“Say hi to my twin for me. Also, why don’t you two just—”
A bus rumbles to a stop, the sound drowning out Logan’s words. “Didn’t catch those last few words.”
“Marry her. It’ll be easier.”
“What would be easier? I don’t follow.” My brow furrows. What he said doesn’t compute. There are a million reasons why Summer and I shouldn’t get married. First and foremost, we’re great friends. Second, despite her being quite lovely to look at, I can’t think of her that way. Third, I like having her in my life, not out of it, and since relationships always go belly-up and exes always go rogue, it’s best to keep this one on the level.
“Kidding! I’m kidding,” Logan says. “Just like I was that time I told you to propose when you took her to that asshole’s wedding.” His other line beeps, and he groans.
There’s another reason too. “Let me remind you, your sister is well-known for having the worst taste in men. Just bloody awful, and well, I’m delightful.”
“I beg to differ on your levels of delight. But the devil is calling, so I have to go. It’s my night with Amelia after boxing.”
“Tell Amelia her favorite person will swing by this weekend. We have to catch up on Game of Thrones.”
“You are not showing Game of Thrones to my six-year-old.”
“Sex Education, then? It’s brilliant.”
“Goodbye. The devil waits for no one.” He hangs up to talk to his ex, who is evidence that exes GO wrong.
Tucking the phone away, I head into Melt My Heart to wait for Summer, a woman who fits into a highly specific category among the people in my life. And that is the most important reason we can never be a thing.
Because Summer is a dependable person.
She’s reliable in a world where far too many people aren’t.
And frankly, those are the people you don’t risk losing by messing with a proven formula.
4SUMMER
Things I love about New York City.
1. The people. New York thrives on a Las Vegas-style buffet of humankind. There’s no type of person you won’t find on the menu here, and it’s awesome. I love talking to strangers, talking to friends, talking to anyone.
2. Central Park, and everything else. You can literally never be bored in New York. If you are bored, you’re boring. There’s always something new, exciting, innovative, or even traditional to participate in. I’m all about participation, so this suits me. Museums, parks, sports—there is a league for everything, a class for anything, and a desire to move, move, move. Plus, there’s that huge oasis in the middle of the city, and I could spend all my days there.
3. Specialty shops. This city is the Land of the Niche, with shops for pickles, for mayonnaise, for pencils, for grilled cheese, and for cookies—like my friend Stella’s cookie shop.
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.”
