I fold my arms in front of my chest. "Should I have let it go by now? Because to tell you the truth, I'd just like to go."

  "Wait. It's been a long time since we've had the chance to talk. Just a coffee, please?"

  Unfortunately, there's a coffee shop on the corner.

  The awkward silence follows us inside as we creep forward in line. Finally, the girl at the counter asks what we'd like and Carrick says, "Medium coffee just milk and a vanilla latte—"

  "A tea actually," I correct.

  "You used to love vanilla lattes." Carrick says.

  I shake my head and tell the girl, "I used to love a lot of things."

  He pulls out his wallet.

  "People change and I can pay for my own drink, thanks."

  "They do and I want to," he answers in a soft voice.

  The sneaky thought that he's changed flits in and out of my head. A little yap from a woman carrying a Shih Tzu returns me to my senses.

  "What's kept you in the Big Apple?" he asks while we wait.

  My beloved husband, an Italian investment banker, our beautiful brownstone, my successful career in publishing. Oh, also the power lunches, galas, soirees, you know the usual.

  I shrug. I don't know, actually.

  When I don't answer he says, "I ended up in the Marines after… I wasn't feeling very peaceful. I went to college on the west coast, and then went to Europe. Just got back last week."

  I know he went into the military, but wasn't aware he was in Europe. After a while, I stopped inquiring. "Impressive. Your parents must be proud." My voice is a sheet of black ice.

  He snorts. "What have you been up to?" In our parents' circle, this question is often phrased and what do you do?, which translates to tell me how you spend your time so I can estimate your worth. I remember the game well enough.

  I balance between choice a: a snarky answer to the effect of why do you care, though I'm sure later I'll think of something more biting—I always come up with the best comebacks after the fact—and b: the truth. It's hard to come out of hiding after doing it for so long. There's always a choice c: say nothing.

  When I don't answer, he clears his throat and says, "Navy, everything that happened your senior year, I'm sorry. I know now that should've told you."

  "You've already apologized. Many people should have, could have told me. But they didn't."

  "And I know they regret it."

  "Do you?"

  "Claire did."

  She never had a chance to tell me as much. I play the knife's edge of sadness over her death and anger at her not having been the friend I thought she was. And guilt. There's a lot of that too. I was so upset I wouldn't talk to her, but if I had, she wouldn't have gotten in her boyfriend's car after he'd been drinking on prom night.

  Carrick passes me my tea and we move toward the only available seating along the bar by the window. He sits squarely on the stool. I perch on the edge.

  "You look like you're going to fly away," he says.

  My response is flippant silence.

  "I fled. I'm sorry. I should have been there for you." His eyes meet mine and I look away. My eyes flit back. He's still looking at me. His admission hangs in the air between us. His fingers link between mine under the counter. His touch burns like fire, like ice, like love and hate. I close my eyes, remembering the other reasons I feel guilty, and squeegee away the tears.

  I blink my eyes and sniff at the apology in the furrowed lines of his brow, the softness in his eyes, and the quiet patience of his lips.

  He leans closer, imploring me with the sadness in his eyes that matches my own. "I'm sorry, Navy," he whispers. His palm presses into mine, holding my hand tighter.

  His edges blur, the distance between us disappears, and our lips graze. It's as easy and as familiar as breathing. It's a moment of tender forgiveness, of unmet longing.

  There's a spark.

  Then a blaze, a fevered rush of heat, of memory, lust…

  I push hate past it all.

  I wrench myself free and shake my head. "No, Carrick Kennely. Remember? I hate you." This is the only lie that slips easily off my tongue. "You don't owe me anything."

  "I did. I do." I watch his jaw work as he sips his coffee.

  I'm filled with the desire to kiss his cheek and punch it hard.

  "The whole thing left us all feeling kind of raw."

  "Carrick, I still feel that way. Every day. Raw. Hollow. Carved out. Broken." The sob builds in my throat and if I don't get out of here now, it'll escape or I'll choke on my tea. "What do you want?" I ask.

  His eyes say everything, everything we once had, could have had: all of me in exchange for all of him.

  *

  I lay in my bed, getting used to the new building's noises, the creek of the floor overhead, the intermittent honking outside, and the image in my head of Carrick, looking remorseful instead of cocky with all the confidence and swagger of someone with the last name Kennely. He's still as hot as ever. He still makes me feel as hot as ever. I'm sure Kat will have a lot to say about that later.

  We were friends, close friends, both of us teasing the line to become more than friends. Then Zach asked me out and Carrick become a player. End of story.

  Almost.

  After everything that happened before and after Claire's funeral I didn't think he'd want to talk. In fact, as far as I know, he forgot I existed.

  A shaft of light beams across my bed and Kat's tall figure fills the doorway. "You awake?"

  "I'm sleeping," I mumble.

  "It's only ten."

  "I have to get up early."

  "Oh yeah, I forgot about your job." She makes a gagging noise.

  The mattress shifts when she sits down.

  "Party pooper. We should find you an inheritance or a trust fund so you don't have to labor and toil. But first, let me tell you about what I found at the gym…" She goes on to tell me about how she met up with Tyrell for a quick dinner and a long soak in his rooftop hot tub. My mind drifts to Carrick's lips brushing against mine.

  I wipe my mouth and then say, "I don't need to know the details," when she starts describing the mechanics of sex while submerged in water.

  "It might be useful to you someday. Number five looks like he'd like to take a tub with you."

  "Number five?" I ask.

  "Carrick. Your fifth date."

  I shoot to sitting. "No way."

  "He was the fifth guy we saw. Wait? Why are you smiling like that?"

  "Smiling like what? I'd rather go on a date with the bum pushing the shopping cart." I find my scowl.

  She shakes her head. "No, you'd rather go out with Carrick."

  "What would possibly make you think that?"

  "He's hot. The bum's not."

  "You’re the peacock. I'm the pigeon, er, swan, whatever. Remember?"

  "You think you're not good enough for Carrick? Do you want me to slap you or list the ways? Your choice."

  No, I'm too good for Carrick, but before that, during senior year enough people showed me that I wasn't good enough for the truth. "I've known him since I was five. I was best friends with his sister. Remember, he knew about how his best friend, my boyfriend, was cheating on me. He's not potential dating material."

  "Not even a little bit?" she asks, pinching her fingers together.

  I squeeze them shut. "Never. Not a chance."

  "Fine, four dates. Spencer on Wednesday, then next week Man-bun-barista—you really need to find out his name. Where's the cup with his number?"

  "I threw it out."

  "You what?"

  "By accident. I tossed it when we got to the gym."

  Kat takes a deep, calming breath. "You're not making this easy."

  "This is your dare."

  "But we're doing it for you. I'll get his number again. Okay, then after that Omar at the gym—I'm certain the free personal training sesh will be well worth your time. Oh, and the bookstore guy. You said you'd hook that one up, right?"

  "Yeah," I say, absently.

  "Four dates. Four weeks. That puts us close to Valentine's Day. Ooh. I have the best idea. How about whichever one you like the most, you spend Valentine's Day with." She bounces on the bed and claps her hands as if we're in college again.

  "You're really enjoying this, huh?" I ask.

  "My middle name is Aphrodite after all."

  "But isn't Valentine's Day a little cliché?"

  "Valentine's Day gets a tough rap, but it's a good holiday. What's wrong with celebrating love once a year? My grandmother used to say we need to keep Jesus in our hearts every day, but that didn't stop her from celebrating Christmas."

  "I think this holiday is different and mass consumerism is involved."

  "You want to debate me? I didn't lead the Columbia debate team to victory with my good looks alone." She tosses her hair. "Come on, isn't that a great way to top off this dare? Hmm, we need a name, like our own bachelor-esque reality show. I know Struck by Love. Wait, how about this Desire's Devotion?"

  I shake my head. "Sounds like a porno."

  She says a few more silly titles.

  "You're really skilled at tapping into your inner dork."

  "Diva. I prefer to think of myself as a diva. And you're the wordsmith. Come on, help me out."

  I stubbornly refuse with my arms crossed in front of my chest and my nose lifted to the ceiling.

  "Cupid's Caress?"

  "Sounds like a sex toy."

  "Probably is. Let me think. We can do better."

  "Do we need a name for it?" I ask, growing tired as Kat's determination to set me up on dates supplants the aftershocks of Carrick's lips on mine.

  "Of course we do. These four dates will go down in history. Mostly because they're your only four dates. I've got it The Valentine's Day Double Dare."

  "That sounds almost as juvenile as The Boyfriend Book."

  "But so much better because girlfriend's going to get some action."

  "We'll see about that."

  "I want details."

  "I don't kiss and tell." I definitely can keep the details to myself. My stomach somersaults.

  "You can blog about it. The Boyfriend Book Blog. I already told Marc, Tori, and everyone all about it."

  "A blog? No way. The Boyfriend Book was from when I was, like, fourteen. Everything's changed."

  "I'm not sure I believe you."

  I don't believe me either.

  "You still haven't told me about what happened after I left you and Carrick staring dreamily at each other on the sidewalk."

  "I read it more as a look of concern." Hate. Contempt. Anger.

  "Longing, concern, same diff."

  "We grabbed some coffee—tea for me."

  Kat jumps to her feet, startling me.

  I brush my hands down my arms, tossing the blankets off the bed, and jumping around. "What? Spider? Did you feel a spider?" In my old apartment, I often had creepy, crawly visitors and tore my bed apart more than once to track them down.

  "Calm down. No spiders." She leans in, her eyes narrowing against mine. "You're saying that you and Carrick went to a coffee shop and had beverages?"

  "Yes." Mostly I just simmered in a stew of sadness and rage.

  "You know what that is, right?"

  "No."

  "A date, Navy. You went on a coffee date with Carrick. Number five." She wiggles her fingers.

  Then we shared the briefest of kisses that left me feeling more confused and hurt than ever.

  Chapter 9

  Man Sandwich

  The snooze button is my best friend. But after I push it three times, Katya shuffles in, pulls the comforter off of me, and takes it with her. "I'll give it back when that thing stops going off," she mumbles, half asleep.

  I blink my eyes against the smudge of gray sky through the window before getting dressed in a blue patterned dress with taupe tights, and booties with a modest heel. Makeup takes less than five minutes since I opt for a swipe of eyeliner, mascara, and a simple gloss on my lips. I want to show up at the office feeling powerful and competent, showing the higher-ups that I'm made for more than fetching coffee, jotting memos, and making copies. I snag a leftover doughnut and bundle up, bracing for the cold.

  In any other circumstance the heat generated by the legions of people occupying the underground cattle car called the subway, would be unwelcome, repellent even, but I welcome the warmth. Back above ground, I stop for my boss's coffee order, which tells me everything I need to know about him.

  "Triple, venti, soy, not sweet, no foam, latte."

  The girl behind the counter gives me a withering look.

  "I know. Obnoxious. It's not for me."

  How Mr. Bouche knew I got it wrong the first three days I was working at the firm, I'll never truly know, but someone told me he has lactase deficiency, which probably means he was in his office farting all day.

  And that's why I don't drink lattes anymore. I shake my head, muttering, "It's colder outside than Carrick's heart," feeling the sudden pounding of my own as I'm shoved forward by an onslaught of pedestrians. I slide across a patch of ice and toward the colossal tires of the city bus waiting for passengers. My arms windmill as I try to find a handhold, a foothold, anything to steady myself. The coffee sails out of my hand, splattering against an advertisement for erectile dysfunction on the side of the bus.

  Strong hands grip my waist and I carefully step back onto solid ground. I turn to thank my knight in shining armor, and instead wish the coffee splashed him.

  "Are you fucking kidding me?" I ask, avoiding the concerned set of his mouth. "Three times? I run into you three times?"

  Carrick's face reflects my surprise, but not my irritation. "Are you okay?"

  "Are you following me?"

  He shakes his head, confusion giving way to amusement. "No, I have a meeting." He points off-handedly to one of the surrounding buildings. "I saw someone in a mustard yellow hat with a giant red pom-pom—a hat I vaguely recall wearing on a ski trip many years ago—sliding across the ice and into the street."

  He's still holding my arm. I shrug it off. He twitches uncomfortably and then tucks his hands in his pockets.

  "I don't need you to rescue me," I growl.

  The soft lines of his honest confession harden around his mouth. He swallows. "Of course not."

  "I'm going to be late."

  "Me too."

  I breeze past him, but feel footfalls falling in time with mine. I refuse to glance over my shoulder.

  "Navy," he says.

  I pick up my pace, practically jogging to the double doors of my building even though I'd rather be running anywhere else, maybe even into his embrace.

  When my hands rest on the metal bar of the door, the fact that I'm empty handed replaces the stupid thought. I turn back to order a replacement coffee, being sure to tip the server generously for wasting her time.

  Fifteen minutes late, huffing, puffing, and pink-cheeked, I meet the pinched face and stubby, grabby arms of my boss, Mr. Bouche.

  "Miss Carroting, I expect you to have my coffee before I arrive."

  "Carrington. And I apologize, sir." I shouldn't have nearly fallen on my ass and I certainly shouldn't have wasted a moment talking to Carrick.

  "We have a meeting in ten. Please prepare the pastry trays and make sure the coffee is hot this time."

  The coffee in the urns isn't good enough for him, but he'll gladly have me serve it to the clients he woos and romances with big talk of top media placements.

  The meeting bleeds into lunch and I clear my throat several times to disguise the grumbling of my stomach.

  "Miss Carrolton, is there something you’d like to say?" Mr. Bouche asks.

  I clear my throat again. "No, sorry."

  He resumes his mind-numbingly boring promise of fame and fortune to the client. She looks like she needs a nap. Me too, sister, me too. I pass coffee refills and sneak a nibble from a broken pastry.

  At last, the meeting is over and as I excuse myself for lunch, my boss calls me back, "Miss Carbo—" He shakes his head.

  From behind me a deep voice says, "Carrington. Navy Carrington."

  I whip around.

  "Ah, Mr. Kennely. You've met our newest assistant?"

  I don't look at Mr. Kennely or his lips.

  "You could say that Navy and I go back." He turns to Mr. Bouche. "Can you remind me your name again? I'm terrible at remembering—"

  He claps Carrick on the shoulder. "Ah, I can relate. I'm Gibwick Bouche, but you can call me Gib."

  "I prefer Bouche, rhymes with—" Carrick winks at me.

  I stifle a laugh, focusing my attention on the paper hearts on the door to the employee lunchroom, a surprising addition to the otherwise professional décor.

  My boss claps his tiny hands together. "You've known each other a while then. Well, isn't that nice. Miss Callingrun, you'd think with his kind of connection—well, never mind. It's always a wonderful day to have a Kennely in our office. Would you like Miss Carrottop to get you a coffee, a pastry, or a sticky bun—I missed eating one in my last meeting."

  I don't even try to hide the roll of my eyes. Bouche is insufferable.

  Carrick smirks and nods. "I'd love for her to—"

  "Mr. Kennely," calls Coco Albright, one of the partners. She wages a war with the marble floor in her spiked heels. Her red skirt triumphs over the simplicity of my glossy lips and even though her ebony blouse accentuates her assets, everyone around here looks her in the eyes. She must be my age and I can’t deny my jealousy at her having her shit so neatly buttoned together. "Glad to catch you before you go. Can I have you sign these?" She holds out a stack of papers.

  "Miss Carting—was just going to bring him a coffee."

  "Please bring it to my office," Coco says to me. "Oh, how do you like it Carrick?" she asks.

  "She knows how I like it," Carrick says in a low, conspiratorial voice.

  I ignore his smug smile, the twist of Coco's lips at his comment, and stomp away, my boots clomping on the marble floor instead of the click, click, click of Coco's power walk.

  After acknowledging Carrick's appearance here, assessing the strange, flirtatious game he's suddenly playing, making sure I don't have spinach in my teeth, and getting his coffee, just milk. I lift my hand to knock on Coco's office door when it opens.