Was Amy my person? I’d like to think, for some people, there’s not one person, as in the one and only. I hope that’s the case.

“Amy was great. And I don’t mean to sound cold and calculating. I loved Amy. I didn’t propose to her on a whim. I proposed to her because I wanted to be with her. But duty called, and that was what I did. Even if the relationship was collateral damage. I was too busy with work, and I was committed to making the deals I was assigned to make. I couldn’t do both.”

“She didn’t want to wait?”

“I don’t think either one of us did. Look, in the end I suppose we could have chosen to be patient and see what happened after a year. But she chose one thing, and I chose another.”

“Do you regret it?”

I regret so many other things so much more. So many things I didn’t say or do.

“No, I wanted to grow the company, and it was an amazing experience in South America. I’m fluent in Spanish now. So there’s that.”

She raises her glass, toasting again. “To fluency.”

Soon enough the conversation shifts to safer topics, and we catch up on other things. I tell her I’m still living near Central Park, I’ve become obsessed with South American history thanks to my time there, and I’ve committed to learning the history and geography of a different country every month. I’m also still restoring old furniture I find at garage sales.

“Much to the chagrin of your neighbors?”

“Ah, but they are no longer chagrined. I have a little warehouse space that I use for restoring the pieces I find.”

“Why do you do it?”

“It keeps me busy, and I don’t think about deals when I’m working with my hands.”

“It’s your necessary break from work.”

“Exactly.”

She tells me about her mom, who’s still teaching media and culture classes at the college level. After years of moving around to earn an advanced degree when Lulu was younger, then to chase various teaching jobs, her mother has finally settled right here in New York, and that makes Lulu very happy.

She tells me she’s living in Chelsea, has joined a new women’s kickboxing class with her friend Mariana, and plans to connect with a local rescue so she can foster small dogs again, like she did in California for the last year or so.

“I can do that now. Tripp was allergic.” She says it with a mix of apology and promise.

I run a finger along the rim of my beer glass. “We can do this now too.” I take a beat. “It’s still weird though.”

“It is,” she says softly.

“I can’t remember the last time we went to a bar.”

“Or the last time we went to one and didn’t have to worry. It’s freeing, in a way.”

“Yeah, it is.” I hate admitting that, but it’s also a massive relief.

But even though it’s freeing, the flip side is that the knot of guilt that started to loosen is tightening again.

Because I’m here with her, and he’s gone, and there’s a part of me that’s truly enjoying his absence right now.

I’m enjoying it so incredibly much.

9LULU

A few weeks later

I’ve been concocting truffles with pistachios and cherries, been crafting buttery caramel with dark pecans.

I’ve flown to Miami for a quick meeting with my business partner.

I’ve been working like a madwoman in the shop.

Now I’m heading to the office, and it feels like the first day of school.

Nerves flutter up my throat as I turn in the mirror, FaceTiming a suit-wearing Cameron in his Miami hotel room, since he’s on the road for a few weeks – Miami, Vegas, Chicago. I adjust my collar and tug at the waistband of my pants. “What do you think? Good first-day outfit?”

When I meet the team today at Heavenly, I want to make a great initial impression. My contract started three weeks ago, and since then I’ve been working on the recipes. While I won’t be debuting them this morning, I’m eager to share some details of what I hope to make for the chocolate giant.

Cameron gives me a cheesy thumbs-up. “You have my vote.”

I arch a brow. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your tone?”

“Me? Nah. Never.”

Huffing, I stare at him. “Why are you being a hater?”

He rolls his steel-blue eyes. “Two reasons. One, you called me for fashion advice. I’m the guy who has reduced his wardrobe to minimalist business basics, and when I’m not wearing a suit, I think jeans are acceptable for everything. Also, I wear Crocs.”

I wince. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“But you can’t unsee them.” He points his phone at his shoes, and garish, horrid green Crocs fill my screen.

I slam my palms over my eyes, my right hand pressing the phone to my face. “La la la la la.” I yank the phone back in front of me, wagging a finger at him. “Next time I see you, I’m taking all your Crocs and donating them. Wait. No one wants them. They will need to be burned as an offering to the gods while you ask for forgiveness for ever having worn them.”

He cackles. “They’re comfortable. Also, when women dig me, I know it’s for me and not for how I dress.”

“That’s for damn sure.”

“Second, you want to know why I’m being a hater?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Because . . . wait for it.” He wields his imaginary drumsticks and performs a drumroll, then gets up close and personal, shoving his face against the screen and shouting, “YOU’RE WEARING A PANTSUIT!”

I glance down at my outfit, royal blue with slim, tailored, high-cut cuffs that show off my heels. “But it’s a trendy pantsuit.”

“There is no such thing. I know nada about fashion, and even I know that. How do you even own one?”

“I borrowed it from Mariana,” I mumble sheepishly, caught in the act of having stepped in sartorial mud.