My body seems to recall insta-lust, no problem.

I turn around, and then I’m looking into the green eyes of the woman I was willing to chase online.

That instinct served me well.

Better, so much better, than the overcautious instincts that tripped me up in the store. But the app gave me a second chance to find Bryn and to do things differently. Rather than freeze and stumble, I should move and act.

“Hi, Bryn,” I say, then I lean forward, sweep her hair from the side of her face, and press a soft kiss to her cheek. “Good to see you,” I whisper like I’m marking her as mine before we even head into the lounge.

Her breath catches, and she wraps a hand around my arm, squeezing. “So good to see you too, Logan.”

So much contact already. I have a feeling this is going to be an excellent night.

5BRYN

I’ve dated sporadically since my husband, Evan, left me two years ago.

Left after he begged me to open my heart to him, to give more, do more, be more. He took off because he said I didn’t spend enough time with him, didn’t devote enough energy to our marriage. He wanted all of me, all the time. If only I had given more of myself, he’d have kept it in his pants.

It was a shit excuse as far as shit excuses went. Add in that I’d been grieving at the time, and it was the shittiest excuse of all.

But that’s life.

I’d cracked my heart open to the man, and he’d stomped on that organ.

I had no choice but to pick myself up, nurse my wounds, and move on. I don’t want to marry again. I’m not even sure I want something serious if it could wound me as deeply as he did. But I wouldn’t mind companionship.

Plus, there’s the work angle. How could I run a dating and relationship advice site without at least walking the walk and talking the talk now that I was single again?

It was fitting. It was right.

I can’t preach the gospel of putting yourself out there without putting myself out there.

So, about six months ago, I got online.

That’s how you do it these days—swiping right, checking boxes, perusing profiles. But I haven’t met anyone in those six months who’s floated my boat for an extended cruise down the river of love. Or lust, for that matter.

Still, that dating time in the trenches has prepped me for what comes next.

The getting to know you fox-trot.

After the hostess shows us to our table and I settle in on the plush royal-blue lounge chair, I take the first dance step.

“Gin Joint,” I say, musing on the words, soaking in the ambiance of this establishment, from the jewel-colored chaise lounges to the swoony music piping through the speakers. “With a name like that, I’m curious if we’re even going to be allowed to order mojitos, since they’re made with rum.”

“Or if we should,” Logan tosses back.

“Right? Is the name sort of a warning—don’t order anything but a martini or gin rickey?”

“If we want a mojito, maybe we ought to find a spot called the Rum Club.” He grabs his phone from his back pocket. “Google, please find the nearest Rum Club right now,” he says playfully into his phone, then sets it face down on the table.

“And then we’ll pop over to Tequila Town,” I offer.

“Excellent plan. We’ll make it a barhop, and by the time we hit up Whiskey World, we’ll be wasted.”

I laugh. “Sounds like quite a raucous night.”

He grins, then gestures to the bar. “Want me to let you in on a little secret?”

I sit up straighter and nod excitedly. “I do. I love secrets.”

He cups the side of his mouth and whispers, “Order the Plot Twist.”

“Will I find out the butler did it?”

“Or that it was all a dream.” He clears his throat. “But in all seriousness, it’s the owner’s name for her gin mojito. The woman who runs this place is a maestro of cocktails, and I highly recommend the Plot Twist.”

I mime banging a gavel, like an auctioneer. “Sold.”

As if on cue, the waitress swings by, flashing a pearly-white grin. “What can I get for you two? The signature gin cocktails are delicious, but we also have a full menu of wine, beer, and mixed drinks.”

“We’d like two Plot Twists,” he says.

“I’ll have them to you shortly.” She turns on her heel to go.

“Two is always a good number of plot twists,” I chip in once she’s gone.

“Three is simply too many.”

“And sometimes one just isn’t enough,” I say, a little flirty.

He doesn’t answer right away, but lets my comment simmer before he says, “One definitely isn’t enough,” with a dollop of innuendo in his tone too.

And the fox-trot is hitting a rhythm. I decide to lean on directness and channel my inner lady boss. “In the interest of full disclosure, I wanted you to know I’m going to vote Made Connections app of the year.”

His grin is nice and easy. It slides across his handsome face, lighting up his soulful brown eyes. “I’ll do you one better. I’m building a shrine to that app.”

I laugh, relieved that he feels the same way about how the night is going. And it’s heading straight to an A-plus review for the app. But I’m hardly thinking about the piece I need to write—because this date isn’t about a test run of an app.

I tried the app to find Logan.

And I’m so damn glad I did.

That’s what I’m going to focus on.

Him.

But more so on how being with him makes me feel. The answer is . . . good.