I’m not going to lie—when this article landed in my email inbox this morning, I crossed my heart, then offered prayers to the editorial goddesses. The good news is, so far, this article is killing it. I need for it to kill, dismember, and dispose of the body though. It has to be one of the best pieces we ever publish.

As I read on, strands of brown hair fall from my makeshift updo, and I tuck them back into the pencil that’s doubling as a hair accessory. “Want to know the ins and outs of why eye contact is so powerful?” I read aloud.

Teagan shoots me a naughty look. “I always want to know the ins and outs, baby.”

I mime a slam dunk with my free hand. “And that’s one innuendo for the redhead, and it’s only ten a.m.”

She wags a finger at me. “Hey! Don’t count me short. I innuendo’d the hell out of this coffee invite. What was it I said when you asked me if I was in the mood for a cup of joe?”

I slide into an imitation of my best friend. “‘Yes. A large. I always want a large one.’ So, I concede—that’s two so far for you today.”

“It’s a good day when I can get multiples.”

I pretend to drum a rim shot. “There she goes again, folks. Three and counting.”

She takes a bow. “Thank you.” Then another. “Thank you very much, my adoring, perverted fans.”

The pink-haired woman ahead of us scans the chalkboard menu, her horse-size ponytail swishing back and forth. “I’d like a hot white mocha with ten pumps of white mocha. And can you make it thick?” she asks the barista in a conspiratorial whisper.

Teagan’s eyes widen. Her mouth opens.

I point a warning finger at her, shaking my head. “Find the will to resist,” I murmur.

“Usually we recommend twelve pumps for maximum thickness,” the barista says, and I manage to keep it together when the pinkified gal says, a little giddily, “A dozen pumps it is.”

Teagan though?

She purses her lips tight, holding in the wisecrack. She’s a kettle about to boil, a balloon about to pop. She fights like hell, but this wide-open opportunity tests her resolve something fierce. It’s a valiant struggle, but the naughty play-by-play commentator KOs her better nature, and she blurts out, “That’s what she said!”

When Pinkie Pie spins around, shooting Teagan a did you really say that to a stranger stare, I clasp my friend’s shoulder and give the woman a contrite look. “Forgive her. She’s often mentally inhabited by a twelve-year-old boy.”

“Aren’t we all, now and then,” Pinkie says, offering a little tip, “But maybe you both should try a thick mocha, and you’ll see what you’re missing.”

She turns back to the counter, and Teagan whispers to me, “See? The world needs more bawdy humor.”

“Dick jokes, here we come,” I say, straight-faced.

Teagan pats my shoulder proudly. “That’s one innuendo for you, lady boss. Keep it up.”

With a slow and steady pace, I arch a brow. “Was that one or was it two?”

“Two. It counts as a double play.”

“Go me.” I return to the article, clearing my throat as I read on. I’ve been on the hunt for something grabby to run next week when the new management takes over—just to remind the bigwigs why they bought the site and how genius it is to keep all the employees on board. I need pieces that show off my staff’s talent and the insight that lures web traffic. “According to research, we perceive people who make eye contact as being intelligent and sincere . . . and we want eye contact to last for three seconds, but no more than nine. Also, we often experience physical reactions to those who make intense eye contact. Your pulse quickens, your skin prickles, your stomach flips,” I say as the barista finishes the multi-pumped drink for Pinkie Pie, who thanks him, waves goodbye to Teagan, and leaves.

Hmm.

Maybe I should test this eye-contact theory right now.

See if there’s anything to it. After all, it’s been a while, and I wouldn’t mind a stomach flip. Hell, I’d settle for a stomach wiggle.

Plus, the barista’s not bad looking. With strong cheekbones and full lips, he’s well within the certified hottie range.

The barista locks his blue eyes on me and asks what I’d like. As I place my order, I wait for some sort of organ gymnastics—anything to prove the theory. But even though he’s handsome, and even though I do the eyeball tango for the allotted time, I’m not flooded with endorphins telling me to toss my panties at him.

Or to snag his number.

Le sigh.

I drop my tablet in my purse, and when our drinks are ready, Teagan and I head out onto Seventh Avenue.

This West Village block holds not only my favorite coffee shop, but the quirky gift shop next door is usually worth a peek, and what I see through the window most definitely makes my chest tingle. I can just make out my favorite cartoon character, and it reminds me of all my happiest days.

My heart clutches as I look at it. A swell of emotions rises in me—longing, missing, loving.

Happiness is an elusive thing, and you have to find ways to seize it and hold on tightly.

I point at the sign for Your Little Loves. “I’m going to pop into the store before the meeting. Want to join?”

Taking a sip of her drink, Teagan shakes her head. “I need to answer some emails.”

“You mean check out your Tinder profile?” I ask with a sly smile.

“No. I mean answer some emails.” She winks, and the truth is I’ll never know if she’s answering emails or checking her profile, but that’s her business. Teagan always gets her work done even while juggling her, ahem, outside interests. And hey, I’m stopping my workday to go shopping, so fair’s fair.

“See you in a few minutes,” I say, and head into the shop, zooming in on the prize in my crosshairs.

A Snoopy lunch box.

It gives me warm fuzzies, activating memories of hunting retro collectibles like this at garage sales.

Happy times indeed.

This lunch box would be a perfect keepsake box to store some postcards in.

“Come to Bryn,” I say, transfixed, because that is one adorable dog adorning the vintage red metal lunch box.

I march straight to it, reaching for the handle, and a set of masculine fingers curl around the metal right after mine do.

“What the . . .?” I blink, look up, and holy mother of eye contact.

The man grabbing the lunch box is conducting a master class on how to smolder from head to toe.

This guy is all suit.

His dark-blue two-piece is clearly custom tailored, which is the only kind of suit a good-looking man should ever wear. It hugs his body, the shirt making it damn clear his stomach is flat as a board.

He doesn’t wear a tie.