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  “There is a type, though,” Audra cuts in. “Or, rather, one theme tying them together.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “None of them, not one that I’ve ever met, or you’ve ever told me about, has ever been tall, blond, and muscular, with pretty blue eyes and a perfect jawline.” She halts there, for emphasis.

  Because that’s all she has to say.

  That’s what Jared looked like.

  And…it’s what Franco looks like.

  Jared had short hair, always neatly groomed, parted to one side and gelled perfectly in place. He shaved religiously, sometimes twice a day. Worked out obsessively, watched game tapes obsessively, practiced obsessively—football was his entire life, to the point that despite being head over heels in love with him, I sometimes wondered if he didn’t love football more than me.

  Franco…god. Franco does fit the Jared archetype, now that she points it out. There are certain strong resemblances—compulsive neatness, blond hair and blue eyes, incredible physique.

  And that, perhaps, is part of my hang-up.

  “Dammit.” I stand up abruptly, intending to take another shot or seven, but I wobble, and Imogen catches me and helps me to sit back down.

  “Maybe you should hold off for a bit,” Imogen says. “Finish what you have and drink some water.”

  “Are you sure none of my other hookups have had blond hair and blue eyes?” I ask.

  Imogen shrugs. “I can’t say for sure, obviously, as I know I haven’t met even half of them.”

  I sigh. “No, definitely not even half. Most of them never got even close to my place. Usually I’d go to his place, or we got a hotel room.” I hold my head in my hands, I feel really dizzy now. “None of them were blond with blue eyes. Blond, yes. Blue eyes, yes. Both? No. I can say that with certainty.”

  “So you’re attracted to Franco because of that, but also…not repelled, but…mixed up?”

  “Yeah.” I keep my eyes closed, feet planted on the ground. “You know who else fits that description? Blond hair, pretty blue eyes, chiseled jawline, broad shoulders?”

  “No. Who?”

  “My dad,” I whisper.

  “Ohhhhh.” She pauses. “That makes so much sense.”

  “Yeah. Dad was…he was such a piece of shit that he makes even Jared look like Prince Charming.” I sigh. “Honestly, I thought I was getting Prince Charming when I started dating Jared. I thought he was the antithesis of Dad. The proof that good men do exist.”

  “Oh, honey.”

  “Only, it turns out I was wrong. I was getting a prince all right—Prince Humperdink, in Wesley disguise. …And good men don’t exist.”

  “Jesse does. James does. Ryder does.” She pauses. “Franco does.”

  I groan. “Imogen, come on.”

  She sighs. “What do you expect me to say, Audra? To say that I think you’re totally right and justified in refusing to entertain the slightest hint of love? I mean, babe, you act like you’re allergic to the word relationship. I know you were burned, and hard, but…you have to move on eventually.”

  “Nope. I don’t.”

  She hands me a can of sparkling water. “So you’re going to cut Franco out of your life and go back to the endless parade of empty, meaningless, casual sexual encounters with complete strangers? Even though you know damn well you have a real and possibly serious connection with Franco?”

  “We have chemistry,” I say as I slug back a double pull of my Grey Goose. “Not just a connection. It’s weird and scary and I don’t like it. So yeah, Imogen, I’m going to cut him out of my life and go back to the endless parade of empty, meaningless, casual sexual encounters with complete strangers, even though I know damn well I have a real and possibly serious connection with Franco. Because, in the end, I don’t think Franco is any different than Dad or Jared or any other scumbag man on this planet.” I peer at her, blinking hard to clear my double vision. “I do hope, for your sake, that Jesse, at least, is different. But I will keep my skepticism on that subject entirely to myself.”

  She smiles, but she looks sad. “Oh, Audra. So cynical.”

  “That’s me. Audra the cynic.” I shake my glass, peer at it, realizing it’s empty, and that Imogen has been sneaking water into it this whole time, letting me think I was drinking vodka. “Sneaky, sneaky.”

  She smiles. “That’s what friends are for, Audra.”

  “Love you, bitchface.” Very, very carefully, I set down both glass and can, and lay down on the couch. “Nighty night.”

  She hauls me upright. “Hey now, if you’re gonna pass out, you’re gonna do it in your bed, not out here.”

  She helps me into my bed, and I cover up with the blankets, still in my robe. Imogen is in the bed behind me, spooning me.

  “Imogen?” I ask, my voice muzzy with impending sleep.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is Jesse really that different?”

  “From guys like your dad, Jared, and my ex?” She sighs. “Yes, Audra, he really is. He’s as different from guys like them as…god, I can’t even come up with a metaphor.”

  “I’m too drunk and tired for metaphors anyway.”

  “He’s the sun, and everyone else is a candle flame right before it dies from lack of oxygen.”

  “That’s a metaphor.”

  “He’s really that different. There’s no comparison.” She hesitates. “And his friends are all cut from the same cloth. Meaning, Franco is that different too.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “You’re not trying to.”

  I’m fading, then, and can’t summon a response. But before I fall asleep, I realize she’s right.

  The question is…am I likely to change?

  Probably not. I’ve been Audra the cynic for far too long to suddenly become Audra the hopeless romantic.

  Chapter 7

  The next several weeks are crazy busy for me—I pack my schedule with clients from six in the morning until seven at night. As well, I’ve got meetings and seminars all over the state. The results my clients are getting from my workout regimens are making me a little bit famous, on a local level, in certain circles.

  It’s a mercy I’m so busy because, honestly, I manage to stay so busy I barely have time to sleep or breathe, much less think about Franco. My nights out with Imogen continue as they always have, but she knows me well enough that she doesn’t bring it up.

  The one time she trie, about two months in, I get up and walk out, leaving her with the bill. A bitch move, I know, but I just can’t handle any of it. I can’t handle thinking about him, talking about him, nothing. He’s cut out of my life.

  That move costs me with Imogen, though—she won’t talk to me for over a week, and we skip our weekly burritos and margaritas outing for the first time in years. Finally, I show up at her house unannounced on a Monday night after work, and I’m pretty sure I interrupted a make-out session that likely would have resulted in kitchen sex had I not shown up.

  She pulls away from Jesse, leaving her hands on his shoulders, peering at me past him. “Hi.” Her voice is flat, wary.

  I shuffle a foot against the tile, standing in the entryway to her kitchen. “Hi.” I hesitate; apologies aren’t really my thing. “Um, so…I’m sorry I walked out and stuck you with the bill. It was a bitchy move, and I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “I literally could not care less about the bill.” Imogen plucks a loose thread on the collar of Jesse’s T-shirt. “It just hurt that you’d walk out on me like that without a word. I know it’s a touchy subject for you, but…it was me, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. But I’m just not ready to talk about it.”

  Regardless if Jesse is listening or not, she sighs and continues, “Meaning you’re burying and repressing the whole thing like you did after Jared.”

  “Dammit, Imogen—”

  She holds up her hands, stopping me. “I know, I know. I won’t say anything else—I’ve
known you for two-thirds of your life, Audra, I know better than to think anything I could say will change your mind.”

  That stings a little—both the resigned hurt and sadness in her voice, and the fact that I know she’s right. “Imogen, I’m sorry, I just—”

  She shakes her head, sighing, and waves a hand to cut me off. “It’s fine. You know how I feel, and I know how you feel, and there’s just no point in talking about it. I’m sorry I brought it up. I won’t do that anymore.” She shrugs. “You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do—and if you’re happy with your flavor of the day, month, week, year, or whatever, that’s your business. I’m your best friend and I’ll love you no matter what, regardless. Even if I think you’re being stupid.”

  “There’s no flavor of anything, I’ll have you know,” I snap, a little too testily.

  “What about going back to your endless parade of empty, meaningless, casual sex?” she asks.

  I eye Jesse, knowing whatever I say will most likely get back to Franco.

  He holds up both hands, scooting away from Imogen’s arms and heading for the backyard. “There’s…um…I left a tool in the backyard.”

  When he’s gone, I look back at Imogen. “There’s no parade,” I tell her.

  She seems surprised, and I can tell she’s still annoyed. “No? Why not?”

  I shrug. “I just…I don’t know. I’ve been too busy.”

  She frowns. “And I call bullshit.”

  “I’ve been working thirteen hours a day, and I’ve had meetings all over the state the past few weeks. I’ve been busy.”

  She just snorts. “Don’t forget, I knew you in college. You worked a full-time job, took sixteen credit hours, and still managed to find time to party, study, and hook up. So…sorry, honey, but I don’t buy it.”

  I sigh. “Sometimes I wish you didn’t know me so well.”

  She gives me a long look. “You can’t do it, can you?”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Can’t do what?”

  “Make yourself sleep with anyone else, now that you’ve been with Franco.” She points at me. “You’re hung up on the man. You just can’t admit it.”

  “No, that’s not it!” Instead of looking at her, I fiddle with my phone, and then the strap of my purse. “I’m just busy.”

  She just laughs. “You can lie to me all you want, Audra. I’m still calling bullshit, but I’m not going to push it because, in the end, you can’t lie to yourself.”

  “So supportive,” I drawl, wryly.

  She just shrugs again. “Yeah, well, supporting you doesn’t mean I have to like or agree with what you’re doing.”

  “I have to go.”

  She hugs me. “I love you, always, forever, and no matter what.”

  “I love you too, even when you’re wrong.”

  She laughs. “I’m not the one who’s wrong, you are!”

  I make my escape before either of us can say anything else.

  I have a fitness/Crossfit/personal trainer seminar in Chicago the following weekend. I’m staying in a really nice hotel with an amazing view of Lake Michigan. The seminar is an all-day thing and, fortunately, that translates into staying mentally occupied the whole time, so that I can’t and don’t even try to think about anything but work all weekend. I finally get a little downtime after the seminar has ended on Sunday, and I end up at the bar in the event hotel, sipping red wine, watching the crowd, and trying not to let myself think about anything in particular. I nurse my wine, since haven’t been interested in heavy drinking since my bender a couple of months ago.

  When my glass is nearly empty, a big male body comes to sit in the seat next to mine. I look up, and see that it’s one of the speakers from the seminar, a self-proclaimed Crossfit expert. Having watched several of his videos online, and participated in his workshop workouts at the seminar, I can’t really say he’s not an expert. His name is…Matt? Matty? Matthias? Something like that. He’s sexy, all right: six-something, dark hair, dark eyes, clean shaven, tattooed all over his chest, arms, hands, and legs, pierced ears—a real bad boy rock star look. Plus, he’s absolutely shredded, a fact he’s obviously not shy about sharing with the world, since his videos are all of him in low-slung shorts without a shirt. Even now, he’s dressed like he either just came from the gym, or is about to go, despite the fact that I know neither is true—black shorts cling to his butt and show off his thighs, a tight, sleeveless muscle shirt with his brand logo on it, which is cut to show off his arms, chest, and abs. Overall, the package he presents is visually appealing, but more than a little vain, if not downright egotistical.

  He smiles, showing off perfect, blindingly white teeth. “Hey, I’m Matty.”

  I shake his hand. “Audra.”

  “Nice to meet you, Audra.” His smile widens, and he leans toward me. “You’re at the seminar here, right?”

  I nod. “Yeah. You’re one of the presenters.”

  He all but preens at being recognized. “Yeah. Matty Corcoran. I run the Shred-Ninety program.”

  I nod again. “Nice. I did a few of the workshops this weekend. Good stuff. Really smart programming.”

  I half expect him to launch into another lecture, or a life story about how he started Shred-90 and all that, but he doesn’t. “Thanks. Yeah, I noticed you in those workshops. You have a really impeccable form.”

  I feel a little thrill that he noticed me and my form. “Thanks.”

  “So, you’re a trainer? Out of where?”

  “Oh, the metropolitan Chicago area. I’m a local.” The seminar is a pretty big one, so there are trainers from all over the country in attendance.

  “Nice.” He was hoping for a bigger opening, I think, and I’ve left him off-balance.

  Why am I so uninterested? I mean, sure, he’s a little vain, but he does run a Crossfit program that’s gotten attention from celebrities and fitness industry experts alike, which is a pretty big deal. Plus, he’s gorgeous, objectively speaking. I should be into him. I should give him more of a chance.

  I lean toward him, nudging my glass onto the bar in a subtle signal. “What about you? I’ve heard of you, but I’m not sure where you run your program out of.”

  “I’m from LA.” He laughs. “I’m a pretty tiny fish in a pretty big pond out there.”

  “You got a write-up in Muscle and Fitness recently, didn’t you?”

  He preens again. “Yeah, I did. You saw that?”

  I almost laugh at how pleased he is. “Yeah, it was a good write-up.”

  He nods. “Got me quite a few new clients, including a couple low-level Hollywood people.”

  “Is that your target demographic? Hollywood?”

  He laughs. “I mean, yeah. Trainer to the stars has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” He eyes my glass and signals for the bartender. When we both have new rounds—him a sugar-free gimlet and me more red wine—he really turns on the charm. “So, enough about work. Have you lived in Chicago long?”

  I shrug. “Yeah—my whole life. I lived downtown for a few years, but the hectic pace and the noise ended up driving me batty, so I moved back out to the suburbs.” I sip, and smile at him. “What about you? LA born and raised?”

  He shakes his head, carefully setting his martini glass on the bar. “Nah. I was actually born on a military base in Germany. My dad was a fighter pilot and my mom was a nurse at the base hospital. I lived there until I was…fifteen? Then my dad got transferred to Edwards for a training position, and my mom managed to pull some strings to get transferred there, too. I still speak German fluently, as a matter of fact.”

  “Nice,” I say.

  Way too much information, bub—that’s what I’m thinking. Why do I care about your life story? If you’re trying to pick me up, then quit dicking around and ask me if I want to go somewhere. This talk-talk-talk shit is for the birds.

  He seems to expect me to reply with some kind of equally personal information, so I decide to take matters into my own hands. Prove to myself—and Imogen—tha
t she’s wrong. I’m not hung up on anybody.

  “So, I’m not really one for small talk,” I say, watching him steadily.

  He takes a sip, eying me with great interest. “No?”

  “No. Not really.”

  His smirk turns eager. “Want to get out of here, in that case?”

  “Sure.”

  He lifts a hand. “Check please.”

  Within a few minutes, we’re stumbling into his penthouse suite. He’s all hands and lips, pulling at my clothes, biting at my skin—

  And I’m panicking.

  Because goddammit, Imogen is fucking right. I can’t do this.

  It’s not Franco’s mouth. It’s not Franco’s hands. The way Matty is pulling at my clothing isn’t right, and the way he bites my shoulder is wrong. He kisses up from my breastbone to my throat, to my chin, and I put two fingers to his mouth, stopping him before he can kiss me on the lips.

  He frowns. “No?”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s…a thing, for me.”

  He shrugs. “No big deal.” He grins, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “I can kiss you in other places, right?”

  I swallow hard—because I’m trying to envision him on his knees in front of me, lapping at my core, and all I see is wild, loose, long blond hair and wicked blue eyes. The thought of Matty…doesn’t work.

  He senses something. “Are you okay?

  I sigh. “I’m sorry, Matty. I just…I think I made a mistake coming up here.”

  He frowns. “Did I do something?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Then what is it?”

  I shrug. “I’m just not feeling it. It’s not you, I promise.”

  He lets go of me and backs away, nodding. “Okay, I understand. No hard feelings.”