I go a little deeper into the date, scanning my mind for details the way Claire obsessed over her crushes. When Spencer was in downward dog at yoga, I noticed he had incredibly tight hamstrings. He also had a stress-inducing habit of holding a bite of food on his fork while talking-he was in limbo-land with the bit of mashed potato balancing on the tines of the fork. I couldn't help but worry it was going to fall into his water glass.

I write these down in a notes section of the summary. If I'm going to fully involve myself in Kat's dare-going on several dates leading up to potentially spending Valentine's Day with one of these guys-, I need a system to keep track of each of them. Lucky for me, I co-created one back in junior high school.

The most important part of Claire's assessments was the star rating. For a first date, followed by amazing sex, I'd say it was five stars, but if I'm looking for the perfect date, then it's only right to count a few detractors: he's a well-dressed player and we're neighbors, which complicates things. Also, I'm almost the opposite of the women I've seen leaving his place: leggy, exotic, with long silky hair, and egos for days.

I tap out four and a half asterisks next to his name. I tilt my head, feeling the overall aesthetic is lacking, especially when compared to Claire's perfect five-pointed stars in The Boyfriend Book.

I fool around on Photoshop, creating navy blue stars. The blog should have a proper banner at the top. I get carried away creating one for the Boyfriend Book Blog in soft navy blue and gold, with a touch of pink to underscore the Valentine's Day component.

I write up a brief explanation of Kat's dare for me to date the first five-no four-guys I saw the day after we moved into our apartment. I emphasize the dating dry spell and how this was a clean slate.

In a questionable brainwave, mostly because of the late hour, I invite readers to vote for the best guy, like my own little version of the Bachelorette. I'm loyal to the Bachelor, and won't deny watching every season, but I've never missed an episode of the Bachelorette either.

I scrape together a bio: college graduate, assistant at a PR firm, living with her best friend and a cat. Not exactly living the New York City dream.

I lean back in my chair. I don't know what my dream was. Is. Could be. There's always so much well-meaning encouragement to follow your dreams, but however vivid they once were or whatever they are now, it's like I can't remember them in the morning.

I wake just after dawn to the beeping of something that isn't my alarm clock. The first thing I see is my sleeping computer screen, and when I peel my cheek from the keyboard, it lights up to the Boyfriend Book Blog page revealing how I spent several sex-drunk hours.

"I'm your morning wake up call," Kat says. The beeping she's making with her mouth turns into a whistle as Kat tilts her head in question at the website on the screen. "This is not a dog adoption website. Navy Carrington, what have you been up to? I saw the word cock and it wasn't followed by Spaniel. I take it you had a good night."

She reaches over my shoulder and before I can stop her, she unplugs my computer from the power supply, picks it up, and rushes from my room, calling, "This is better than the morning news."

"Come back," I say weakly. But the damage is done. What the heck was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. Or rather, I was thinking, but about men and sex and dating and this is exactly why I don't do it. It takes up too much headspace, makes me do stupid things, and stay up way too late.

Never mind the castoff ruins of my heart.

I inhale, smooth my hair, and go to the kitchen. Kat's perched at the center island with a green juice in hand and the computer in front of her. There's a second juice in front of the other stool. I take a sip and gag.

"Spirulina. It's really good for you, especially your liver," Kat says pointedly. "You smell like you hit the wine bottle hard."

"I need eggs, greasy eggs." I billow my sweatshirt and take a discrete sniff. "And a shower. Yeah, there was wine last night."

"How about we go for breakfast and you tell me all about it."

"I think you just read everything because I'm an idiot and published it on the internet!" I cup my hands over my face.

Kat clicks something on the screen and says, "Me and ninety-two people. Not bad for a first blog that's only been live for a few hours. Probably voyeurs, lonely housewives, girls who're single."

"Like me."

"No, Navy, you're back in the game!" She cheers.

I snarl.

"Come on, some sausage will put a smile on those lips. Oh wait, it already did. Ba dum dum." She moves her hands like she's banging a drum and then laughs.

"Fine, but I can't be late for work. Mr. Douche-"

Kat's laughter is loud enough to wake the entire building.

I will not think about Carrick, Kennely. I will not think about Carrick Kennely. "I mean Mr. Bouche was pissed yesterday."

"Mr. Bouche? Douche? That is genius and by genius I mean hilarious."

"You can thank Carrick, not that I want to."

She shoots laser eyes at me. "What don't I know?"

I give her a two-minute recap of my rescue on the ice and the coffee talk in the hall.

"I see dimples, Navy," Kat says, but I rush into the bathroom and take a shower.

The only way to leave the building, aside from the fire escape, is by walking past Spencer's door. "Am I going to have to tip toe every time I go down the hall?" I whisper, frozen on the threshold.

"No. You are going to power walk like the powerful woman you are."

I don't move.

"Come on. Don't be embarrassed. Wait, you didn't fart did you?"

I whack her. "No, of course not, Angi."

"Did you remember how everything worked?"

"Yes, and had I gotten confused, he would've-" Without finishing my sentence, I dash past his door and toward the elevator.

"My kind of man," she purrs.

We make it out of the building without incident, but I carefully consider the usage of the fire escape for future indoor/outdoor access. It's not that I'm embarrassed by my performance in bed, it was fine, I think. He didn't seem to mind. I'm more concerned with what I should say. Do we acknowledge it? Will we flirt? Will we ignore each other as though he hasn't tasted my muffin and I haven't seen his sausage?

Seated in the vinyl booth at the diner down the street, I spare no detail in the report of my hot date with Spencer, the Hottie in 7G, except one, Carrick.

Chapter 12.

Sugar and Cookies Kat walks me to the subway station and my toes are already getting cold.

"It's colder than an ice cream headache," Kat says. "And you, Navybean, are on fire. Lit up. That sex last night was a jump start."

"I could argue that it was the amazing yoga class."

"Yoga is pretty amazing, if I do say so. But so is Spencer," she trills.

"I don't think he's Valentine's Day date material."

"I can't believe you actually blogged it."

"Late night mistake, it will be deleted."

"No, please don't. Come on, this is fun." She links her arm in mine. "Isn't it fun? And you don't want to be alone forever."

"You're starting to sound like my mother."

"Ouch. Sorry. Dialing back the pressure. Let's just see where it goes, huh?"

I shrug. I don't want to be alone forever. I have Kat and Mew for now, but there's no knowing when they'll move on, which means I'll have to move back in with my parents. I won't be alone then, but I'll still be lonely.

"So, who's next? Ah, yes, the Man-bun-barista," Kat says with a persistent smile.

"Remember, I lost his number," I hedge, trying to get out of it.

"You wouldn't call anyway."

"True."

"We'll grab some coffee and set it up."

I squirm uncomfortably. "I'd rather call. Or better yet, text."

"Then I'll need to get his number again." She winks.

"I have no doubt you will."

She wrinkles her nose. "Just so you know, he's not my type."

"He's so your type," I say. "They're all your type!"

"But what's yours? That's what we need to figure out."

An unwelcome face, kissed by the sun no matter the season, with full lips, a strong jaw, and the bright blue eyes shared by all of his siblings pops into mind. I glance around. "Um, New York Knick's hat, leather gloves, brown parka."

"Navy, you're describing that guy over there." She points. The man I was describing turns around, revealing a bulging belly, straining the zipper on his coat. "And no. I will not let that be your type."

I cringe.

"I'm always looking out for you, kid."

"Hey, I'm older than you."

"By three months. I meant to tell you, I'm going to have to leave Mew to babysit you this weekend."

"Where are you going?"

"Weekend yoga retreat up in New England. Hey, if you want to get out of town, I could see if there's still space available."

I shake my head. I have to save my pennies, for one thing and I won't mind having the apartment to myself for the weekend. Books won't do things like dare me to date guys.

I go up town to the library on Saturday afternoon and stock up on books as the first snowflakes of a winter storm descend. I usually buy my books from the indie shop, but want to avoid having to set up a date with the clerk. Plus, borrowing saves money and compels me to read more because I don't want overdue fines. By the time I make my way back to the apartment, the snow envelops the gray afternoon in a downy white blanket. I stop by the market and pick up chocolate chips, milk, butter, and cream cheese. A snowy night with a stack of new books definitely requires warm cookies and milk.

Once cozy in leggings and fuzzy slippers, I turn up the music and get out all of the ingredients to make my grandmother's famous cookie recipe. Her secret ingredient was cream cheese and my mouth waters anticipating taking a bite fresh from the oven.

I'm about to cream the butter, cream cheese, and sugar, when I measure it and come up short. I check the little bowl by the coffee maker, but it's empty.

I sneak past Spencer's door and knock on the door farthest down the hall. Rabid barking pounds through the door. I call, "Mrs. Hess. Are you home?" The dogs claw at the wood. "It's Navy from down the hall."

I try the other guy's door, but either he's not home or can't hear me over the barking. I pass the window to the fire escape as the wind whips the snow off of the pane, hoping Mrs. Hess isn't out in the nasty weather.

I creep past Spencer's door and am halfway back to mine when I sigh. He's probably not home since it's Saturday night. I take a deep breath, lift my arm, hesitate, and then knock, ready to spring away like a scared bunny. I look down the hall to the safety of my rabbit warren.

Footsteps approach. The door opens. He's still in his suit pants, but his shirt is unbuttoned and his tie absent. Not only am I out of sugar, but I'm also out of words.

"Hey," he says, all smooth and Spencer-like.

I wring my hands and clear my throat. "This sound so neighborly, but I'm wondering if you can spare a cup of sugar."

He smirks.

"Granulated, table sugar, if you want me to be specific."

"Oh, I thought you were talking about the other kind."

My cheeks heat.

"Yeah. I probably have some. Come on in."

I close the door behind me, but don't follow him into his lair, I mean kitchen. Soft music comes from the living room or maybe it was a television commercial. I listen, for the tinkle of laughter, the click of heels, or any other signs of company.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the floor to ceiling mirror to the left of the door. I smooth my hair and dust the flour from the belly of my hoodie. It's not that I'm opposed to, ahem, his sugar, if I'm going to use the euphemism, but I'm not really his kind of girl. And his overall sexiness kind of scares me-not because he's rough-but because I don't feel like I'm Spencer material. I'm nerdy, have messy hair, an overly square jaw, and haven't really gotten my shit together. I'm a pigeon-swan and he's most definitely a peacock or a great Dane or something.

"Found some," he says, materializing in the hall.

"Oh, thank you," I say, startled from my thoughts and taking the unopened box from his hand. Our fingers brush and I experience a rush. Four and a half stars.

"I'll, um, repay you or get you some more," I mumble.

He steps toward me with a familiar hunger in his eyes. I swallow and then turn the knob, backing out of his apartment.