Maybe he's not into PDA. But his hands were all over me during our training session. My mind then runs in a dozen directions, but I stop it at the possibility that he's married when I check his bare hands, which reveal ring-less and cold fingers.

  "That was," I search for a word, "fun." According to Katya, fun is spelled s-e-x and we didn't make it past the kissing phase, because the Jumbo Tron exchange doesn't count.

  "Great game," Omar says brightly.

  "So, um—"

  "Training session on Thursday?" he asks.

  "Yeah, sure," I say, open to giving him one more chance because I am nothing if not determined to sink the winning shot with this guy and get him to kiss me properly.

  I open my arms to hug him, but there's an awkward dance as his arm lifts, then mine lowers, then his right arm goes up and so does my left. Finally, I just clobber him like an angry player on the court, and say, "Goodnight, Omar."

  A cab pulls up and he opens the door for me, like the perfect gentleman, and then gets in. I tell the driver where I live and expect him to add his address, but then wonder if he thinks he's coming back to my place. This is all horribly awkward.

  "Oh, um, did you want to—"

  "I live a few blocks over. Easier to pay once and just get out and walk then tell him a second address. You know me, I don't mind the walk."

  "Okay." That explains that. My mistake for the premature and awkward goodbye hug.

  We chat about the game for a few minutes and I confess about my grandfather and knowing the sport inside and out.

  He's interesting and engaging for the rest of the ride, asking me about what it was like as a kid courtside. He pays the taxi fare and leaves a generous tip. He's almost perfect.

  "Well, that's me. Goodnight," I say, pointing to my building.

  He stands stiffly with his arms by his sides. I step forward to give him another hug. His cheek is inclined toward my mouth and my lips meet prickly scruff growing in. I wince and he shuffles back as though shocked or disgusted that I would kiss him. He's the one who needs to shave!

  "See you Thursday," I say, waving and wiping my mouth when I turn to my building, eager to go over the evening with Kat.

  Only Mew greets me at the door. "Mom is probably out on a hot date with a guy who wants to kiss her back," I mutter.

  Chapter 26

  Cool

  I post to The Boyfriend Book Blog about my date with Omar and our lackluster physical interaction. My readers and I sift through possibilities and options to explain his behavior:

  Maybe we're out of sync.

  Perhaps he's recently broken up after a long relationship and having a hard time adapting to the presence of other women.

  It could be that it's been a while since he was on a date or he's shy.

  Plain and simple—he's nervous around women.

  He's been rejected in the recent past and doesn't want to be hurt or embarrassed again.

  He's experiencing personal problems including but not limited to illness, illness, or death of a loved one or beloved pet, or financial struggles.

  Or he's just not into me.

  With these explanations for his behavior in mind, we make up a plan of action: during the workout, I'll return his frequent touches, thus increasing physical familiarity. I'll also inquire more about him and his life, drawing him out of his shell. Since the gym is comfortable turf for him, I'll have him warmed up, and then we can go out again afterward. I'll be sure to double, perhaps even triple, my caffeine consumption so I'm not dead tired after the workout.

  I logon to my UBoss account, skimming this week's module titled dreaming. I missed most of the daily tasks because I've been busy with work, working out, or sleeping—Carrick plays a prominent role in most of these wartime nightmares so I'm not too keen on this module.

  It instructs Using your journal, free write about what you knew you wanted to be when you were a kid.

  I prickle with resistance, but open a fresh document and title it When I grow up… The cursor teases me when minutes pass and the page remains blank

  I reread the module notes. Remember the innocence when you were little, how you trusted wholly in yourself, in possibility, and magic. Most of us change as we grow up and our desires take us in different directions. Some of us are told our dreams are impossible. Other times we simply let our dreams go to sleep and fill our lives with what we think is practical, feasible. Visit the attic in your mind and when you dig out those old treasures, hold them in your hand, recall the way your big, little girl dreams made you feel.

  I sit in front of my computer until the screen goes black. When I was little, I wanted to write books. I had a romantic vision of me at my desk with an old-fashioned typewriter creating worlds on the page.

  I jiggle the touch pad and the computer lights to life. I read Mimi's last instruction.

  What do you dream about doing now?

  The problem is I don't have a story I can tell.

  *

  Kat's been scarce lately and when she stumbles in an hour before my personal training session with Omar, I find out it's because she's been at advanced yoga teacher training all week.

  I start to fill her in on my last date with Omar, but her eyes droop and she begs off, saying, "I'll catch up on the blog," before disappearing into her bedroom. I hear the springs on her mattress bounce as if she dropped right into bed.

  My fitness clothes aren't as stylish as Kat's, but I pull on a pair of black leggings with cutouts of sheer fabric, a pink sports bra—that’s more bra and less sports—, and a fitted sweatshirt that I'll have off in the first five minutes. The addendum to the plan my blog readers and I made was to look hot so Omar wouldn't be able to keep his hands, and hopefully his lips, off me. Without Kat to guide me, I ask myself what she'd do in this instance and bring a change of clothes with the suggestion we go to a club after my session.

  With a warm hello, I immediately tackle Omar with a hug, being deliberate with my arms and not leaving any room for awkward movement. I dive right in with friendly and pointed questions to get him to talk about himself as he guides me through various movements using all of the toys the gym has to offer: resistance bands, kettlebells, balance balls, weights, and ropes.

  He's hands on through the training session, not shy about running his finger along my arm when he wants me to lengthen, nudging my shoulders back when he wants me to open up, extending my spine, and aligning my knees. By the time he has me on the deep tissue foam roller, I've built up the courage to grip his arm when I lose my balance and go spooling off the thing.

  I right myself and the movement over the roller massages and releases sore spots I didn’t realize I had. A moan escapes, and then another, low and sultry. It wasn't my intention to make such provocative noises, but now it echoes in my ears against the pumping soundtrack like we're getting naughty in a darkened corner of a club. I peek over my shoulder to see if Omar has a reaction.

  He wears his serious, personal trainer expression: jaw set, eyes fixed on my mechanics, and says, "Sounds like you're releasing some built up lactic acid. That's fantastic."

  Not sexy. Not sexy at all.

  When we're done he asks, "Are you sleeping better?"

  I shrug, channeling Kat's voice in my ear and batting my eyelashes to see if the suggestion of sleeping wakes him up. Nope.

  "Feeling better overall? Stronger?"

  I let my hand drift to his upper arm. "You could say that."

  "Good to hear," he replies enthusiastically.

  "Actually, much better. I was wondering if you want to go out later. All this activity makes me want to move, dance." I say, wiggling my hips and practically throwing up in my mouth. Who am I? Oh yes, Kat's pawn in this dating dare. If I succeed, she'll leave me alone and I can go back to meeting fictional lovers by night in my books.

  "TheKnicks are playing the Celtics tonight. There's a sports bar down the street. We could grab some wings and watch the game."

  Not exactly what I had in mind, but the tension of the game and our rival teams might work in my favor.

  I change into a teal dress that's shorter than I remember last time I wore it and tall black boots. When I waltz out of the locker room, Omar hardly spares me a glance and mechanically says, "I like the color of your dress."

  "Thanks." His comment and my garments do little to warm me when we step outside and walk a few blocks to the sports bar.

  I skip the nachos this time and instead order a salad, deciding I'll try being "that" girl since I'm dressed like her tonight, instead of my salsa-eating, ref-arguing, basketball-loving self. However, I stop short of asking him a million stupid questions as if I don't know how the game is played.

  During commercials and replays, I try to entice him with leading questions: what do you do when you're not training? And where did you grow up? As my fruity drink (blech!) drains, I wander into strange territory, asking him what he dreamt about being when he grew up, knowing my answer, but feeling the dismal unreality of it.

  He wanted to be a pro ball player and even made the team in college, but never got off the bench. This confession feels strangely intimate, not something you'd admit to a girl you're out with if you want to come off seeming ultra-masculine.

  "I'd love to see you play," I say. "Are you on a team now or do pickup games?"

  He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and the conversation dead ends. I loop a roundabout, lost in my own thoughts about how Carrick ended up with my dream of being a published novelist. The dog. Definitely a bulldog, always getting what he wants. If we're keeping score, he's broken my heart more than a few times at this point.

  As if on cue, my phone vibrates with a text.

  It from him. How's it going?

  I consider not replying, suspicious this is a war tactic, but Omar, that hot hunk of man, is glued to the game. As much as I love the Celtics, I'm bored watching them get their butts whooped. Watching an NBA travesty.

  Want company? I can bring Doritos and orange soda. There's a little twinge in my food loving soul. He remembers my favorite snacks to eat while watching a game.

  I’m out, but thanks.

  His text bubble blinks so long I wonder if he's writing a novel. I turn my attention back to Omar and the game. He's cheering when the Knicks score, teasing me with a brotherly punch in the arm.

  I struggle to come up with a trash talking response, but my phone vibrates again.

  Did you get my email?

  Yeah. I've been busy. Sorry. It's a lame response, but all's fair in love and war.

  His text bubble blinks, disappears, and the Knicks win.

  I turn my attention back to my date, feeling distinctly like I'm on the losing team, when he throws back the remains of his beer, knocks his glass on the table, and says, "Good game. I have to call it a night, early client tomorrow." He tosses some cash on the table and says, "Would you like me to walk you home?"

  My phone vibrates. Carrick wrote Cool. Cool as in neat? A low temperature? Fashionable? Calm? Whatever. This is my last chance with Omar.

  I step into the night, linking my arm through Omar's as I teeter on heels and the contents of three fruity drinks. I get as close as possible for stability, warmth, and suggestion as we cross the street.

  "It's a shame the Celtics lost. It hasn't been the same without my grandfather there."

  "You should root for the Knicks, they're strong this season."

  "I'm nothing if not loyal," I lead, so if he's been wronged by another woman, he'll know I'm faithful.

  "Yeah, I get it. My brother loves the Hornets," he says, noting a notoriously losing team.

  "You were saying earlier about the basketball team you play for. What else do you do when you're not being an absolute stud?" I gag a little at the sound of my voice, so unlike my own. But flattery and inquiring about his personal life are sure bets for him to open up if he has something personal going on.

  "Hang with my family and friends. You know, the usual."

  "Do you have a big family? Lots of friends?"

  "Sure do, even my great grandfather is still with us—he credits his longevity to his pepper plants. The Williams have been blessed with good health."

  "Pepper plants?" I ask, ruling out the possibility he's dealing with personal problems such as illness or death of a loved one.

  "Yeah, he came from a family of farmers and cultivated peppers on the side—spicy ones. Started Willy's Wild Hot Sauce. I'll bring you a bottle next time you come to the gym. He built a hot sauce empire."

  Money probably isn't an issue with a family inheritance and a thriving personal training career. "Awesome," I say, remembering the label on Kat's bottle of hot sauce in the fridge. "I always thought a great name for a hot sauce would be awesomesauce. Get it?"

  He chuckles politely.

  This is my final shot to save the game. If he's just plain nervous around women, I'll make him comfortable, very comfortable. I put on my most coy and suggestive smile, trail my finger along his jawline and say, "It's cold. Want to come to my apartment and warm up?"

  "Ah," he hesitates. "That's really cool of you, but like I said, early morning tomorrow. I have to get up at five. Thanks though."

  Cool, indeed. Not frigid or icy, because Omar probably doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. He's kind, thoughtful, sweet, but certainly not interested. Cool as in calm, disinterested.

  He steps forward and lifts his arms jauntily like he's never hugged me or anyone else, which I find hard to believe given the big family and abundance of friends.

  Our shoulders tap and then his arm grazes my boob. Bingo!

  He stumbles back. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn't mean to—" he starts, apologizing profusely.

  "It's okay. We're… cool. Thanks for the training session and dinner. Goodnight," I say, stepping toward my door.

  He dips his head, waves, and opens his mouth to say something, but I strut away so he can see what he's missing, a girl in a tragically short dress twisting her ankle on the top step. I glance over my shoulder, but he's already gone.

  I guess he's just not into me.

  Chapter 27

  Buns and Shakes

  I avoid my blog, UBoss, and the green smoothie Kat left in the fridge for me before she went to the last day of her advanced yoga teacher training. Without her to talk me out of this definite blow to my ego with Omar, along with the low, steely clouds hovering over the tops of the surrounding buildings, and the quiet, yet ongoing conflict with my heart, I decide I'm going into hibernation for the rest of the winter—or the weekend, at least.

  First, I need supplies. I bundle up and set out for the bookstore and then the supermarket. I'm on a quest to gather books and chocolate, and lots of each.

  I clutch my hands together under my mittens, fighting off the cold, but I cross my fingers, hoping my Book Boyfriend isn't working today only so I don't have to feel guilty about not completing Kat's dare. Valentine's Day is a week away and I don't think I have it in me to keep up the charade. Not that Omar alone dashed my dreams of a doily-heart date, but I'm tired, cold, and the mixed feelings I have about Carrick point toward spending the rest of the winter in my room.

  Omar's rejection isn't the kind I shed tears over, we hardly know each other, but I'm feeling fragile and unattractive when the little bells jingle on the door of the bookstore. Although I didn't put on a bra under my puffy parka, so there's that.

  I don't take off my hat—not Carrick's, not Kat's—, but my own with a matching scarf that my grandma made, making my reflection look more marshmallow-like than human.

  I hightail it to the romance section because I have one thing on my mind: a beach read, a romantic escape, a hot, hunky alpha. I want flowers and wooing, thoughtful little love notes, and sex, lots of hot, passionate, raunchy sex. Sex in elevators, in the backseats of cars, on kitchen counters, on office desks, anywhere and everywhere. I want the sweet and the salty. I want the f-u-n that I'm not having.

  I pick up several new releases and then I thumb through the shelves for a few of my favorite authors to see if there are any titles I missed. Fairchild, Faust, Ferdinand, Findley... Flynn. Not what I was looking for, but curiosity is an irresistible visitor. As I read the back of one of C.K. Flynn's books from the Love Letters series, heat licks my wrists and the bit of my exposed face, begging for release like steam from a kettle. The stack of books topples out of my hands and as I try to catch them midair, my unzipped bag goes flying, scattering loose coins, my reading glasses case, phone, and a tampon.

  I tug my hat down over my face at the crash, echoing on the dusty floor, and cringe with an inborn sense of embarrassment. Flustered, I lower to a crouch, gathering my items and the books, when a figure bends over next to me. He passes me my phone, a few coins, avoids the tampon, and then the book by C.K. Flynn.

  Beads of sweat escape from under my hat, stinging the corner of my eyes. I'm itchy and sweating and red faced. I mumble a courteous, "Thank you," and look up, meeting cognac eyes. I actually don't know exactly what specific shade of brown that is, but it's the word that came to mind.

  "Missed you coming by. Haven't seen you here in a while," says the clerk aka my flirtatious Book Boyfriend.

  "Library," I croak. I clear my throat since I haven't yet spoken to a human today.

  "Preparing for a long weekend with the big storm coming?" he asks.

  "I, uh, yeah. I guess so." Inclement weather is news to me. Maybe Mr. Douche will call a snow day and I can actually hibernate.

  Bookstore Boyfriend's (aka BB, moving forward) tapered finger taps C.K. Flynn's cover, brandished with two pairs of feet rubbing together. "Don’t you always wonder what authors who use acronym's real names are?"

  "No. I mean, not in this instance."

  "Do you know the author?"