Chapter 1
Catherine
I lean in closer to the glowing laptop screen, blocking out the whir of the espresso machine, the laughter at the table next to me, and the ever-present knot of uncertainty that’s been getting bigger and tighter lately. I scroll down, read the profile details, and click.
This one has a gentle smile. Athletic. Looks affectionate.
A companion.
Girl’s best friend.
“What are you doing?” a familiar voice asks as a fragrant cascade of hair falls over my shoulder.
I startle, spilling tea into the saucer, and quickly close my laptop.
A pair of long, slim legs bound in bright pink yoga pants step into view. Hazel’s sculpted eyebrow angles toward disapproval. “Looking at fur babies again?”
My Earl Grey tea tastes vaguely like guilt.
“It used to be that you only got puppy fever once a month. I could set a clock by it.” Hazel’s lovely British accent sounds out of place speaking those words.
“Shh,” I hiss, hoping she lowers her booming voice. “Not everyone needs to know about my cycle.”
She plants her hands on the table and leans over me. “I use your bouts of puppy fever to track my own—it always comes a week after I catch you with that desperate, starry-eyed look as you gaze wistfully into the middle distance, only to realize you were just browsing adoptable dogs. But the current timing—” She taps her chin, calculating. “It’s not that time of the month.”
She’s got me there. I swallow another sip of tepid tea. I just want to cuddle something soft, sweet, and not inclined to love me and then leave me. It’s a placeholder for babies, children, a family someday. A someday I fear will never come.
“Doesn’t it make you sad?” she asks.
My heart throbs with an ache, a longing I will never reveal. “Of course. There are so many animals in need of good homes.”
“No, I mean sad that you’re single.”
I exhale. “Hazel, so are you. And you just prefer cats to dogs.”
“They’re independent, selective, and,” she smooths her hand down the arm of her fuzzy jacket, “soft.”
“So are dogs.”
“They shed,” she counters.
“So do cats.” I’m still picking her cat’s fur off my jacket.
“They’re needy.”
“I thought we were talking about being single,” I say, flustered.
“We were.” She winks.
I roll my eyes. With Hazel, it always comes back to guys and dating. I can’t blame her. She’s eye-catching and a catch. Tall, gorgeous, and blessed with silky dark hair and sun-kissed skin. We’re opposites in so many ways. If tanning under moonlight were a thing, I’d have achieved the perfect tube sock pallor.
Hazel possesses a kind of worldliness that I do not, regardless of the stamps in my passport. Moreover, as a former ballerina turned yoga instructor, she carries herself with poise and grace.
“Are you checking me out?” she asks with a sudden, sly grin.
“I’m admiring you.”
She traces her outline. “I cannot help the genes.”
“You’re wearing leggings,” I parry, just to irritate her.
“Ha ha. Catherine, come on. Don’t be like that. You’re beautiful.”
“If by beautiful you mean short, curvy, a jawline that resembles a geometric shape, and with hair that can’t decide what it wants to do on the daily… Then sure, call me cute.”
Hazel groans at my self-deprecation.
I sigh. I’m feeling low and it’s not because it’s that time of the month. Hormones can’t take all the blame for bad moods. “But you’re beautiful,” I sputter.
“Takes one to know one. But you shouldn’t spend so much time alone. Come to my class later. By the end, you’ll be blissed out. Also, there’s this guy who’s been coming...” She fans herself.
I open my mouth to protest.
She puts up her hand. “No pity party.”
I’m not hideous, but it’s been a long, long time since I’ve been reminded otherwise. I don’t know how to date. I’m ten years out of practice. There were a few casual dates, often at Hazel’s insistence, back during our college days, and one awkward date when I started at my old job. Let’s not talk about the last time I kissed a guy.
I sigh.
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes as if to challenge my thoughts.
I’m not tall, but I’m not short. I’m not blond and not brunette either. Some say I’m smart but certainly not a genius. I’ve been told I’m pretty I guess but not beautiful. I’m a little bit quirky and on most days, I’m confident that I’m not crazy.
In other words, I’m average, not awesome. Ordinary, not extraordinary. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Not everyone can be Hazel Loves.
I’m Catherine Kittredge and inside me, there’s a little light, a mini star burning within. I just haven’t figured out how to let it shine, and these days I feel dim.
Hazel somehow manages effortless, natural ease and beauty, travels regularly, and while she has a Ph.D., she followed her bliss to teach yoga.
As for me chasing big dreams? First, I need to know what they are and then I’ll see about the chasing—though running isn’t my thing, so it’d be more of a speed-walking pace.
Nonetheless, if Hazel sees gorgeous when she looks in the mirror, I’m about to be seeing a lot more of that when we move in together tomorrow.
I sigh again, prop my chin on my hand, and tilt the screen of my laptop open. “I’m going to keep looking at puppies.”
“The leasing agent said no pets.”
“What about the cat?” I ask.
“Mew? He’s part of the family.”
“Is he going to get us kicked out?”
A sly smile twitches on Hazel’s lips. “Of course not. The meeting with Ricardo, the leasing agent, went exceptionally well.” She holds up two keys and passes one to me. “The apartment is fabulous and so is he.”
I lean forward, knocking my knees into the bistro table. I steady my tea so I don’t spill more and take a sip of the now cold liquid. “What do you mean?”
She claws the air with her long, manicured nails and meows. “Let’s just say dinner was delicious.”
“Hazel! You went on a date with him? What about professionalism and all that?” I say louder than I mean to.
An older woman wearing her New York winter whites darts us with a sharp glance as she passes. A guy two tables to our left peers over his laptop curiously. If he’s hoping to write America’s next great novel, he’s more likely to hear something scandalous for gossip pages coming out of Hazel’s mouth in three, two, one...
“Tall, dark, handsome. I couldn’t resist.” She shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “But wait until you see the guy down the hall. He was getting his mail when I first met with Ricardo. The guy in 7G can post my letters anytime.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
She flutters her lashes, lifts a shoulder, and shrugs. “Me neither.”
I roll my eyes. Everything she says sounds flirtatious.
From the café counter, a barista with a man-bun calls Hazel’s name for her order. I watch her strut through the crowded café as if she’s on a runway. The exhausted moms with their babies slung around their chests make way. The lawyers, bankers, and high-powered CEOs, CFOs, COOs (I don’t know what that is, but they’re cuckoo over Hazel) clear a path.
I’ve already had it with men in Manhattan, and I’ve never even dated any of them. The self-importance, the expectation, the need to impress and then toss you to the curb with yesterday’s garbage—I’m over it.
Hazel, with her numerous dates, makes the rules, calls the shots, and has fun while doing it. The busboy practically throws himself into an elderly couple so she doesn’t have to see his bin of dirty dishes.
I shake my head. The grass, red carpet, or whatever she walks on must indeed be greener. I’m resigned to never having the opportunity to set foot on it.
Hazel leans over the counter, no doubt flirting with Man-bun. I imagine she’ll have something to say about him whipping the cream on her latte later, whatever that means.
I resume my search for a companion that won’t break my heart.
“You have that look in your eyes,” Hazel says when she returns.
“Which one?” I ask dubiously.
“The I despise biped males one.”
Among Hazel’s many fabulous attributes, she’s also uncommonly intelligent and clever. In her twenty-eight years, she’s completed her Ph.D., sold a wellness app—banking a million or so—, and has traveled the world as a fitness model.
Meanwhile, I’d struggled to keep my job as a copywriter at an ad agency until a few months ago when everything blew up. The new guy—who may have taken a page from Hazel’s book and flirted with my former boss—, was kept on. They had to cut the fat, which meant letting me go.
I’d been there for three years, day and night, bending over backward, and going above and beyond. What was I left with? Five extra pounds from the long hours and eating my sorrows with leftover office-party birthday cakes, a box of junk including a half-dead plant, and a lukewarm recommendation about my efficiency, detail-oriented multi-tasking skills, and a propensity to spend long hours in the office.
Unable to tolerate unemployment, in this entire city, the only position I could get was little more than an internship, essentially serving as the coffee-runner and copy-maker at a publicity firm. Yay. I get to bleed ink for authors who think they’re the next New York Times Bestseller.
Hazel’s phone chimes and she busies herself, probably scheduling a hot date later.
Wondering about the comment about despising males? I don’t hate all men. Just the lying, cheating ones. I repeat, I don’t hate men, not in the slightest. This isn’t that kind of story.
The trouble is, I don’t trust them. There’s a difference.
When it comes to love, certain kinds of men tend to suck the fire out of women: dreams, hopes, desires, passion, little by little, deception after lie after loss until we’re a smoldering pile of ash. Dramatic, I know. But that’s how I’ve felt for nearly a decade, since high school! High school.
After my heart was broken, I couldn’t look at men the same way again. I’ve all but locked up that pulsing, yearning thing in my chest and thrown away the key.
But love, yes, this is that kind of story.
Love is comfort. Love is understanding.
Love is forgiveness.
Love is home.
And when you love someone, no matter what happens between you, love can become something else, something more. Nothing can keep you apart.
I read about love in novels all day every day and night, causing tremendous book hangovers and zombie eyes the next day when I try to focus at work. I’ve only just started at Albright, Bratte, and Carlotta, a publicity firm, so it remains to be seen whether they welcome zombies in the workplace. However, they said they’re an equal opportunity employer.
But back to love.
Let’s discuss Mr. Darcy and how he melted his frosty exterior for Miss Bennet.
How Noah Calhoun from The Notebook makes me swoon.
Severus Snape, always.
Gilbert Blythe and his unwavering patience and adoration for Anne Shirley. Yes, please.
Jamie Fraser from Outlander, Hello!
Aragorn in Lord of the Rings, uh huh, I’m going there.
Don’t even get me started on modern men in romance novels—they have love dialed in.
Let’s talk about gentlemen and true love and emotional medicine. Honor, loyalty, and honesty. These aren’t paper playboys. They’ll walk to the ends of the earth for their loves—sometimes literally. They wage wars and win battles. They’re beasts on the street and sweet when you first meet. They’re intelligent and thoughtful, considerate and tender.
They may have a few flaws (Edward Cullen watching Bella while she slept? Only slightly creepy), but they’re easily overlooked because their other qualities outweigh the tiny details.
These are my book boyfriends.
Here’s my theory: if we’re lucky, we’ll find one of the few real-life men who give us part of themselves. Maybe it’s a look, a love letter, a kiss, or a little something that becomes a thumbnail-sized ember leaving us burning for them until it gets so bright if we don’t do something about it we’ll supernova. Swoon. Blackhole. Whoosh. Gone.
They’re our soul mates, true loves. They’re supportive, loving, smell delicious, cook dinner, put their laundry in the basket instead of next to it, reliably remember birthdays and anniversaries. They’ll hold us tight when we need tenderness and will kiss us silly when we’re feeling frisky.
Someday I will find a real-life book boyfriend, pulled from the pages of fiction. I hope.
Love works in contrasts, in paradox. There’s someone for all of us who won’t break our hearts, but the trouble is finding him among the billions of people on the planet.
First, I have to start looking, which will require massive amounts of duct tape, caffeine, and possibly a new identity. No! This isn’t that kind of story either.
The duct tape is for my broken heart. The caffeine is liquid motivation, and the identity, well, let’s just say things haven’t exactly gone to plan in the last few years. I could go on and on and on. I’ll stop now, otherwise we’ll be here until Valentine’s Day.
Hazel sets down her empty cup. “Wait?!” she exclaims. Her eyes widen. “What if the super moon last month threw our cycles off?”
I shake my head, drawing little hearts on the table with my finger, using the remaining tea in my cup.
“Then what’s got you down? Is it work?”
I wrinkle my nose. “It’s just jaded cynicism.” Jealousy. Misery. Loneliness. I don’t know.
“Catherine, I have an idea! Why don’t you volunteer at an animal shelter? It’s just after the New Year. You didn’t make a resolution.”
I consider this. I adore dogs, puppies, seniors, mixes, mutts...
When I don’t respond right away, buzzed on espresso, Hazel blurts, “I have an even better idea! The next holiday is Valentine’s Day. Your New Year’s resolution could be to break your dry spell and kiss someone by February fourteenth.”
The café goes silent. A spoon clatters. My pulse quickens and my cheeks blister.
She doesn’t even flinch. “You can’t be in the lonely hearts club forever.”
I clear my throat.
The activity in the coffee shop resumes, but my cheeks don’t return to their usual pale shade.
“Oh, come on. It’s not like you know anyone here,” she says. Thankfully, she lowered her voice.
“Don’t you have a yoga class to go teach?”
She taps her phone for the time. “Yes. Walk with me.”
I’m more than happy to leave the coffee shop and the prying ears and eyes of the people listening in.
She waves coyly to the Man-bun-barista as we exit. He’s not bad looking with his strong brow and dark stubble. He’s trim and moves efficiently while making coffee beverages. Then he winks. No. That’s doubtful. He must’ve gotten coffee grounds in his eye.
We pass one of my favorite bookstores and instead of looking at my reflection in the glass like Hazel, I look beyond—at the stories and the pages filled with romances that reliably end with a happily ever after.
“He’s kind of hot,” Hazel says.
“Who? What?” I ask, pulled from my thoughts.
“The guy in there.” She brazenly points, not caring if he sees.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” I say vaguely.
It hasn’t escaped my notice that the guy who I buy my books from is attractive. Or that he flirts with me every time I go in. Well, at least I think the small talk he makes is flirting. I’ve been out of practice for so long a simple hello or inquiry about my sleeping habits from my doctor is liable to be misinterpreted.
He’s cute but so is the Man-bun-barista, the guy in the puffer jacket who just smirked at Hazel as we passed, and according to her, the fellow who lives down the hall from us in our new place. Don’t let me forget about the gym rat she’s so eager to see at her next class. There are hot, available men all over this city, but there’s a difference between being nice to look at and being a nice person.
Yet, it might be the already-long winter or the cold spell of the several years since I turned away from men and toward books, but lately, I’ve been feeling a little twinge deep inside my chest that compels me to take a second glance and wonder...
But I’ll do anything not to face the shame and guilt I’ve been carrying with me for years.
I don’t tell Hazel. Not the truth and not the erosion of my self-imposed singlehood. No way. She’d have suitors lined up around the block. She loves to play matchmaker, even though she’s perpetually single.
The sleek gray sign for the gym where she teaches her evening yoga class comes into view.
“Tomorrow is the big day,” she says, bringing me back into the conversation. “I’ll see you bright and early, ready to move into our new place.”
We both bounce on our toes, half because our teeth chatter and half because we’re genuinely excited. Despite the chill, Hazel’s smarts, generosity, and confidence remind me how lucky I am that our friendship has endured all these years. A delicate smile blooms on my lips, warming me.
“Ooh, almost there,” Hazel says, returning the grin. “Just a little more.” Her smile widens, and she pokes my cheek where my dimple hides.
Just as she’s about to go into the bright glow of the gym to teach yoga to the man-hunk, someone calls my name over the din of traffic and chatter.
“Catherine, Cat,” repeats a low, familiar voice I all but thought I’d locked away in the past.
I don’t turn. I don’t move. I freeze. Yes, it’s cold out, but so is my heart.
Hazel stares. “Whoa.”
“Catherine,” he calls again.
She nudges me.
I slowly turn as strong, capable arms wrap me in a hug.
I breathe Kellan’s minty, soapy, sunshine scent long enough to remember why I need to wriggle free from his embrace and wipe the smile off my face.
“Hi, Catnip.” He uses the pet name he had for me, always telling me I was catnip. No, more like he was, at least for this kitty. Well, not anymore.
Kellan’s lips, the ones I imagined myself kissing before I’d ever done so with anyone, part slightly. He seems taller than I remember. Broader too and even more sure of himself if that’s possible.
Tragically, he’s every bit as handsome as he was in all of my teenage dreams—and a few since then. He wears a dark blue knit hat over his light brown hair and a shadow of matching stubble fills in his jawline.
My own mouth drops open whether in awe or to scream at him, I’m not sure.
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