermal long-sleeved shirt that looked decent. I vaguely remembered buying it during the week of sub-zero weather Philly had back in January. Kylie had taken our iron when she moved, so I tried to get the wrinkles out of my jeans in the dryer. It sort of worked.

  I was so nervous about what I’d say to Toby, how I’d act around her at that meeting, that it was probably for the best that I didn’t get to talk to her at all.

  She slid into her seat four minutes late, whispering an apology to Shari with those soft pink lips, and met my eyes only a couple times while we hashed out the details for that week’s show. Ten minutes into the meeting, Ethan asked if I’d managed to find a girl willing to date me yet, then collapsed into man-giggles while playing that damn “looking for a girlfriend” song. Toby looked up at me with eyes as wide as saucers, then stammered something about needing to use the restroom. She didn’t come back until we were discussing Arena football.

  As soon as the meeting ended, Shari pulled me into her office to go over some of the studio’s financials. I’d asked her for this favor—mentoring me on the business aspect of the music business. I was beyond grateful for her help every single day, except the one day I really wanted to talk to Toby after that damn meeting. Get a read on her. Find out what she was thinking, feeling, about this whole dating thing. About that kiss. (God, that kiss.) About us.

  By the time I left Shari’s office, Toby had left. I didn’t have the guts to text her.

  After all, we had a date scheduled for Friday. That was the deal, no more, no less. What more did I want?

  For the next three days, I worked like a crazy person. I must have annoyed the hell out of my clients, texting, emailing, even calling them at least twice as much as normal. I cleaned my apartment. I tried to brush Hawthorne and was bitten a few times. I went shopping and tried to cook something. I organized my kitchen cabinets. I went for run after run after run. At least that was a tried and true way to clear my head.

  The first time Natalia, my sort-of trainer, had called me, bullying me to get out and pound the pavement, she told me we were going to kill time in kilometers. Of course, back then I was trying to make the hours of the days without Kylie pass by doing something other than watching Netflix and shoveling cheezballs into my mouth. Natalia had told me, matter-of-factly, that running could solve anything. She said she was going to run with me, and she did, every time, over Facetime.

  In another universe, where Natalia hadn’t had a fling with my best buddy, I might have developed a crush on her. Even forgetting that, it was too soon for me, and she was too terrifying besides. She was thirty percent fitness buff and seventy percent daredevil, with the muscle to prove it and a personality to match. Not that there was anything wrong with a girl who was completely ripped and craved danger, but I just was not up for the ride. Every time we ran across the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, I was afraid she was going to start scaling it and then jump into the river or something.

  I liked keeping my feet on the ground, thank you very much.

  I also liked running, I’d been really surprised to discover. Really liked it. Something about the way my breathing fell into a rhythm, how I was moving just a little faster than the rest of the world. How I felt like I'd accomplished something when I'd gone three or five or seven miles.

  Plus, it didn't hurt that, after a few months of daily jogs, I was starting to see the very faint outlines of a six-pack on my torso. I wasn't a vain guy, but no guy I knew would be upset about seeing that in the mirror, either.

  It was also something I'd started after Kylie left. Something that defined my life after. Running wasn't much, but it was something that I had never shared with her, and it was my first piece of proof that I could build an adult life without her.

  Of course, I'd known that, intellectually, but when you've been with one person since your first year out of college, you've basically grown into adulthood by her side. When I'd found myself suddenly navigating adulthood alone, it was disconcerting, to say the least.

  But, between the running and finally getting some traction on building my own business, I was getting there.

  I settled onto my couch with my tablet, ready to beef up my knowledge of Jerry Z, another DJ I was shadowing who was rumored to be playing some shows on the East Coast in the next couple weeks. He was trying to break into the country-EDM fusion scene, and if he was any good, his sound would fill a mostly-empty niche in Philly. Just as I’d pulled up one of his videos on YouTube, my door nearly shook off the hinges with a sharp, rhythmic knock.

  I practically jumped off my couch, spooked. My first reaction as a lifelong homebody was to stay absolutely still and pretend I wasn’t even home, but then an unmistakable sing-song voice snaked through the tiny crack between the door and its frame.

  “Marky Mark. I know you’re in there.”

  I groaned, dragging my palm down over my face, realizing just how wild my beard was starting to get.

  “Hannah, you did not tell me you were coming into town.” I sounded more annoyed than I felt. I loved my sister more than I could say, but her assumption that I was always ready and willing to hang out was damn annoying. It only got worse when she moved to New York, since an unannounced visit to Philly also meant my twin sister crashing on my couch…unannounced.

  I opened the door, bracing myself for what I knew was coming. Hannah was a five-foot-four ball of strawberry-blonde, freckled energy who tried to tackle me every single time she saw me. Today was no exception. I grunted when her arms swung around my neck, smiling as I kissed the top of her head. Something was off. I sniffed, briefly.

  She drew back, her smile bright and teasing. “Did you just smell me, baby brother?”