As I head across town to meet Oliver, I make a detour at Stella’s Cookie Shack, since she messaged me earlier asking me to pop in.

With her hair in a messy bun, her purple glasses sliding down her nose, and an apron tied around her neck with an illustration of two cookies high-fiving each other on the front, Stella is a model of charm and efficiency. She slides a box of a dozen cookies to a curly-haired woman, then tells her it’ll be thirty-six dollars.

The customer doesn’t bat an eye. Stella bakes the best cookies on the eastern seaboard, and there’s no reason she shouldn’t charge two arms and two legs for them.

When the woman leaves, Stella shoots me a grin, her brown eyes twinkling from behind her glasses. “Can’t stay away, can you?”

“No one can,” I say, proud of my friend and her business.

Her store opened three months ago to rave reviews. This momentary lull in customers is just lucky for me. In a few minutes, throngs of Manhattanites will pour in here, grabbing cookies for dessert, for a snack, for a meal.

Hell, cookies for anything is my mantra.

“It was a busy day,” she says, then crosses her fingers. “May there be many more.” She gestures to the display case and its mouthwatering array of designer treats. “In the mood for the chef’s choice?”

Setting my reusable drink mug on the counter, I give a crisp nod. “I’ll live my life on the edge. Bring on the mystery cookie.”

She bends down, dips a gloved hand into the shelf, and brandishes a treat. “Try the habanero chocolate chip cookie. I’ve just perfected the recipe, and it has all the zing and all the sweetness.”

I let my tongue hang out, my show of adoration for her talent. “Sounds perfect. But I’ll eat it later. I don’t want to have cookie crumbs all over my face when I see Oliver in a little bit.”

She sets her palms on the counter and stares harshly at me. “One, there are napkins for that. Two, that’s a given. You have to look perfect for Mr. Perfect.”

I wave breezily, making light of her comment. I do like looking good for Oliver, but it’s a “when in Rome” thing. The man always looks good, sounds good, smells good, making a woman want to do the same. “That’s not why I don’t want to eat it now,” I say, defending myself. “I just don’t want to look like a piggy when I see him in”—I stop, check my watch—“about ten minutes.”

Her eyes twinkle with a gotcha. “And counting.” I’ll be hearing someday about how I know in exactly how many minutes I’ll see him. Stella darts out a hand, reaching for my to-go cup. “The usual?”

“Yes, please, Goddess of Cookies and London Fog Lattes,” I answer, grateful for the latte and for moving away from the subject of Oliver.

She fills the cup, sets it down, and adds an extra cookie into the bag. “One for you, one for Ollie. Then you can be piggies together with all your crumbs.”

Amused, I shake my head, dip a hand into my purse, and offer her a ten.

She sneers. “Your money is no good here. Save it for the gym.”

“And that’s exactly what I need it for. I’m meeting with the bank on Monday. Here’s hoping for approval on a loan.” I have my savings for the lease on the space and for equipment, but I need a loan for the finishing touches and some great classes I want to offer. “Roxanne has me thinking that kickboxing would be a terrific addition to the class list.” I can picture it now. A class full of senior citizens learning to punch, kick, and defend themselves. The image fires me up. “What do you think? Kickboxing for seniors? Is that a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down?”

“Big thumbs-up. I’d send my grandpa to that class,” she says. “And that’s why I have all the faith in the world that your loan will come through.”

I segue to a text she sent me earlier. “You said you had something to show me?”

A giddy smile takes over her freckled face. She ducks behind the counter, grabs something from a shelf, then slides a glossy sheet of paper to me.

I arch a brow. “What’s that?”

“It’s from a magazine.”

“Oh, those things that used to be paper, but now are digital?”

“Yes, Miss Sassy Pants. I saw it at the dentist’s office. It’s basically an ad for the magazine’s online sister pub—The Dating Pool. It’s having a really cool contest that you should look into.”

“A dating contest? I don’t think so.” I shake my head so fast my hair whips. “Dating and me—we’re not really simpatico these days. Do I need to remind you of the last guy who ghosted me?”

Stella stares down the bridge of her nose at me. “That’s because you like bad boys.”

“Yes, because they also don’t get in the way of little things like, ya know, goals,” I counter. Bad boys have their place on a modern gal’s dating résumé. She just has to remember the heart can hurt just the same when they show their douche colors. “So, considering I’m waist-deep in opening-a-gym goals, I think I’ll avoid dating contests.”

“It’s not a dating contest. It’s an essay contest—with prize money. And you’ve always been good at putting your crazy thoughts and wild ideas into writing. Remember the time you convinced the physical therapy company you worked for to institute Happy Heart Friday? You had that whole pitch for a midday walking break laid out beautifully, and they said yes. Boom—happy hearting at Home Health Solutions was born.”

I sigh contentedly at the memory. Too bad Home Health had to cut back last year, a decision that sent me to Sunshine Living. I don’t think Travis would approve stopping work for a walk, let alone see the benefits of disco bingo.

But that’s yet another reason why I’m trying to open the gym.

Hmm . . . That’s not a bad idea. I wiggle a brow at Stella. “What do you think about disco bingo?”

“For your essay?”

I shake my head. “No, for Sunshine Living.”

“Summer, focus. Just read.” Stella stabs the glossy sheet, and I scan it quickly. The theme is “Lessons Learned.” That does sound right up my alley. “Okay, that’s more interesting. I’m intrigued.”

The bell dings above the door, and a squadron of schoolkids rushes in.

“It’s the cookie lady,” the kids shout.

She warbles a songbird hello to the chattering throng, then in a low voice says to me, “You should definitely enter it.”

“Thank you, cookie lady.” I blow her a kiss, tucking the bag of cookies into my purse.

As I open the door, she waves goodbye, calling out, “Feel free to test Law Number Three of Stella’s Theory.”

I shoot her a sharp stare. She simply smiles and returns her focus to the kids, bug-eyed and gaping at the displays of yummy goodness.

I leave, hearing Stella’s voice in my head as I go.

Stella has a theory about men, and it’s based on her three so-called Immutable Laws.

Law Number One: funny men make great lovers.

Law Number Two: funny and smart men make even better lovers.

Law Number Three: good-looking guys make terrible lovers.

The way Stella explains it, being good in bed is work. It requires skills. It demands talent. It calls for an education in the ways of women.

“That’s why beautiful men are boring in the sack,” she explains when called upon. “I know because I conducted a comprehensive study before I married Henry. And my conclusion? The best-looking men waltz through life on their looks. They never have to work to get a woman in bed, so they don’t care about her pleasure. Therefore, you should never go above a five on the looks scale. And that’s Stella’s theory on how to have a happy vagina.”

As I drink my latte along the way to the grilled cheese shop, I wonder if Oliver’s ever had to work for it.