“Sooo,” Emmy began, a hint of concern on her face. “Are we going to talk about it?”

I shrugged. “What’s there to talk about? I caved last weekend—brought him home with me.” It was a low point; that was for certain. It wouldn’t be happening again.

“And what happened? I know you two aren’t back together, so . . . tell me what happened that night. You better spill it, little miss. You know there’s no holding back from me.”

I swallowed my pride. “We started to . . . you know . . .” I wiggled my eyebrows—the universal signal for getting it on. “And then I realized that nothing had changed, I was still nothing more to him than his f**k buddy, and I lost it. I kicked him out of my apartment with a raging erection.” And then cried myself to sleep.

“Wow. You don’t f**k around. I like it, lady.”

I frowned at her. This wasn’t some game—not for me, anyway. I wasn’t trying to whip Braydon into shape. I just couldn’t put myself through the heartache again, so I ended it before it went too far.

“Well, don’t you worry, babe. I know he’s crazy about you. He’s going to come around.”

She sounded so confident, but I was pretty sure there was no chance of that. I’d given him every opportunity in the world.

“Let me ask you something . . .”

I explained about the insight I’d developed while stalking him online—and how I rarely saw him pictured with a girl—except for the one blond-haired girl, Katrina, though I didn’t tell Emmy I knew her. “Did he ever have a serious girlfriend?” I asked.

“I think so. A few years ago. Ben said something about how he’d gotten royally messed up when it ended and he’s really leery about new relationships and letting people in because of a crazy girl he dated a few years ago. That’s all I know.”

“Do you know her name?”

Emmy shook her head. “Let me see the pictures you found.”

I agreed, grabbing my laptop from the counter and logging in. At the first click of my mouse, I knew it was a terrible idea. His face appeared and my heart throbbed painfully in my chest. I missed him. Terribly. That chiseled jawline, his full mouth that used to erupt into a crooked smile with one simple quip. His insanely blue eyes fringed in dark lashes, the rumpled mess of dark hair. Seeing him on my screen wasn’t enough. It didn’t even compare to the real thing. I wanted to press my face into his neck and inhale, wrap my arms around his firm body, feel his gentle caress on my skin, hear the sweet words he would murmur.

Emmy studied each photo along with me, but found nothing even remotely familiar about the girl featured with him.

“So how do you feel?” she asked, nodding once toward my computer screen.

I sighed and thought it over. “I miss him. Too f**king much. And it makes me want to do strange things . . .” I rubbed my temples.

“Like?”

“I want to cook for him, do his laundry, fold his boxers into neat little squares. Something is majorly wrong with me.”

Her expression softened. “Oh honey. You love him.”

“Nooo. That’s not it. I’ve read studies about this. It’s just pheromones. Like some strange chemical reaction that my body has to his. Some people can have this unexplained attraction. Braydon and I obviously have it. That’s all this is. It doesn’t mean we’d even be capable of having a lasting, loving relationship.” I remained objective in my assessment, grasping on to the science of it.

“Really?” She cocked an arched eyebrow. “And wanting to do a man’s laundry doesn’t tip you off that maybe your feelings go a bit deeper than that?”

No, my feelings couldn’t extend beyond the bedroom. I couldn’t love him, that wasn’t part of the arrangement. My heart just needed to get the memo.

• • •

The following day, in a moment of weakness, I texted Katrina again.

Me: Hey! Are you up for meeting for coffee today?

Several minutes later, she replied.

Katrina: I’m busy today, but how about a drink tonight?

Me: Sounds great.

Once we’d set the time and place, I instantly felt calmed. Maybe tonight I’d get some answers about Braydon’s past.

When I arrived, I spotted Katrina right away. Her shiny blond hair was curled in tight ringlets that fell around her shoulders. She was dressed in skinny jeans with a cute top and matching scarf and large dangling earrings. She looked nice, even if she was trying a little too hard. My own hair was in a ponytail and I’d opted for comfort—jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

She hopped down off her barstool as I approached and gave me a hug like she was holding on for dear life. Maybe our shared experiences had bonded us more than I knew. Something told me I was about to find out.

We ordered our cocktails—she a glass of wine and me a Shirley Temple because I had to work in the morning and was tired of feeling like crap when I woke up. Once our beverages arrived, we sipped them in silence for several moments while I figured out what to say.

“So . . . how are you doing?” she asked, concern reflecting from her misty blue eyes.

I shrugged. “Not great. I still miss him.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes, we’ve seen each other, but nothing’s changed since I walked out on him in Hawaii. He’s still the same old Braydon with his issues.”

She nodded, knowingly. “Yeah, he’s tough to pin down. It’s okay to miss him.” The faraway look in her eyes made me wonder if she was talking to me or more to herself with that comment.