I'm more than happy to leave the coffee shop and the prying ears and eyes of the people listening in.

  She waves coyly to the Man-bun-barista as we exit. He's not bad looking with his strong brow and dark stubble. He's trim and moves efficiently making coffees—a favorable attribute. Then he winks. My stomach does a little bump. Oh wait, I'm with Kat. Duh. Or maybe he got coffee grounds in his eye.

  "He winked at you," I say to Katya as the cold wind whips along the cement and stone-lined avenue.

  "No, he winked at you."

  "Uh, doubtful."

  She shrugs. "If you see yourself the way you truly are, then the potential for miracles is boundless."

  "Don't drop your yoga woo-woo words on me, lady."

  She throws me her fiercest bitch brow. From under my wool hat, I attempt to replicate the steep angle, but I can't seem to control the outer edge of my eyebrow. I'd like to throw some shade at the ache that's followed me for years—at least whenever the concept of a male and a me enters my thoughts, which is from six to eleven most days, Friday nights, Sunday mornings, and well, almost always.

  We pass one of my favorite bookstores and instead of looking at my reflection in the glass like Katya, I look beyond—at the stories and the pages filled with romances that reliably end with a happily ever after.

  "He's kind of hot," Katya says.

  "Who? What?" I ask, pulled from my thoughts.

  "The guy in there." She brazenly points, not caring if he sees.

  "Oh, uh, yeah," I say vaguely. It hasn't escaped my notice that the guy who I buy my books from is attractive. Or that he flirts with me every time I go in. Well, at least I think the small talk he makes is flirting. I've been out of practice for so long a simple hello or inquiry about my sleeping habits from my doctor is liable to be misinterpreted.

  He's cute but so is the Man-bun-barista, the guy in the puffer jacket who just smirked at Katya as we passed, and according to her, the fella who lives down the hall from us in our new place. Oh, and don't let me forget about the gym rat she's so eager to see at her next class. There are hot, available men all over this city, but there's a difference between being nice to look at and being a nice person. I know this intimately.

  Yet, it might be the already-long winter or the cold spell that has been the last several years since I turned away from men and toward books, but lately I've been feeling a little twinge deep inside that compels me to take a second glance and wonder…

  Maybe it's a result of loneliness or hormones or the effects of something as mysterious as global warming, but my icy inner core is thawing, I can feel it: drip by drip by drop. And I'll do anything, including reducing my carbon footprint, planting trees, conserving water, whatever, not to face the shame and guilt I've been carrying with me for years.

  However, I don't tell Kat. Not the truth and not the erosion of my self-imposed singlehood. No way. She'd have suitors lined up around the block. She loves to play matchmaker even though she's perpetually single, but of course, that's by design.

  "So, tomorrow is the big day," she says, bringing me back into conversation.

  "Saturday, yay." My false cheer nips the winter air with sarcasm. "A day off from the slog of my new job."

  "See, that's the problem. You don't have any fun."

  The cold makes my eyes water, and I blink away her comment.

  "I thought my problem was that I need to get laid."

  "That too, but you have to admit that you're kind of miserable."

  I tighten the scarf around my neck. "I’m just a twenty-something trying to avoid this quarter life crisis that's been dogging me for years and make it in the big apple," I reply sardonically.

  "No, you're pretty, intelligent, and a really great friend."

  "Ha."

  "Navy." Katya's voice is the kind of sharp that comes before adding my middle and last names to her scolding. "Eliminate the jaded cynicism. The nineties are over."

  "I thought you said the nineties were making a revival."

  "In fashion houses and that was two years ago."

  "Where does the time go?"

  "Exactly."

  The sleek gray sign for the gym where she teaches her evening yoga class comes into view.

  "Meet me for juice afterward."

  I'm already a few steps past her with my hand lifted to wave goodbye. "Shouldn't that be cocktails?" I ask, edging away.

  "We hydrate first." Unwilling to give up, she links her arm in mine. "Come on. It'll be fun. You need to have more fun. And look, there he is." She gestures through the glass door at a verifiable hunk of a man with strong biceps and the kind of full lips that I have no doubt will soon be all over Kat.

  "I have to finish packing."

  She lets out an, "Mmm," probably thinking about gym-guy's lips. Then she snaps her head from side to side. "Sounds boring, but fine. I'll see you bright and early, ready to move into our new place."

  We both bounce on our toes half because our teeth chatter and half because we're genuinely excited. In this moment, despite the chill, Kat's preternatural beauty, charm, and confidence—highlighting what I lack—, I remember I'm really lucky that our friendship has endured all these years. A delicate smile blooms on my lips, warming me.

  "Ohh, almost there," Katya says, returning the grin. "Just a little more." She widens her own smile and pokes my cheek where my dimple hides.

  Just as she's about to go into the bright glow of the gym to teach yoga to the man-hunk, someone calls my name over the din of traffic and chatter, sneezing, and coughing of passersby well into winter flu season.

  "Navy, Navy," repeats a low, familiar voice I all but thought I'd locked away in the past.

  I don't turn. I don't move. I freeze. Yes, it's cold out, but so is my heart.

  Katya stares. "Whoa."

  "Navy," he calls again.

  She nudges me.

  I slowly turn and then his strong, capable arms wrap me in a hug.

  Chapter 2

  Sexy Beast

  I breathe Carrick's minty, soapy, rainbow scent long enough to remember why I need to wriggle free from his embrace and wipe the smile off my face.

  His lips, the ones I imagined myself kissing before I'd ever swapped spit with anyone, part slightly. He seems taller than I remember, broader—even more sure of himself if that's possible—, and every bit as handsome as he was in all of my teenage dreams—and a few since then. He wears a dark blue knit hat over his dark blond hair and a shadow of matching stubble fills in his jawline.

  I stiffen as a flurry of memories rush at me like the wind whipping down the corridor of buildings.

  He gazes at me expectantly. When I don't respond he stuffs his hands in his pockets, looks quickly at the ground, and then back at me.

  It doesn't escape my notice that Katya surveys him, cat-like. Though not in her usual irresistible-guys can't help themselves-sexy feline way. She sniffs the air as though she senses something amiss.

  Before I can think about how to explain or explore the way I feel right now, I clutch my bag and say, "I have to go."

  Before Carrick can say another word or Katya can convince me to be a normal human being, I rush off, letting the throng of commuters, rushing to get home to their warm apartments, sweep me into their midst.

  He shouts my name a few more times, but then it's as though the city goes quiet. All I hear is the rushing of blood in my ears as I try to stem the tears that resulted from a different kind of silence.

  I pass the bookstore, eager for a fix. The bookseller Katya and I spotted earlier isn't behind the counter—there must have been a shift change. I hurriedly browse the new releases and then land on the final book in a series I enjoyed about three sisters who reunite at their family's beach home after leading three very different love lives.

  I quickly pay and then return to my apartment, which by non-Manhattan real estate standards would be called a closet. Katya can actually touch one wall with her fingertips, stretch into an elegant yoga pose, and reach the other wall with the tips of her toes.

  When she said she was moving from her old apartment to her new one and had an extra room, I thought she meant she was going to use it for home office space or a yoga practice room. She surprised me by asking if I wanted to move in. She can afford the rent on her own. Yes, even Manhattan prices. I didn't want her to take pity on me, especially since at the time, I was between jobs, but I would have been insane to say no.

  The new bedroom is the same size as the one I had in my parents' colonial outside Boston, which is to say there's room for a bed, dresser, a desk, and a few bookshelves. Bonus, there's also a closet. Not to mention the apartment boasts a kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room. My current place is jealous.

  Katya regularly takes and teaches yoga retreats so Auntie Navy will easily be able to take care of Mew, Kat's cat. Whenever I visit, he purrs loudly which makes me think he likes me better; probably the only male in the city who feels that way—we're buddies.

  I survey the boxes stacked next to the door. When I left my college dorm and took this apartment, I instantly went to Ikea for inspiration—how to make efficient use of three-hundred square feet of prime Manhattan property. It was exciting! I was on my own! Independent! And what's happened since?

  I racked up a significant amount of credit card debt.

  I failed at being a girl boss.

  I had a nervous breakdown.

  I curled into a ball and cried.

  I left a dream job at a small publisher, for a soul-sucking position to pay down my bills, and all I have to show for it is a huge collection of books, a heart that has never quite healed, and a void in my life I don't know how to fill except with the aforementioned books. Mountains, heaps, shelves, and stacks of them.

  This space, that was once my pride and refuge, has become claustrophobic. It doesn't help that some genius decided to divide the pre-existing apartments in the building into smaller units some years ago, without separating the climate control, leaving me sweltering. But that's not the only reason. The face that has haunted me with the smug pouty-lipped smile, the cunning summer-blue eyes, and his fucking voice—the one that wasn't man enough to speak up when he should have, simmers my blood.

  I throw open the window—it sticks halfway up because decades worth of paint form cream, yellow, and beige layers of strata. Not the dramatic flair I was going for. Nonetheless, I let the cold winter air chill my cheeks. I draw an icy breath and lean out.

  "Carrick Kennely, if you can hear me, go back to wherever you came from!"

  The window rattles when I slam it down. "That's more like it," I say, satisfied.

  When I moved in from my college dorm, I had little in the way of worldly belongings. I was supposed to take a term abroad senior year, but that fell through. My paring down in preparation made it easy to move across town. This time I haven't considered how I'm going to get everything back across town and up a few blocks to the new apartment. I don't think a taxi driver will take kindly to me schlepping load after load, stuffing his trunk full of books, and strapping my mattress to the roof. Never mind the expense if he keeps the meter running.

  I flop onto my bed and my head slaps into a bound rectangular shape about six-by-eight as though scolding me for not thinking this through sooner.

  Books cover nearly surface. They're everywhere, including in the stove when I open it to double check that I'm not leaving anything behind. I'm like a literary Carrie Bradshaw. Katya has the wardrobe of the actual Carrie Bradshaw and then some.

  All I have left to pack are my bathroom items, but first, I'll read, escape into a happy world of romance to take away the sting of this lonely Friday night, Katya's unintentional reminders that she's everything I'm not, and unexpectedly seeing Carrick.

  I reread the passage He loved her despite her flaws and doubts. He loved the lines whiskering her eyes. He loved the curl of her toes. He loved her jaunty laughter, her dry skin, her smile. He loved everything about her. Inside and out. Then the lines blur when I get to Yet, that was not enough. I race through the next few chapters, desperate to know how it turns out, but then my phone beeps with a text.

  It's my mother. After countless voicemails I failed to return, she finally realized I'll reply if she texts. I'm better with the written word than the spoken. Are you done packing?

  No. Not even close.

  Have you figured out how you're going to get everything to Katya's? My mother supremely approves of our cohabitating, likely hoping some of Katya's confidence, grace, and accomplishments will rub off on me. In her assumption that the new apartment is Katya's place, rather than ours, and in the lines of texted questions that are sure to continue, I read into her disappointment.

  Nope. Then I delete it. I consider a lie such as I was out on a date and just got in. He's going to help me move tomorrow. But after everything that happened, I abide by a strict code of honesty. Maybe with everyone except myself. I type, I'll get it sorted out. Not to worry.

  But she does worry. That's her thing. The little dots on my phone screen indicating she's writing fill me with guilt and shame.

  My phone beeps with her message. I think this move will be wonderful for you. Best of luck, dear. Please call if you need anything.

  I haven't needed anything since my heart was broken and I left home for college. I don't need anything or anyone. I may have a few fails under my belt, a few too many tubs of ice cream too, but I'm still here, still standing. Or lying down, actually.

  I get to my feet and slide the last several years of my life into labeled boxes. My clothes fill a couple of suitcases and my books fit neatly into reusable bags, crates, boxes, and bins.

  I fall asleep reading about how the love interest in my book won the third sister back by being so purely honest in his affections, words, and deeds she found herself deeply, madly in love. Of course, they lived happily ever after.

  *

  I wake abruptly to a wrapping on my front door—the singular door aside from the pocket door to the bathroom. I scramble out from under the heavy comforter, wipe sweat from my brow—the heat is cranked. Odd that I didn't throw off the covers in the night. The romantic notion that they were like a lover's embrace sweeps into my thoughts as I face plant on the floor, my foot twisted in the sheets. All the while, the knocking continues.

  "Coming," I call. I only have to take a few strides to reach the door. I peer through the peephole at a stout man wearing a hat that says Morty's Movers.

  "Morning, Miss Carrington," he says, glancing at a piece of paper. "Katya Kalonje sent me here to collect your things."

  "Oh. Oh!" I repeat. "If you don't mind giving me a minute."

  He taps his watch. "Listen, I'm doing her a favor and I'm double parked. I can literally only give you a minute."

  I exhale and then toss my bedding into a black trash bag, my remaining toiletries into a shopping bag, and then pull on my boots, jacket, and gather the other random items scattered around the small space, stuffing them into yet another bag.

  Another mover appears with the greeting, "We have to hurry up. Can't get another ticket."

  I shuffle past them, hastening down the stairs with boxes, not at all grateful for the rude awakening, but extremely thankful that I don't have to figure out how to get my stuff to the new place.

  When the guys from Morty's close the doors on the back of the moving truck, I do, however, have to figure out how to get myself to the apartment. In my pajamas with the polka dots on the bottoms. I catch my reflection in a car window. Bad, terribly, hideous bedhead. I call after the truck, but with a puff of exhaust that makes me cough, it pulls into traffic, accelerating so they don't lose the yellow light.

  I'm glad I had the presence of mind to remember my purse and laptop. I hurry past a coffee cart, not counting on anyone loving me for the fine lines around my eyes, my crazy hair, or general dishevelment, much unlike the sweet couple in the book I devoured last night.

  I hurry to the subway and like the moving truck, the train pulls away without me. I wait on the platform, smooth down my hair, check my breath, cringe, and pull out my phone.

  I text Katya The eagle is on its way.

  It's not until the next train arrives and I'm sardined inside, inhaling mega morning breath—mine has nothing on the guy reading The Times—that she replies.

  What eagle? It's too early in the morning to speak in metaphor or is it simile?

  Code I reply. I was using code. Thank you for sending your moving guys for my stuff.

  You're welcome. I didn't want to see you trying to get your mattress across town. How was your last night in your apartment? I'd tell you mine was filled with fond reminiscing, but I only just arrived and it's already empty. ;-)

  Do you mean you spent the night elsewhere? I ask, knowing exactly what I'm in for. Kat loves to recount her conquests.

  She doesn't answer and the slinking fear that I misread her eyeing Carrick pushes me through the suctioning subway doors, up the steps, and back onto the street.

  Katya stands under the awning of our new building and brightens when I approach.

  "Good morning, sunshine."

  I level her with my gaze.

  "Cloudy with a chance of laser eyes?" Anyone else would have looked away with the warning. Instead, as fearless as ever, she says, "Why are you still in your pajamas?"

  "The movers woke me from my slumber."

  "Ah, sleeping beauty. I hardly slept." She fans herself. "Oh, but before I tell you all about that… Who. Was. That. Sexy. Beast?"

  "What sexy beast?"

  "The one who hugged you on the street last night? Practically mauling you with his massive honey guns," she says, flexing her arm. "The one that gave you that look."

  "The I hate you so much look?"

  She elbow checks me. "No, the I want to lick you look. The I want to fuck you look. The I love you look."

  My face squishes up as if she splashed me with cold, icy, slushy wastewater from the streets of Manhattan. "First, that's not at all true. I'm pretty sure he hates me." I hate me after what we did. "Second, you didn't sleep with him?" As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel stupid and even more childish and undersized standing next to the elegantly towering figure of Katya Kalonje.