HEN I OPEN THE DOOR THE NEXT night, I find Trevor, Jake and Lucky standing before me.

“Oh, my dear God in heaven!” I cry. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Chas,” Lucky says, shoving his way in. “Hey, Matt.”

“Hi, Chastity,” Trevor says as he passes me. Without further ado, they fling themselves on various pieces of furniture.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “You’re here to renovate my bathroom. You are. Tell me you are.”

“Oh, shit, that’s right. We really need to schedule that in,” Lucky says. “Matt, you got any beer?”

“Then why are you here?” I ask him. “Not in an existential sense, because the answer is sheer random perversity, but why are you here in my living room?”

Buttercup launches herself onto Lucky’s lap, rendering him momentarily incapable of speech.

“Yanks-Mariners,” Jake answers, giving me a quick, automatic once-over. “Matt, I’ll have a beer, too.”

I gaze sternly down upon Jake. “Since you’re already here, boys, how about you take a few tools upstairs and get going? Everything’s down cellar. Take the radio upstairs, listen to the game, do a little installation, hook up some plumbing…please? Pretty please?”

“We really don’t have what we need, Chas. Sorry,” Lucky says, cracking a beer.

“And yet you cashed my check three months ago,” I comment.

“So I did,” he admits. “And it will be done. Eventually. Can you move? The game is starting.”

“Please, Lucky. You’re still my favorite brother. Don’t make me keep sharing a bathroom with Matt. He eats a lot of Mexican food.”

“Ouch,” Jake winces.

“Want a beer, Chas?” Matt offers, ignoring my pleas.

I sigh. “I’m going out,” I say. “I have a date.” No one seems to care.

On the TV, Michael Kay’s familiar voice begins lauding the superiority of the Bronx Bombers. “A date?” Lucky asks distantly.

“Yes. A date with Ryan. The surgeon.”

“Great,” Lucky says. “Maybe he can fix the bathroom.”

“Is he picking you up?” Trevor asks.

“No,” I answer a little smugly. “He had an emergency consultation at the hospital.”

Lucky moves Buttercup and frowns at her. “Shit, Chas, your dog’s bleeding on me.”

“What?”

Lucky lowers Buttercup down to the floor, where she immediately offers her stomach for a scratch, her ears spilling out behind her head like wings. Trevor pushes the coffee table back, and the men crowd around her, checking for wounds, running their hands down her legs and gently ruffling her fur.

“It’s okay, honey,” I tell my dog, stroking her ears. “These guys are professionals.”

“Roooroooo,” she croons, her tail whipping Jake in the face.

“Watch the tail,” Matt says. “It’s a lethal weapon.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Jake mutters, rubbing the welt.

“I think I found it,” Trevor says, grinning up at me. “Looks like your little girl’s becoming a woman, Chastity.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, still petting Buttercup’s head.

“She’s in heat.”

“Yuck,” Jake offers, rising quickly and resuming his position on the couch.

“But she’s spayed!” I protest. “They said she was spayed!”

“That explains why she’s had a little life in her lately,” Matt observes. “Love is in the air and all that crap. No more dead water buffalo, right, Buttercup?”

The guys take their seats again, but I stay on the floor with my dog. Poor thing. Do dogs get cramps? Should I stay home and offer a hot water bottle, the way my mom used to do for me?

Damn that pound. I’ll have to call them in the morning and ask them to check her file. “What should I do about the bleeding?” I ask. “Any ideas?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Matt says, gazing at our dog. “You go, Chas. Have fun. Buttercup will be fine.”

Buttercup does seem fine…she rouses herself to bury her sizeable snout in Jake’s crotch. “Come on, dog!” he yelps.

“She’s looking for a mate, Jake. Just relax and let her finish,” I say, grinning.

“Makes you feel so dirty, doesn’t it?” Trevor says, his eyes laughing.

“She’s bleeding on me! Come on, guys, this is gross!” As Buttercup attempts to mount Jake’s leg, I decide yes, Matt can handle this. Checking my own jeans for blood and finding them clean (thank heavens), I stand up. “Okay. Thanks. Just make sure she stays inside. The last thing we want is for her to be knocked up.”

“SO, RYAN, ARE YOU A YANKEES fan?” I ask an hour later. My gaze keeps flickering to the TV in the bar half of Emo’s, but alas, I can’t see the score. Damn.

“No,” he says, smiling pleasantly. “I don’t really watch sports.” Problem. “But my father has season tickets at Yankee Stadium.” Problem solved! “Maybe we can go sometime, since you’re obviously a fan.”

“I’d love to,” I murmur demurely, already mentally reviewing the home-game schedule.

We’re sitting at a prime table overlooking the street. Emo’s is packed, the food is lovely, and Ryan kissed me when I met him here and apologized for not being able to pick me up. He’s very polite.

“I really enjoyed the article,” Ryan says.

“Great! I’m glad you liked it,” I reply. The truth is, I’d kind of forgotten about that article, being preoccupied with the hacking incident. So far, nothing else has happened. But Ryan’s article was pleasant if I do say so…no mention of any groin injuries and a nice picture of Ryan in his (yum) karate uniform. “It’s gotten good reviews.”

“And it’s part of a series, correct?” he asks, taking a sip of his wine.

“That’s right. We’re doing firefighters next.”

“A predictable choice,” he murmurs.

My head jerks back a fraction. “Well, yes, I suppose you’re right, in the sense that everyone identifies firefighters as heroic.” I pause. Ryan doesn’t say anything, just smiles a little, encouraging me to continue. “After that, I’m doing a story on a pediatrician who goes to South America to treat kids down there. She goes every year. Maybe you know her, Dr. Whitman? Jeannie Whitman?”

“I don’t really deal with pediatricians unless I’m getting them up to speed on a trauma patient who happens to be a minor. Usually, though, we fly those patients to Children’s in Albany.”

“I see. Hey, you must run into my brother Jack from time to time. He’s a chopper paramedic. Jack O’Neill, tall, black hair, looks a lot like me…”

Ryan shakes his head. “Can’t say that it rings a bell.”

“Oh,” I say. Our dinners arrive, and we eat and smile at each other. I try to think of something witty to say. I come up empty. Probably, I’m just too used to being one of the guys. And of course, I’ve been avoiding the subject of his career, but I can’t dodge it forever. Finishing my wine, I decide to go for it.

“So, Ryan, tell me about your work. Did you always want to be a surgeon?”

“Trauma surgeon,” he corrects, leaning forward. “Yes, I did, Chastity. My father is also a surgeon, as I believe I told you, so I was lucky to have someone show me the ropes.”

“Is it hard—emotionally, I mean? Obviously, your patients are in pretty bad shape.”

“Emotionally, no, it’s not hard,” he replies, taking another bite of his salmon. “Obviously, there’s a high level of skill involved.” He smiles modestly. “The more common cases are splenectomies, damaged bowel from a GSW…gunshot wound, that is…oh, bleeding control, muscle repair. And of course—” he leans forward with relish, grinning “—the more severe the traumatic event, the more fascinating the case.”

I swallow.

“I suppose it’s the orthopedic trauma that everyone thinks is more glamorous,” Ryan continues, unaware of my rapidly dropping blood pressure. His voice takes on a slightly bitter note. “Obviously, I have to repair a hemorrhaging organ before the bone doctors can assess reattachment possibilities, right? Who cares if the femur is shattered if the patient’s spleen is gushing and we’re running out of blood?”

“God!” I blurt. “Okay, wow! That is impressive!” Wiping my clammy palms on my jeans, I push my plate back. “Listen, Ryan, I have to tell you, I’m a little squeamish about this kind of thing.”

He smiles kindly. “Most people are,” he says almost proudly. “Want to talk about something else?”

“Yes, please,” I breathe. He reaches across the table and takes my hand, which is clutching a roll.

“I like you, Chastity,” he says, grinning.

Nice to know my phobia is charming. Swallowing bile, I grin back. “Ditto.” He really is…well, he’s gorgeous, this guy. Nice, too. “So where did you grow up, Ryan?” I ask, extricating my hand and taking a bite of my roll.

“Long Island,” he says. “We started out in Huntington, but my parents now have a cottage in the Hamptons. East Hampton, to be precise. Quite pretty. You’ll love it.”

I probably will, but his statement gives me pause. You’ll love it when you come down to meet the family, and you will, won’t you, since I’m so fabulous. Stop it, Chastity. He’s perfectly nice. Get your panties out of the twist. He’s still talking, and I smile and nod and take a sip of water.

And then I hear something…something familiar, though too far away to identify. A quiver of foreboding buzzes through my legs. That sound in the distance affects me…or is about to.

“Do you hear that?” I ask Ryan, tipping my head toward the window.

“No,” he answers. “It’s pretty loud in here.”

I can’t quite make out the dark shape rounding the corner, but my sense of foreboding grows.

“What is it?” Ryan asks.

“I don’t…I’m not…oh, shit! Buttercup!”

“Aaaahhroooorooorooo!”

And yes, my dog is galloping—galloping!—her huge ears flapping, jowls rising and falling with each stride, enormous paws flopping gracelessly on the pavement as she runs—runs!—right down the middle of the street. This from a dog who has to be dragged to go outside!

And on her hindquarters, in order to prevent little drops of blood from spattering my house, is a pair of Matt’s bright white Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Her tail, which is guided through the front slot of the briefs, whips back and forth. I sit frozen in horror as she careens onto the sidewalk right in front of Emo’s.

“Why is that doggie wearing underwear?” asks a little girl.

“Oh, my God!” I stand abruptly, bumping the table. Ryan’s water sloshes. “How did she get out? She’s never gotten out before! I told the boys—”

My precious puppy, all one hundred and twenty pounds of randy, menstruating she-dog, leaps up against the window, front paws leaving great muddy smears against the glass, baying with joy at having sniffed out her mistress. “Aahroorooroororooo!” she sings, head thrown back in ecstasy.

“Dear God,” Ryan says.

I stare open-mouthed. “Um…I think I’d better…that’s…that’s my dog.”

“Dear God,” Ryan says again.

I’m already weaving my way through the restaurant toward the bar. People are either laughing or frowning as Buttercup continues to serenade me. The maître d’ and two servers are pointing and talking.

“I’ll take care of this!” I tell them. “She’s mine. She must have tracked me here. She’s part bloodhound. She’s in heat.”

“Thanks for sharing,” the maître d’ says.

As I burst out of the restaurant, Buttercup decides she’s not ready for capture. She leaves the window, tail whipping, and trots away from me, boxers gleaming, and stops to sniff a tire.

“Buttercup…here girl!” I call, trying to sound relaxed and happy to see her.

Just then, a pickup truck comes around the corner. Matt’s behind the wheel, while Trevor leans out the window, calling my dog’s name. Both of them are contorted with laughter. Buttercup trots a few feet farther away. “Buttercup!” I croon. “Come on! Cookie! Salami! Want some salami? Huh, girl? Come on, Butterbaby!”

Ryan comes out of the restaurant. “What is she wearing?” he asks.

“My brother’s underwear. Um, let’s just try to catch her,” I say.

Matt pulls up to the curb and gets out, wiping his eyes. “Sorry, Chas. She escaped.”

“Yes, I got that.”

Trevor gets out, too, staggering, wheezing. “She found you,” he manages. “She loves her mommy.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, though I can’t help grinning. “Don’t chase her. Just pretend you have a cookie or something.” Buttercup stops twenty feet ahead and stares at us suspiciously from her yellow eyes. Her tail wags tentatively, but her shoulders are tensed for flight, possibly for the first time in her young life. “Very slow, boys, very casual.”

“Roger that,” Matt says. “Come to Daddy, sweetheart.” We start creeping down the sidewalk. Quite a crowd has gathered at the window of the restaurant as people watch to see the capture.

“Butterbaby! Come on, honey!” I call. She sniffs the sidewalk and flops down, apparently done for the night. “I’m so sorry about this,” I say, glancing at Ryan. He’s staring in consternation at my dog.

“Not at all,” he murmurs insincerely.

“Who’s my pretty puppy?” Matt says, pretending to hold out a treat. “Do you want a cookie?” She lets him approach. Trev, Ryan and I hold back. Just as Matt reaches out to grab Buttercup’s collar, she twists away, lurches to her feet and makes a dash for freedom. “Aaaahhroooorooorooo!” She heads toward the three of us, then dodges out into the street.

“Grab her, Chas!” Matt yells, but my dog darts past me with surprising agility, past Ryan, past Trevor, who just misses her, and continues down the street. From behind her, I can see the red splotch of blood on Matt’s underwear.

“Holy crap!” I blurt, bursting into laughter. “Come on!” I start running. Buttercup is a half block ahead, and I’m laughing so hard it hurts. “Buttercup!” I call in between gasps. “Come to Mommy!”

Matt crosses the street to try to flush our dog toward me, but she’s too far ahead. Behind me, Trevor is staggering unhelpfully, laughing so hard he can barely remain upright. A passing car slows down, and Buttercup shifts to Matt’s side of the street, stopping to sniff a parking meter. Her big ears prick with sudden alertness, and I glance up ahead. “Shit! Catch her, Matt!” I yell.

Up ahead is a tiny Yorkshire terrier on a leash, being walked by a rather plump man.

“No, Buttercup!” Trevor calls. “You’ll kill him, girl!”

My laughter goes silent, tears streaming down my face. “Buttercup! Salami!” I manage, clapping my hands, trying to get my dog’s attention. It doesn’t work.

The Yorkie owner is peering into the window of an antiques shop and doesn’t seem to sense the imminent danger posed to his tiny dog.

“Mister! Hey, buddy!” Matt calls. “She’s in heat! Pick up your dog! Pick him up!”

Puzzled, the man obeys, just in time, then recoils when he sees Buttercup charging.

“Buttercup, no!” I shout.

“Aahroorooroororooo!” she bays, ignoring me. Intent on her would-be mate, she leaps against his owner.

“Aah!” he cries. “No, doggy! Bad doggy! Get down! No! Down!”

Trevor glances down the street and runs across, hauling Buttercup off the man and his hapless dog. Buttercup goes limp, glancing back balefully as Trevor drags her away from her true love.

“That dog should be leashed!” the Yorkie owner spits.

“You’re absolutely right. We’ll tell the owner as soon as we find him,” Trevor says, throwing me a grin. “Are you all right, sir?” He sticks out his hand. “Trevor Meade, Eaton Falls Fire.”

“I’m fine,” the man replies. “Thank you for stopping that hideous animal. Puffy, are you okay?” He drops a kiss on the Yorkie’s head and glares at me.

“Ma’am, you say you know this dog’s owner?” Trevor asks me with a conspiratorial wink.

I pause. “Um, yes. Yes, I do. My neighbor’s dog. Very naughty beast. Bad, Buttercup.”

“You tell those people there are leash laws in Eaton Falls,” Yorkie Man says.

“I certainly will,” I say. “You’re a disgrace, Buttercup. Your owners will be so ashamed.”

“Thanks for your help, ma’am,” Trevor says to me. I feel his smile right into my bone marrow.

“Come on, Puffy,” the man says, turning around and heading back from whence he came. “Poor Puffy. You were scared, weren’t you?”

“Scared isn’t the word I’d use,” Matt comments, joining Trev and me. He eyes the tiny dog, who twists and whines in his master’s arms, struggling to return to Buttercup. “Puffy had it covered.”

“Imagine their children.” Trevor laughs, kneeling to stroke my dog.

Ryan comes over to me and, to my surprise, puts his arm around my shoulders. In all the excitement, I had almost forgotten about him.

“Ryan! Hey, have you met my brother? This is Matt.” They shake hands.

“Sorry about this, Chas,” Matt says. “Lucky went out to call Tara, and your horny little dog dashed out.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say. “Makes for a memorable night, wouldn’t you say, Ryan?”

“Absolutely,” Ryan answers, and suddenly, I feel a rush of affection for him. After all, he was a great sport, wasn’t he? I take his hand in mine, and he smiles.

“You can get her back, right, boys?” I ask.

“Sure, Chas,” Trevor answers. “You kids have a nice night.”

AFTER A MUCH-NEEDED SECOND glass of wine back at Emo’s, Ryan asks me if I’d like to come back to his place. The surreal feeling of being with him returns as he opens the door to his condo. It’s a sleek, stylish place in a renovated mill building. The windows face upriver, away from the energy plant. Dark-stained wood floors gleam, the oriental carpet glows with jewel tones. A fireplace takes up an entire wall, and it’s all very modern and clean, just what you’d imagine for a surgeon.

“What a lovely place,” I say.

“Thank you,” Ryan says. “Can I take your jacket?” He does, then goes in the kitchen and opens a cabinet. “What kind of wine would you like, Chastity? I’ve got a very nice pinot, a gorgeous New Zealand chardonnay, some cabernet…”

“Oh, um, you pick,” I say. My heart is beating a little fast, and I swallow. The truth is, I’m nervous. I haven’t dated much, haven’t had a steady boyfriend in a while. Haven’t been back to a man’s place in an age. I wonder if all my parts still work.

There are some black-and-white photos on the wall, mostly of buildings, though one of a snowy field. “Did you take these pictures?” I ask.

“Oh, no. My decorator bought them. Glad you like them, though,” he says, handing me a glass of white. “Would you like to sit down?”

We sit on the sumptuous leather couch. Ryan picks up a remote control, pushes a button, and voilà! We have a fire. “Very nice,” I say, taking a sip of the wine.

He pushes a lock of my hair behind my ear and smiles. I smile back. My knees tingle. He moves a little closer. More tingling. His arm slides along the back of the couch, his hand moves to the back of my head. Then he leans in and kisses my neck, sending little shivers down my side.

“So, Ryan, okay,” I blurt. “I have to ask this…sorry.” I shift a little so I can better see his face. “Ryan, you’re a gorgeous man, you’re a doctor—”

“Surgeon,” he corrects with a smile.

“Right! A surgeon, a trauma surgeon…um, why aren’t you married?”

He sits back and frowns. “It’s a valid question,” he says. “Honestly, Chastity, I always felt that work came first. It’s not easy to become a surgeon—”

“Oh, I know,” I smile. “I watch Grey’s Anatomy every week.” He doesn’t deign to respond. “Sorry. Go on,” I mumble, looking at my high-tops.

He glances at his wine glass, held loosely in his beautiful hands. “I always felt that a serious relationship wouldn’t be advisable while I was so immersed in my residency, or in establishing my career.” He shifts his gaze to me. “Now that’s done.” He raises an eyebrow. “And I’ve met you.”

I blush, pleased. “I guess I’m surprised you didn’t meet anyone else at the hospital, from your residency, maybe?” I suggest. “Like McDreamy and Meredith?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but his tone is fond. “But I wouldn’t want to marry another doctor. One in the family is enough.”

“Oh,” I say. “And why is that?”

“It’s a demanding career,” he says simply. “When it comes to having children, I think it’s best to have at least one parent who can devote a lot of time to them.” He pauses, his eyes dropping to my mouth. His voice lowers. “Any more questions?”

“Um…no,” I whisper. The tingling returns.

“Can I kiss you now?”

“Sure,” I whisper, and he does. He kisses me, a very nice, skilled, gentle kiss. I pull back, set my wine glass on the coffee table, and take another look at him. “Any pets?” I ask.

“No.” He laughs.

“Okay,” I answer, then grab his shirt and pull him against me and kiss him a little less perfectly than he just kissed me.

“Just so you know,” he murmurs against my mouth, “I’m looking for a serious relationship. Committed and monogamous.”

“Got it,” I say, smiling. Can’t say that I’ve ever known a man to say such things. “Me, too, Ryan.” And then he kisses me again, and we stop talking for a good long while.

MY GIRL PARTS STILL WORK, I’M happy to report.

We’re cuddling. Idly stroking Ryan’s satiny shoulder, I remind myself to moisturize more regularly. This guy is much prettier than I am. I stifle a giggle.

“That was great,” he murmurs, kissing my head.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Very nice.”

But now that the deed is done, well, I’m feeling a little squirrelly. “Hey, Ryan, would you mind driving me home?”

“Right now?” he asks. His fingers stop playing with my hair.

“Well, no, not exactly now. But I have an early meeting.” It’s true.

“Sure,” he says, pulling back to look at me. “But you’re more than welcome to spend the night, Chastity.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Next time, but, um, I probably should…you know.”

Five minutes later, Ryan kisses me again, very sweetly, then rolls out of bed and pulls on his clothes. I smile, grateful for the years of karate and athleticism that have sculpted his body to Matthew McConnaughey perfection.

That perfection aside, I know I wouldn’t sleep a wink, and the little voice in my head is waiting to have a talk with me.

The stars burn bright in the sky, and the streets are empty. The hum of Ryan’s Mercedes is barely audible, and he holds my hand the whole way back.

“You’d better stay in the car,” I say, looking at my house. “My brother’s home tonight, and if Buttercup hears a stranger, she’ll go nuts and wake him up.” Of course, this is not true. If she even woke, I’d be surprised. I’m not sure why I just lied.

“Okay,” he says, looking at me. He leans over and kisses me briefly. “I’m glad we’re together, Chastity.”

My heart squeezes at his earnestness. “Thanks. Me, too, Ryan.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Sure. Thanks.” I open the car door and run up the path. He waits at the curb until I go inside, then pulls noiselessly away.

The only light is from the nightlight in the hall, which Matt and I leave on in case he gets called to the firehouse in the middle of the night…or if I need a midnight snack. Buttercup groans from her corner, her tail whacking the floor. “Hi, honey,” I whisper. She doesn’t even open her eyes, too exhausted from her flight through Eaton Falls to come over, just thumps her tail a few more times and goes back to sleep.

Going into the kitchen, I open the fridge, blinking at the sudden burst of light, and stare at the contents inside. Not a whole lot to warm a girl’s heart or fill her tummy. I take out the milk and grab the Choco-Puffs from the cabinet. Getting a bowl, I turn around and nearly die of fright. Trevor is standing there like a ghost.

“Trevor! Jeez!” I hiss, bobbling the carton of milk.

“Sorry, Chas,” he whispers. “Here, let me.” He takes the milk from my hands and sets it on the table. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Well, creeping up on someone at three in the morning tends to do just that,” I say. “Just for future reference.” My heart is thudding so hard I can practically see it coming out of my chest.

Trevor smiles and takes a seat at the table, taking care to be quiet. “I’m crashing here tonight,” he tells me.

“So I see.” He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and his feet are bare. I’m sure he wasn’t sleeping in jeans—I end the thought right there. “Want some cereal?”

“No, thanks,” he says with a grin. “How was your date? After the wee beastie chased you down, that is.”

I take a deep breath. My purpose in having a little late-night snack was to analyze said date. “It was great,” I say. “We had a great time. Ryan’s a great guy.”

“Great.”

I look at him sharply. “We did. He is.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t, Chas, or that he’s not.” He folds his arms across his chest and continues looking at me, muscles bulging, hair rumpled, utterly luscious. I take a hearty bite of Choco-Puffs and chew. Go away, Trevor, I say silently. Because sitting in the near dark at three in the morning is far too intimate. “How’s Angela, speaking of dating?”

“She’s fine,” he says. “Nice girl.”

“So are you guys serious?” I blurt, shoveling in another mouthful of cereal.

“We’ve been on two dates, Chastity.”

“So? Ryan and I have also been on two dates.”

“And are you guys serious?” he asks.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, we are. We are in a committed, monogamous relationship.” My spoon clatters with unnecessary roughness against the bowl.

“Two dates is a little quick for a serious, committed, monogamous relationship, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, we’ve just begun the committed, serious, monogamous relationship, Trevor. Gotta start somewhere.” My voice is not quite as casual as I’d like.

“Sure,” Trevor agrees. “And I’m sure he has a lot of nice qualities.”

Why does he defend Ryan? my little voice squawks. Why doesn’t he say, How about a committed, serious, monogamous relationship with me, Chas?

Because he doesn’t want that, Elaina’s voice answers firmly. He’s had his chance, okay? He’s had plenty.

“So?” Trevor asks. “What do you like about this guy, Chas?”

“What are you, my big sister now?” I ask, and he grins, and my insides lurch.

“Close enough. Answer the question.”

I get up from the table, put my bowl in the sink and stare out the window at the dark backyard. “He’s really smart, obviously.” Well-educated. “And he’s got a nice sense of humor…you know, kind of quiet.” Excellent manners. “He’s hardworking. Treats me really well.” Good driver. “Didn’t mind chasing Buttercup.”

“Sounds like there’s some potential here, Chas.”

My throat tightens. “Oh, yeah. Definitely potential. Listen, buddy, I’m going to bed. Do you need anything? Pillow, blanket, anything?”

“I’m all set, thanks. Night, Chastity.”

“Goodnight, Trev.”

Upstairs in my room, Buttercup has taken her usual position, occupying three-quarters of my queen-size bed. I undress, then realize with an impatient sigh that I forgot to brush my bleeping teeth. And since I don’t even have a sink in my stupid bathroom, I’d have to go back downstairs and risk seeing Trevor once more.

Well. I get into my tiny sliver of a bed, shove Buttercup over with my feet and sigh.

Surely I’ve wasted enough time thinking about Trevor over the past couple of decades. Instead of thinking about Trev, I order myself to think of attainable, relationship-minded Ryan Darling.

I think I could probably love Ryan. Like I said to Trevor, he seems like a very nice, serious, hardworking guy. He’s not really funny in the way that I’m used to, the lizards in the bed kind of funny, but he’s not un-funny, either. And there’s some chemistry between us, sure. If my toes didn’t exactly curl, well, they twitched, and this was just our first time. He is certainly good-looking. We’d make beautiful, strong, tall children, hopefully. Smart, too. Ivy League Teamsters.

So yes, we’d done it. Moved the relationship forward, and if it was a little fast, as Trevor so irritatingly pointed out, so what? Ryan and I are consenting adults in our thirties. No big deal. I wince as the words echo in my head. No big deal.

It’s not that sex with Ryan wasn’t nice. It was. Very nice. We took our time, he was considerate, assured me of his good health, took care of the needed protection and all that. It was very nice. If I had to grade it, I’d give it a B+. Good, solid, well-supported sex. Like a hearty meat loaf dinner. And if nice isn’t exactly what a woman dreams of, if instead of meat loaf, she’s wishing for filet mignon, if she’s wanting earth-shaking instead of solid, a little more wild, a little less smooth, well, she should probably get over it.