FEW DAYS AFTER THE ROAD race, Penelope summons me to her office. I can tell by her tone that I’ll be examining some part of her body for disease. When she heard that I was taking an EMT class, she’d been nearly overcome with joy. Sure enough…“Does this look like an AVM?” she asks, pointing to the back of her knee.

“What’s an AVM?” I ask, bending down for a look.

“Arteriovenous malformation,” she says with ominous relish.

“Hm. Well, it looks like a varicose vein, if that’s the same thing,” I tell her, rising. “Anything else?”

“Yes. There’s a self-defense class being taught at the Y tonight, and I want you to go. I had this great idea,” Pen says, settling back into her chair. “Heroes of Eaton Falls. We can interview this teacher—Ryan something, I have his name somewhere. He’s dedicated to women’s safety, wants women to be able to protect themselves—” here I snort “—that sort of thing. And then we can move on to the usual firefighter-cop thing, a few Scout leaders, maybe someone who rescues animals. What do you think?”

“Sure,” I say. “Sounds nice.”

“It’ll sell more papers, too. Subscriptions haven’t fallen recently, but they sure as hell haven’t budged, either.”

“Well, hero stories always do sell more papers,” I acknowledge. “That and murders.”

“You have a bunch of rescue workers in your family, don’t you?” she asks, lurching upright. “Maybe we can do a story just on them! The O’Neills of Eaton Falls. Family of Heroes. Heroes Are a Family Tradition. Heroism Runs in the Family.”

Heroism runs in the family to a point, I think, remembering Kim from the toy store. Still, I feel that familiar tingle of pride and irritation. “Well, obviously, I’d have a conflict of interest, writing about my family for the paper I work for.”

“True enough, true enough. Okay, well, if we go with that one, I’ll assign a freelancer. But let’s run with the firefighter thing, just not one of your relatives, okay?”

“Sure,” I say. I don’t mind. Firefighters certainly deserve their credit, even if they do sit around bickering like a bunch of old women half the time. “I know a few guys who would probably talk to me for a story. And there are a lot of other heroes we could unearth, not just the usual suspects. We could do people who work with special-needs kids, the good Samaritan who helped you fix your tire in the rain, that kind of thing. What do you think?”

Pen likes it. We talk a little more, then I head back for my desk. Alan is leaning over Angela, and she’s as far as she can get from him without actually breaking through her cubicle. “Ange, can I see you a second?” I ask.

“Yes!” she exclaims, bolting past Alan to my area. I wait a second until Alan returns to the news desk and picks up the phone.

“I don’t have anything, really,” I say. “Just thought you could use rescuing. Think of yourself as little Pippin, me as noble, flawed Boromir, killing all the Uruk-hai in a desperate attempt to save you.”

“You girls really need to get out more,” Pete comments as he walks past. We ignore him.

“Thank you,” Angela says. “Alan’s a nice guy, but…”

“I know. He’s no Aragorn.”

“He’s not even Gimli,” she says, referring to the four-foot-tall dwarf from our favorite movie trilogy.

“Do you want to grab lunch today?” I ask.

“Sure!” she answers immediately.

“One o’clock?” I ask.

“Sounds perfect. I should get back to work. I’m putting together a page on make-ahead meals,” Angela says. She pauses. “Um, just one more thing, Chastity.”

“Sure,” I answer, tipping back in my chair.

“I happened to see you at Singles Grocery Shopping,” she says in a whisper, blushing attractively.

“I’m not gay,” I interject.

“Oh, I know!”

“Just wanted to get that out there.”

“No,” she continues. “Um, I was wondering if your brother was seeing anyone.”

“Matt? No, he’s not, actually!” I lurch upright. “He’s great. Have you met him?”

“I just saw him at the store that night,” she murmurs, her face fuchsia. “And I caught a glimpse of him at the race last weekend.”

I pause. “Matt didn’t go to grocery night.” Then realization dawns. “Do you mean Trevor?”

“The guy who kissed your mom? Brown hair? Great smile, dark eyes?”

My heart stutters. “Yeah, that’s Trevor Meade. He’s not my brother. Family friend, that’s all.”

Angela’s face is hopeful. “Oh, okay. Well, do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”

My sulky inner child protests. You can’t have him. I’ve loved him since I was ten years old, damn it! And then there’s Perfect Hayden. I haven’t heard what went on with that. “Um…I’m not sure, but I don’t think he’s seeing anyone at the moment, Ange.” She bites her lip and smiles, and my heart sinks even further. “Want me to put out some feelers?”

“That would be great,” she says. “He’s really gorgeous. I mean, one look and I could feel…you know. That tingle.”

“Yes,” I admit, forcing a smile. “He’s…very appealing.” There is no reason for me to object to Angela’s interest. Trevor and I are dear friends. Have been for years and years and bleeping years. Oh, and the woman he once loved, who broke his heart, is back in town. Truth be told, I’d rather have Angela dating Trevor than Perfect Hayden. At least Angela’s nice.

At that moment, a shriek splits the air. “Omigod! Teddy Bear!” Lucia flings herself at Teddy Bear, who has just walked through the door. “Teddy and I have to interview caterers,” Lucia announces with the same triumph as if she’d just announced that she won the Pulitzer.

“Have fun,” I call amiably.

“The wedding is only sixteen months away! There’s so much to do! Omigod! You wouldn’t believe it, Chastity! It’s like a full-time job!”

“I can imagine,” I say dryly. “How long have you been engaged?”

“Four years and seven months,” Teddy answers instantly. “Let’s get going, sweetums.” He turns to Lucia, fixes her collar and gives me a fake smile. He has a sharp way of pronouncing the S sound that makes it sound like a hiss. “We can’t have the caterers waiting. And then I have to zip back to work for a meeting with our shareholders.”

“Teddy Bear’s the vice president of the company,” Lucia brags.

“I see,” I answer. “Congratulations.”

“Bye, all! Must run.” Lucia, head high, saunters out of the office, Teddy Bear on her heels.

“If that guy is straight, then I’m George Clooney,” Pete announces. Wincing, I can’t help but agree.

At the end of the day, I head for home to grab some dinner before the self-defense class. Taking a bite of the cold pizza from last night, I check my e.Commitment e-mail. My mother has had fifty-nine responses to her profile. Fifty-nine. I’ve had Matt.

Oh, hey, here’s something! Setting my pizza aside, I click on the message. Dear Girl Next Door, wondering if u want 2 get 2gether. Saw ur picture and thought u sounded cute. I decide to overlook the irritating abbreviations and check out his profile. Hm, not bad-looking. Favorite things to do: Baseball, rollerblading, eating out. So far, so good. Three most important things in his life: My cat, my mom, the Red Sox.

Sorry, pal. I suppose I could tolerate a Boston fan (as long as the Red Sox agreed never to beat the Yanks again), but combined with his cat and mother, there’s just no hope.

I reach for my pizza—at least there’s that—only to find that it’s gone. Buttercup is feigning sleep next to my desk. She burps softly. “Shame on you,” I tell her, petting her head with my bare foot. Her tail lashes the floor.

An hour later, Angela meets me at the YMCA, having accepted my invitation to tag along. Elaina couldn’t go, claiming that my nephew had worn down her last nerve and the only person she wanted to be with tonight was Robert Mondavi. I’d left a message for the teacher, telling him I’d be covering the story for the Gazette and hoped he’d be available to answer questions after the class.

“Hello, sweetheart!”

“Mom! What are you doing here?” I ask, eying my mother suspiciously.

“Your father made me come,” she announces. “He said if I’m going to be dating freaks, scumbags and perverts, then I’d better know how to defend myself. Hello, dear, I’m Chastity’s mother, Betty.”

“Hello,” Angela says in her gentle voice.

“Dad made you come?” I ask, taking off my Binghamton Crew sweatshirt to reveal another in my Lord of the Rings collection: Elf Wanted: Archery Skills & Leather Pants a Must.

“Well, yes. If something happens to me, after all, who will cook his dinner?”

“It’s not your cooking he wants to protect, Mom,” I say.

“Chastity’s father and I are divorced, dear,” Mom explains to Angela. “He’s very bitter. Chastity, sweetheart, I had a lovely date with a nice man named Harry the other night. We might be serious.”

Angela cocks an eyebrow at me and then busies herself retying her sneaker.

“Wow, that’s great, Mom,” I lie flatly.

The martial-arts room is packed with young women, all of whom, I note, are rather astonishingly attractive. I feel a little grotty in my aging sweats and ragged high-tops when everyone else seems to have these irritating track suits…cute little ensembles with cute little stripes down the side, hoodies cropped short to reveal cute little tummies. There’s a lot of lip gloss in this room, a lot of highlights.

The door opens, the teacher enters and my mouth falls open in shock.

It’s Mr. New York Times.

His presence erases all thought from my mind. He’s here. Mr. New York Times is here. The man I’ve been dying to meet for weeks is teaching this class!

My brain distantly registers a mass sigh of feminine appreciation that practically causes his hair to flutter. And such hair! Dirty-blond, long enough to curl at the ends, just enough to make him look careless and casual without drifting into unkempt. He’s wearing a black karate uniform that wraps in the front, showing a deep V of golden, glowing skin, and my hand twitches at my side, wanting to Touch. That. Chest.

“Wow,” Angela whispers. Her face is pink.

“Holy crap,” I breathe.

“Good evening, ladies,” he says, smiling, and I stop feeling my legs. His hands go to his belt, and for a brief second, I think he’s going to untie the knot and take off his shirt—Yes! Yes, please!—and a giddy roll of lust rushes through me. But no, no, of course not, he’s just tightening his belt. Just as well. I’d probably jump him. “My name is Ryan Darling, and I’m a fourth degree black belt in kempo karate. I’m also a trauma surgeon”—Good God!—“and I’m sorry to say that I’ve seen firsthand some of the injuries that occur when a woman is attacked.”

My mother tsks next to me. I ignore her, too caught in Ryan’s spell to do anything other than close my mouth and swallow. Look at me, I will him. He doesn’t, continuing on with his spiel. I should be listening more carefully, as I am doing a story on him, but my hearing seems to be obscured by lust, which is actually causing my ears to buzz. No matter. I know from experience that I’ll recall his words later…trick of the trade. He moves with catlike grace, pacing in front of the class as he discusses the need for every woman to be able to fight the good fight.

Ryan claps his hand, snapping me out of my daze. “Okay, let’s get started. Everyone, grab a partner. We’ll start with some basic stances, blocks and punches.”

Blocking and punching is something I learned my first week of life. We form lines and imitate our Adonis-like teacher. It is immediately apparent that I am clearly the best student here. Yes, I acknowledge proudly as I help the woman on my left set her feet the proper way, I am a natural at fighting off men. Perhaps this explains some of my dating history, but there it is. I correct Angela’s weak little fist—her thumb wasn’t even across her knuckles, poor lamb—and demonstrate the block with great vigor.

I might not be the prettiest one here, or the tiniest or the one with the cutest ass showcased in designer sweats, but clearly, I am awesome at fighting. Ryan is at the back of the room, helping my mother and a couple of other women back there. His voice carries to me. “That’s right, good, Betty. Great. Legs a little farther apart.” God, if he said that to me, I’d throw him to the floor and have my way with him, the rest of the class be damned. My insides quiver with lust.

We move on to strategic strike zones, and I’m horrified to learn that some women try to pummel their attackers on the chest and shoulders, rather than going for the pathetically vulnerable groin or oh-so-delicate Adam’s apple. Angela holds up a pad for me to hammer-fist. Please. I could have aced this class when I was eight. Still, I imitate Ryan’s punches with sharp efficiency, smacking the pad with quite a few more pounds of force than anyone else manages, causing Angela to stagger back. Surely Dr. Ryan Darling, black belt and surgeon, will note my supremacy at beating the shit out of the punching bag.

Unfortunately, my strategy isn’t working. Ryan sees those who are struggling and moves through the lines to correct a fist here, demonstrate a block there. Because I am so proficient at man-fighting, his glance flickers right over me.

“Okay,” Ryan says about a half hour later. Some of the poor lambs, Angela included, are sweating up a storm. “You’re a great class, so I think we’ll move on to something a little harder. Brittany, would you give me a hand on this one?” Brittany, who looks about nineteen, sways to the front of the room, her long, straight blond hair a curtain of perfection, lip gloss thick as an Exxon spill. She cements her bimbo persona with a light and fluttering giggle.

“Great. Thanks,” Ryan says. “This next move would be useful if someone was rushing you. You grab the arm of the person, pull them toward you, using his own energy against him. Then you just pull the arm down…boom. Your attacker would flip right over.” He pantomimes the move in slow motion. “You grab…you pull…you flip. See how easy it is?” Then he grabs Brittany’s hand and does it again, though of course he doesn’t actually flip her. Her face is glowing, and she’s clinging to Ryan’s hand like he’s pulling her out of a pit of molten lava. “Grab…pull…flip. Okay, let’s give it a try. Get with your partners, decide who’s going to go first…”

Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I turn to Angela. “Don’t hurt me, Chastity,” she whispers, blinking rapidly.

“I won’t!” I exclaim. “Come on, attack me.”

Other women are already rushing at their partners, including my mom, who makes an adorable attacker, I note. No one is actually flipping, although one teenager stumbles. This is my chance to shine, but Angela wrings her hands, shifting her weight nervously.

“Come on!” I bark. “You’ll be fine.”

She, grimaces, closes her eyes and rushes. I grab. I pull. I flip.

Angela tumbles neatly through the air and lands with a smack on her back. Her breath comes out in a wheeze.

“Shit! Are you okay? Oh, Ange, I’m so sorry.” Honestly, I didn’t think she’d be quite so light. Guilt and remorse stain my face with pink. I cover my mouth with one hand. She’s just lying there. “Ange, I’m sorry!”

Angela adjusts her eyeglasses, which were jarred askew, and blinks up at me.

“Great job!” Ryan appears at my side, reaches down and helps Angela to her feet. She rubs the small of her back and stares reproachfully at me.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks Angela.

She nods and smiles ruefully. “My friend here doesn’t know her own strength,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say yet again.

Ryan Darling turns to me. “What’s your name?” he asks, cocking his head. “You’re really good at this.”

“I have four older brothers,” I murmur demurely, then smile. “Hi. I’m Chastity O’Neill.” About freaking time he noticed me, I think, then immediately forgive him. His bone structure alone could send the Greeks to war…and his eyes! A pure, clear, Derek Jeter green. Man, oh, man. Nice work, God.

He’s returning my look just as intently. My knees nearly buckle. “From the paper?” he asks softly. Nice voice, quiet and deep and gentle, and I can just imagine him saying, Chastity, I’ve been looking for a woman like you all my life.

“Mm-hm,” I squeak, unable to form actual words at the moment.

“Great.” He smiles, my girl parts clench, and he turns to the class. “Chastity here did a perfect job!” Ryan announces. “In fact,” he continues, “Chastity, why don’t you come up here with me? We can demonstrate how to break a choke hold.”

He takes my hand—Pause for a moment, Chas, let it sink in—yes, he takes my hand in his own warm, strong, brilliant surgeon’s hand and leads me to the front of the class. There are many sour faces looking back at me, and I smile modestly (I hope. Frankly, I feel as triumphant as Attila the Hun conquering Europe. Take that, you size zeroes!).

This kind of thing just doesn’t happen to me. I mean, sure, I’ve been attracted to men other than Trevor in my lifetime. But does drooling over Derek Jeter and Aragorn really count? The fact that Ryan—Mr. New York Times himself!—is holding my hand, even if he’s preparing to strangle me, is stunningly wonderful. Aside from the helpless, discouraging love I feel for Trevor, I can easily say that I’ve never before been so drawn to a man.

“Great, Chastity,” Ryan murmurs. He places his hands on my neck—gently, even reverently, it seems—and then tenderly pushes some of my hair out of the way. Is it my imagination, or are Ryan’s beautiful green Jeter-esque eyes filled with that magical combination of wonder and attraction? My face grows warm, my chest expands almost painfully. Whatever we’re about to do, I want to do perfectly. I want Ryan Darling to be proud of me. To be in awe of me. To fall in love with me, marry me, have babies with me or, at the very minimum, to ask for my phone number.

“Okay,” Ryan says, turning to address the class. My God! Those cheekbones! I stare at the beautiful angles he’s presented me and register the length and heft of his eyelashes. Unbelievable. “Obviously, if you’re being choked, you have to act immediately. If your airway is compromised, you’re going to lose the fight. Chastity, you’re young,” he continues, looking down (yes, down from the lofty two and a quarter inches he’s got on me), “you’re in great shape”—Suppress exclamation of joy and triumph—“and you’re obviously strong.”

I smile again. Young, great shape, strong. I love these words! More than that, I love these hands on my shoulders, the thumbs resting just on my collarbones as he lectures the class about walking strong, looking strong, etcetera. I can barely hear. All I feel is the heat from those hands pouring into me, filling me with a kind of languid slowness, as if warm honey is flowing into me from this man—my future husband—and I imagine more: imagine him sliding those hands down my arms and back up again, warm against my bare skin, him pulling me against his golden chest, his mouth lowering to mine—

Suddenly, my throat is being squeezed—not hard, but squeezed, mind you—and before my brain catches on, my knee goes up. Goes up hard.

And Ryan goes down like a bull in the stockyards. My throat is free, but the man I plan on marrying writhes on the floor, clawing at the mat, because it seems I’ve just seriously compromised his ability to father our children.