Talk about magazine cover material: dark hair and eyes. Strong jaw. That easeful, not a care in the world, lounging on a yacht off the south of France kind of posture. He and Kat would be an OTP power couple.

  "Good morning," he says in a smooth and sexy voice. I stifle a swoon. Yes, if I let myself, I am a certified swooner.

  "We just moved in down the hall. I'm Katya and this is Navy." She jostles me so I'm standing in front of her.

  "Navy? What kind of name is that?" He asks with genuine curiosity.

  "Old family name."

  "Old family?"

  I nod. "Carrington," I say, throwing my last name in, not that it means much outside of the insulated circle of Cape Cod, veterans, and American history buffs.

  He beams a smile that could summon the sun from the heavens on this cloudy day.

  "Tell him," Kat says under her breath.

  I roll my eyes and in a flat voice, deliver the speech I've given by way of introduction on other occasions such as this: when Kat tries to get me to chat up guys. "My great-great-great— well, many, many greats—, grandfather was one of the original founders of the United States Navy. He died for our freedom while my great-great and so on grandmother was pregnant. To honor his memory, she named their son Navy. As luck would have it, the first child born to every subsequent generation was a son. Until me. Every single one of them were also esteemed Navy Admirals. Except me." I'm rambling.

  "Fascinating." The Guy in 7G clasps his arms in front of his chest and surveys me, up down, inside out. He's like the magnetometer at airport security. However, unlike the nerves that suggest I'm carrying illicit items through TSA, there's a warmer, dare I say hotter, sensation in my stomach, or rather, due south.

  "I guess so." And the story is disappointing. I leave off the part about how my parents struggled to conceive and knew they'd only have one kid so Navy it is, carrying on the legacy as the first female.

  "She's one of a kind," Kat says, practically shoving me into his arms, which quite honestly I wouldn't mind.

  "I'm Spencer. Nice to meet you." He extends his hand and shakes mine. I'd be a liar if I said I didn't feel a zing and a swoop and a sizzle.

  Navy extracts me from my wide-eyed-wonder. "We're on our way to a yoga class. Navy is an amazing student. You should see how flexible she is."

  I elbow Kat.

  He smirks.

  "And balanced, compassionate," Kat rattles on as though reading from my dating profile. The dating profile I will promptly delete when we return later.

  "I heard you had some friends over last night."

  "Housewarming party. I hope we weren't loud."

  "I don't mind loud. Mrs. Hess down the hall on the other hand…"

  Kat matches his smirk, but then says, "We love entertaining, don’t we, Navy."

  "Yeah, a whole party for a pot of crazy-roni." My cheeks burn because I have no idea why I said something stupid and random like that. I have no idea how to function as a normal adult never mind a datable one.

  "Crazy-roni?" Spencer asks.

  "It's a secret family recipe." Kat winks.

  "Are you sisters?"

  I look up at Katya Aphrodite Kalonje, my Greek-Kenyan-Indian-Russian bombshell of a best friend and shake my head. If we were born from the same litter, I'd be the runt.

  "Best friends. She's going to be the maid of honor at my wedding. The dress is going to be stunning on you—" she says, turning to me. Then to Spencer she adds, "Actually, she hasn't added her plus one to the list so…"

  "Navy, maybe we could have dinner some time," he says and I'm sure it's to spare me further embarrassment. "Or a yoga class."

  Katya elbows me this time.

  "Oh, yeah, that would be great," I say, swallowing a mouthful of awkward.

  "Why don’t you exchange numbers? Or even better, arrange to meet. Wednesday night there's a couple's yoga class in the Village. I know the teacher. She's fabulous and there's a fantastic farm-to-table restaurant nearby. You'll love it."

  Spencer smiles at me. "What time is the class?"

  "Six to seven."

  "I'll make reservations for seven-thirty."

  He watches us, or at least Kat, walk away.

  When we're on the elevator I ask, "What have you done? A couple's yoga class? Dinner?"

  "I set you up on a hot date, sister."

  "I have to cancel. I'm not going to be able to walk by his door without being humiliated. And your wedding? What wedding?"

  "I never said when my nuptials are. Someday, duh. I'm hooking a dude with a yacht. Though I guess dudes probably don't have yachts."

  "I beg to differ," I say, thinking of Carrick and the family flotilla.

  She briefly debates dudes versus gents—the former being more fun, the latter having better manners. Carrick was a dude in a gent's clothing: a player in high school with the outward evidence of being a well-heeled member of the upper crust.

  Then she says, "Have you not seen my Pinterest boards? Someday I'll exchange vows; I just never specified when. You'll be the maid of honor of course and will turn heads when you walk down the aisle. Well, until I appear." She grips my chin in her gloved hand. "Navy, when you don't scowl you look gorgeous in anything, anywhere, hung over, whatever."

  I glimpse my reflection on the brushed metal wall of the elevator.

  "Do I really scowl?"

  "Most of the time."

  "Why have you never told me? That's like walking around at a party with spinach in my teeth and no one discretely mentioning it."

  She shrugs, but her shoulders don't relax as we both brace against the cold. "I didn't know why until last night. It's as cold outside as your broken heart, but it's time to warm that thing up. You thought it was part of your identity, but it's not. Your smile is."

  "If this is operation cheer Navy up, it's not exactly on track."

  "This is operation double dare. First five guys. Five dates. Tori and everyone else were my witnesses. There's no getting out of this one."

  "What if I contact everyone and have them rescind the dare."

  "After you passed out we made a pact."

  "I didn't pass out," I answer.

  "Everyone wants you to keep them posted on your dates." She stops, redirecting the foot traffic around us like damming a stream. She clutches my shoulders. "You should start a blog."

  "Absolutely not."

  "The Boyfriend Book Blog. Password Navybean."

  "You're more cuckoo than cocoa puffs."

  "But you love me."

  That I do.

  After we cross the street, we pass a hefty man pushing a shopping cart laden with dirty plastic bags.

  "Not a candidate. Moving on," Kat says, pulling me alongside her.

  We're on the corner across from the studio, but she checks the time on her phone before detouring us down another block.

  "Where are we going?" I ask, averting my eyes from all passersby.

  "I said yoga is the cure for all, but if I stand any chance of pulling off teaching a class, I need more coffee."

  She pulls me into the short line at the cafe. I rub my hands together, warming up. After she places her order and a deep voice asks, "Anything for your friend?" I glance over at her and catch her mouthing the words a hot cup of you.

  Man-bun-barista smiles from beneath a few days of unshaven scruff and his dark lashes blink lazily.

  I sputter.

  If he saw or has a talent for reading chattering lips then I'm mortified. Thankfully, my cheeks are already pink from the whipping wind outside and from our encounter with Spencer.

  Kat says, "Surprise her."

  He smirks. Of-flipping-course.

  The line behind us has doubled so there's no time for her to set me up on a second date, but while we wait for our coffee she says, "Date number two."

  "Why are you so intent on finding me someone to date? Or five someones? It's not like you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Just me, a friend-friend."

  "Your arguments are weak, young Padawan." Her voice is mystical, Jedi-like. "Go to the movies you will. Watch the new Star Wars installment with a hot guy you must." She juts her chin at the Man-bun-barista who wears a black T-shirt that says thread geekery. "He seems like he'd be into that." His eyes are as dark as the earrings plugging his earlobes. He's wiry with, like, zero-percent body fat and a smattering of random tattoos on his forearms.

  I've always thought you can tell a lot about a person by how they take their coffee. Espresso versus cappuccino for instance. The former are ready to get shit done, are on the go, and tend to blend one word into the next in an attempt to say ALL THE THINGS.

  On the other hand, Cappuccino drinkers are more inclined to sit and enjoy their morning beverage over a long philosophical conversation over the luscious meal they had the night before as they take precious sips of their frothy drink.

  People who take their coffee black tend to be moody and broody. And those who take their morning cuppa light and sweet often use a straw so they don't mess up their lipstick.

  Katya never orders the same thing two days in a row, which is fitting since she's rarely dated the same guy twice. Apparently, I take mine with a guy's number scribbled on the side.

  I try to read it as we exit.

  "What?" she asks.

  I grimace.

  "Navy, all it takes is that magical, adorable, dimpled smile of yours and guys are smitten. You're as cute as a kitten, anyone ever tell you that?"

  I hiss at Kat, my breath a puff in the cold, "I have not been smiling."

  "You haven't stopped smiling all day. That's what happens when you let go of old baggage."

  The thing is, I don't think I've let it go. In fact, I'm pretty sure it was just specially delivered into my proximity in the form of a tall, attractive Marine who's been MIA for the last five years.

  She goes on, "And welcome new possibilities. The hottie in 7G possibilities. Man-bun-barista possibilities. Gym stud possibilities," she says as the warm heat in the gym seals us inside.

  "Hey, Kat," calls a shirtless guy with abs that are a work of art. It's no wonder she was quick to say yes to help Dannielle. "Heard you're subbing," he says. "Brought a friend, this is Omar."

  Kat smiles at them both and then nods at me. "Date number three."

  "What?" the gym rat asks.

  "Oh, sorry. Tyrell, this is Navy. Navy, meet Tyrell and Omar. I better get started. You guys grab some mats up front."

  By the time I've twisted, lifted, stretched, and planked myself into having a purified liver, I've learned that Omar is a personal trainer at the gym and wants to give me a free session. He also gives me the address for his website and we trade emails.

  "Sweating is so sexy," Katya says when she meets me for a juice at the front of the gym afterward.

  "Unless you're me." My tank top is permanently adhered to my skin with sweat. "I'm like a hog when I work out and you glisten. There's a difference"

  We leave the warmth of the gym as Kat says, "If I hear you say one more self-deprecating thing about yourself, I'm firing you."

  "It's as cold as a slap to the face," I say not sure if I mean her comment or the air. I don't mean to say shit about myself; it's more of a default. A filter to keep from showing the real me. I'm afraid if I reveal the confident girl bursting to get out and am rejected, or still feel as stuck as I do, I'll be laughed at again. The trill of laughter, the knowing glances, the concerned calls… Everyone knew I was dating a cheater and didn't tell me, but when I found out it was doubly humiliating. I'm smart enough not to let that happen again whether when dating or in my career or in regular life. "You're threatening to fire me?" I ask in a small voice.

  "You're my personal trainer for life."

  "I'm not certified to be a life coach." I rush to keep up with her as she practically jogs back toward the apartment.

  "You're the one who kept me on track during college. Who encouraged me to go to grad school. You made it so I didn't screw up and throw away my education. You were always my inspiration and in the last few months, maybe even years now, you've been spiraling into this pit of self-doubt and loathing. Enough."

  Her words hit me hard. I pause midstride. Maybe it was the receptivity her closing meditation created during class. Maybe it's just being out on a cold Sunday in January. Perhaps it's just time for me to change. To get unstuck. To figure out how. I wipe my eyes. "Yeah. You're right. I'm sorry I've—"

  "—had so much spinach in your teeth. That's what friends are for. To tell you these things. I only wish I'd realized it sooner. Oh! How convenient for you to have a revelation right here."

  I look up at the soft glow of the bookstore at twilight, yearning for a paper escape. A beach read, a fiery girl who plays hard to get, a second chance romance—anything that's one-hundred and eighty degrees from where I'm at now.

  "Number four. Your book boyfriend. Maybe he'll be your OTP."

  I peer through the glass. He's average height, with light brown hair. He wears a gray sweatshirt and jeans. I don't see any sign of tattoos, piercings, a man-bun, or even massive sex appeal. He seems, in a word, normal, trust worthy, nice. The kind of guy that would be perfect for me.

  "Will you go out with him? Just once. You two can get totally nerdy together." She giggles.

  "I don't even know what he likes to read, but fine," I say, grasping at my resolve with shivering fingers.

  We keep walking and Kat says, "You see, I used to theorize that there are two kinds of people in the world, swans and peacocks."

  "Those are birds not people."

  "Bear with me."

  "Let me guess, I'm a pigeon."

  She ignores me. "Yes, someday I'll get married, but it's mostly for the experience and the dress. I'm a peacock and you'd better believe I'll be parading around in my finery on my wedding day. But I also like to fly solo—I need my independence, like Mew. However, swans mate for life. You're a love for life kinda gal.

  "Are you really likening our relationship experiences to those of the avian kingdom?"

  "I am," Kat says as a pigeon pecks at something questionable by a sewer drain.

  "There's so much wrong with your theory. First, you can't be a peacock because they're male. You'd be a peahen, which just sounds weird. Second, your name is Kat. Birds and cats? Seems like a conflict waiting to happen. If we're going to do any animal comparison, men are like dogs. This isn't a bad thing because as we know, I really, really would love a puppy. But men, they like to bury their bones, they drool and bark, they're territorial. They're cute when they're puppies and then get hairy and shed when they're old."

  "You've thought about this a bit?"

  I bark a fake laugh. "Some men are like Dachshunds and do a lot of digging, hiding their bones all over town. St. Bernards are calm and loyal, but will drool all over your face. In fact when it comes to kissing some of them are too pointy, too mushy, too slobbery, practically licking your face off."

  "You haven't been kissing the right ones."

  But I have, well, once, that's how I know the difference. "Shall I go on? They snore too. Dobermans, mastiffs, and Rottweilers are strong and make you feel safe, but watch out, they're extremely territorial. There are a select few who retain their wolf-like tendencies—the alphas, who'll be loyal companions for life, but they're rare." I sigh. "Also, have you noticed people tend to look like their dogs? I was reading an article the other day—"

  We're nearly to the corner before crossing to our street when Kat grips my arm so hard my rambling turns into an ow.

  "Okay. I'll shut up. I'm just trying to—"

  Kat whispers. "Number five."

  "Huh?"

  I follow her gaze to a formidable figure approaching with a confident gate, squared off chin, strong shoulders, and an intelligent, piercing gaze that doesn't waver from me.

  Chapter 8

  Number Five

  I turn in the opposite direction, but Katya has me in a yoga grip. The heavy footfalls of Carrick's boots stop next to us.

  "Hello, number five," Kat says as she spins me around.

  "What's that?" Carrick asks.

  "Funny to run into you again," Katya says. "Navy was just telling me all about you."

  "I don't imagine they were good things since she ran off—"

  If this were one of my novels, I'd fire back all bold and brassy because there's nothing good to say. Instead, I mutter, "I just forgot something." I forgot how insane you make me, filled with contempt and confusion and something else that I can't identify, but it's hot and liquid and makes me want to scream.

  "Did you find it?" he asks.

  I shift from foot to foot. "Sure did."

  "What did you forget?" Kat asks off-handedly, glancing at a text on her phone.

  This just went from zero to awkward.

  "Stuff," I blurt, looking away.

  Carrick extends his hand to Kat and says, "We haven't met. I'm Carrick."

  "And I'm Katya, Navy's best friend." Her phone beeps again.

  In the moment she looks down, Carrick's expression retools itself from a painful memory and back to the present. I was his sister's best friend. My boyfriend was his best friend. The young elite living on the arm of Massachusetts all of those years ago wove a tangled web.

  "Sorry guys, I have to go," she says with a smirk, "I forgot something at the gym," she calls over her shoulder. "Nice meeting you. Hope to see you again soon!"

  "More like she's got a booty call," I mumble.

  "What was that?" Carrick asks over the city din, stepping closer.

  His eyes, glowing, digging, hungry, dog-like, turn me into a dripping icicle. "Nothing. Gotta go," I say through chattering teeth.

  "It's been a while. Do you want to grab a coffee or something else?"

  "Something else."

  The steady stream of foot traffic surrounding us and a wall of newspaper boxes at my back prevents me from rushing past him to the haven of anywhere that's not here.

  He grips the back of his neck and inhales. "Listen, I know what this is about."