And what’s happening is: nothing.

Of course. That’s the deal. It’s pretend. Right?

It’s hard to focus my eyes, but I type out a text: hey good morning all good?

Please let him appear with a life-support-size coffee. Please. I close my eyes and visualize him standing by the bed in sweaty running clothes, holding out a giant steaming cup and smiling down at me. Like at O, only better.

Nothing happens. I visualize harder.

Still nothing.

Jamey used to bring me coffee in bed in the morning. I would smell it before I even opened my eyes. You know those articles that always come up online? “Ten Ways to Know Your Partner Truly Loves You”? I always read every single one, and we always got a perfect score.

He brings you coffee in bed? Check (although I was in bed and he wasn’t)

He always kisses you goodnight? Check (although it was just a kiss)

He gives you affectionate little touches? Check (although only in public)

Perfect score, 10 = Total Denial. Congratulations.

Next time I fall in love, if there is a next time, I am going to be completely aware of what’s going on, right from the start. I swear I will never be fooled again. I will learn from experience. I will know the real thing when I see it, when I feel it.

What I feel right now, though, is a desperate need for caffeine. I pull on jeans and a t-shirt, and hang up my nightgown. Before I shut the closet door, I run my hand down the rose-colored silk, loving the sensual liquid softness. Ryan’s definitely a better roommate than Angela would have been. I have almost the entire closet to myself, except his suit, a jacket, and two dress shirts. And I have the whole bathroom counter, other than his shaving kit. Jamey always took up more than half the closet real estate, but the bathroom wasn’t so bad.

“Of course,” I mutter to myself, “that’s because we used the same skincare and hair products.”

I step into the lobby and follow the delicious smell of dark roast (undertones of cinnamon and sugar) around the corner. It looks like a new coffee bar is going in. There’s quite a long line of sleepy-looking people. Some are chatting, but most are staring silently down at their phones.

Carpenters are hanging shelves and signs behind the counter, and the baristas are dodging around ladders. A pretty woman with long, shiny brown hair is working calmly but quickly, grinding beans and steaming milk, not a movement wasted. She has a surprisingly good manicure for someone in food service. Her partner, who is taking customer orders, is a tall, handsome man in a very tight t-shirt that reveals muscles he did not acquire by filling cardboard containers and making change.

About a dozen people ahead of me in line, I spot a familiar and elegant head.

“Chloe?” She looks up and smiles when she recognizes me, then motions me to join her.

“Hey, good morning! I was just checking in with Jemma. She and Henry are taking care of Holly this weekend so Nick and I could come to the wedding. It feels so strange not to know what she’s doing.”

“What is all this?” I wave at the crowd and the construction chaos.

“Grind It Fresh! is opening in all the Anterdec properties. Looks like our lucky weekend.”

“Pretty sure this is not my lucky weekend, but I’m happy about the coffee.” I watch the counter to see how quickly the line is moving.

“What’s going on? Aren’t you here with Ryan? Where is he?”

I should not tell the truth here. This is not part of the approved script, but it’s so hard to pretend every minute, and Chloe is always so comforting to talk to. She looks perfect on the surface, but she’s very real underneath.

“No idea,” I confess. “He was gone when I woke up this morning.”

“Hm. He probably went for a run. Did you check to see if his running shoes were gone?”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t look in his bag!” I am horrified at the idea.

“Really? I’m in Nick’s bag all the time. Just last night my feet were cold, and I needed to borrow a pair of his socks. I’ll bet he never goes in mine, though.” She chuckles. “He wouldn’t know if he’d find a garter belt or a binky.”

“I don’t think Ryan and I know each other well enough for that,” I say doubtfully.

Just then a camera crew from the local TV station starts setting up directly in front of the coffee bar, forcing the line to snake around the equipment. The reporter touches up her makeup as if fifty strangers weren’t watching her. Lacking a hurricane, a beached whale, or the filming of a Casey Affleck movie, this coffee shop opening is breaking news. Chloe and I shuffle forward as we talk.

“How long have you been together now?” she asks. Normal question, right?

“Um… well…” I stutter, “we’ve been together since…”

Chloe looks at me oddly, and I almost crumble. I almost say: I don’t know! I mean, we’re not together! I mean, we’re here together, but we’re just friends! But nobody is supposed to know that, it’s a total secret! Because, you know, Jamey dumped me and he’s here with his boyfriend!

Instead, I feel a touch on my arm and turn. The TV reporter is standing next to me with her microphone angled toward my mouth. I see the camera just behind her.

“Tell us what brings you here to Chatham Beach Inn,” she says in a professionally pleasant media voice. “Is it the new Grind It Fresh! bar?”

I look at her, and I look at the camera, and dear God, did I just almost tell the entire world that I’m a complete loser?

I open my mouth but not a word comes out.

Then there’s an arm around my shoulders and Ryan is leaning forward to the microphone. He is shirtless, covered in a fine layer of sweat that darkens all the hair across his chest and torso. The same t-shirt he wore to bed last night is around his shoulders, soaked through.

His happy trail thickens and the hair seems to curl in formation, as if Ryan has some kind of general in charge of his army of sexy hair. His eight pack goes up, out, and in as his chest expands, his smile so broad and happy it’s infectious.

Every woman nearby grins at him. I haven’t seen this many teeth since a design conference I attended two years ago was in the same hotel as the Miss Teen Alabama pageant.

“My girlfriend and I are in town for the wedding of our good friends,” he says in his deep warm voice as he plants a hot kiss on my cheek. The combination of his sheer athleticism and the affectionate gesture makes heat pool between my legs, my throat closing, my own abs contracting with pure, unadulterated desire. Corded muscle in the form of his arm crosses my ribcage and waist as he pulls me in. The scent of hard exertion, sand, salt and sheer animal magnetism makes me want to lick his shoulder.