"Thanks," I call over my shoulder, hopping down the bunny trail.

He says something more, but I don't hear it as I close my door and catch my breath.

Cookies. I need cookies. And a book-a distraction, anything.

Fifteen minutes later the apartment smells like home, and I take the tray from the oven. I pop a second batch in using the remaining dough, pour myself some milk, and settle on the couch.

The buttery, crispy, chocolatey, disc of perfection melts in my mouth when I take a bite. Just when I go for a second, there's a knock on the door.

Maybe Mrs. Hess finally made it past her crazy pack of dogs or she wants to scold me for bothering them.

I peer through the peephole. Spencer's hands are in his pockets and he smirks as though he knows I'm looking at him from the other side of the door. His grin is irresistible. I undo the lock.

"I smelled the cookies from my place and wondered why you didn't bring me one." He steps closer to me. "After all, I lent you the sugar." He takes another step, this one over the threshold. "I asked nicely." He closes the door behind him.

The oven alarm beeps.

I hop backwards and pull out the sheet pan.

"Nice place. Cozy," he says, surveying the room. "Quiet night in?"

"Yeah. You?" I ask, placing a cookie on a napkin and holding it out to him. Again, our fingers brush and I'm jolted. High voltage electricity flashes across my cheeks, all the way down to my toes, and everywhere-and I do mean everywhere-, in between.

He sets the cookie down on the kitchen island, grips my jaw between his hands, kisses me once, and then hefts me up onto the counter. Another kiss. Then he takes a bite of the cookie and moans. He puts it to my mouth and I take a bite as he slips his hand under my hoodie and runs it up the bare skin on my back. I'm not wearing a bra. Oh dear God.

He kisses me again.

"Delicious." He puts the rest of the cookie in his mouth and then takes another. "Usually, I'm good with one, but you're an exceptional baker."

He kisses me with the hunger that food, even exceptionally delicious cookies, can't provide.

My hoodie somehow ends up underneath me, which is welcome because the granite counter is cold. My leggings somehow hang off the lampshade in the living room (I'll have to ask him if he played football in high school), and my panties are in the empty ceramic mixing bowl, which I admittedly licked clean earlier. Spencer's shirt is on the rung of the stool, and it doesn't matter where his pants are because they're off.

His lips press against mine again and if that weren't enough, he trails kisses down my neck, to my chest, and then keeps going. Afterward, he laces his arms under my knees and pulls me against him. I wrap my legs and arms around him and we go at it.

I've never had sex on a counter before. I can assure you it's not as uncomfortable as you might think. The sweatshirt provides padding. However, was uncomfortable was when I said, "Carr-" cutting myself off with a long moan when I came. He was grunting in a low, sexy way, so I don't think he noticed. I hope he didn't.

I give him a few more cookies to go.

"Was this a booty call?" I ask.

He tilts his head, his eyes lidded and pleased, as he considers the question. "You do have a nice booty."

"A cookie call? A sugar summons? A sweet retreat? A dessert-" I. Am. Such. A. Dweeb. "I'll get that sugar back to you as soon as possible," I say.

"I'm all too happy to give you some sugar anytime," his husky voice calls from down the hall.

Wrapped in a blanket, I lay on the couch in a post-sex glow as the snowflakes dance in the night sky. A few land on the glass as though begging to come inside. I walk over and sit on the window ledge, push open the sill, and hold my hand out, catching the snow on my fingers and in my palm. It feels like a magical moment. I sigh a sleepy sigh.

My body is tired, but not my mind. It's wired and whirring with thoughts, defaulting to second guesses, wondering if I did everything right.

Spencer said that I'm an exceptional baker. Did that mean-?

I have to know.

I wrap my blanket snug around me, glance down the hall, and scamper to his door.

I knock.

He's there in under half a minute and before he can smile slyly or utter an innuendo, I ask, "By baker did you mean the rolling pin, mixing bowl kind or-?" I can't bring myself to say it.

"Sex?" Amusement plays on his lips. "Navy, I meant you're really good in bed or, uh, on the counter."

I exhale with relief. "Okay."

"I told you, anytime you need a cup of sugar-"

"Thank you for clarifying." My pulse pounds in my ears as I race down the hall.

Spencer is a man who isn't afraid to talk about sex. Boldly.

He isn't afraid to have sex. Frequently.

He knows how all the bits fit together and then some.

But I'm afraid, terrified, of what it means for me to talk and have and think about sex-twice in one week!

I'm intimidated by being with someone like Spencer in the bedroom. Naked.

And I'm positively petrified that Carrick's image repeatedly enters the picture while I'm with another man.

I reach the door, ready to crawl into bed, but it doesn't budge. I push on it. Nothing. I jiggle the handle. I'm locked out. I slowly turn to see Spencer leaning in his doorway. I press my lips together and nod. "It was an accident. I swear."

He hooks his finger, summoning me back.

"Good thing you didn't bother to get dressed," he says and now I can add entryway to my list of locations. Also, Jacuzzi.

Chapter 13.

UBoss Thankfully, the building super lets me in early the following morning. I'm sure Katya would have a field day with my little escapades, yes plural. Thankfully, she won't find out, at least not yet. Not because I'm embarrassed this time, but because she'll be jacked up on self-satisfaction. Her I-told-you-so face is the worst. I'm not ready for her to know that it seems I did need to have some good, old-fashioned sex. Or rather, as was the case with Spencer, modern, spicy, amazing sex.

I clean up my cookie mess on the counter, ahem. Baking chocolate chip cookies will never be the same again. Only part of me regrets not spending a cozy night reading and eating half a batch of chocolate chip cookies by myself. Sexual satisfaction fills the other part of me. I bury the shirt I borrowed from Spencer under the rest of my laundry and get in the shower.

While the city still sleeps under a fresh, glistening blanket of snow, I take a long walk through Central Park toward my old neighborhood. A paper cup of coffee warms my hands as I reflect, consider, and ponder...

My steps are surer, even over the icy ground. It turns out I am desirable after all. In less than twelve hours, Spencer and I had sex four times. Four!

Zach and I never even did it that many times in one day, no less half of one and we were teenagers for goodness sakes.

However, Carrick was there with me last night every single time. I sit on a bench while pigeons peck at the ground in search of breakfast. Their feathers shine opalescent under the blue sky of a winter's day. A large husky lumbers by, leading its owner through the snow.

Most of the pigeons scatter, but a few hold their ground. They're actually rather plucky birds with their understated plumage, resourcefulness, and determination. Perhaps I am a pigeon after all, but I don't want to think about their mating habits if I'm using Kat's theory about how we're like birds. In fact, I don't want to think about birds in that context period. This analogy has gotten out of hand.

I cross to the other side of the street when my office building comes into view. I don't want to think about how I'm failing, not living up to my potential, and feeling kind of lost.

When I get back to the apartment and warm up, I open my laptop and make a list of what would make me happy in a new position: creativity, room for expansion, a friendly and supportive work environment, vacation and sick pay, freedom, fun...

I stop on that last one. Fun? Work and fun are not synonymous. I'm about to delete the item, but my finger pauses over the key. I can't think of anything else to add to the list other than Tori's suggestion of phone sex operator. Not going to happen.

I click on the internet browser to do a search for what to look for in a dream job and my email opens, with several comment notifications from my blog.

The first one says Will you see the hottie in 7G again?

Well...

Another says What are the exact guidelines for the dare because I don't want to be alone on Feb. 14 and this seems like a duplicatable idea.

Then there are two asking If you don't pick the hottie in 7G for your Valentine's Day date will you share his email address?

Um, no.

I go to my blog dashboard and begin a write up of last night. I recount how I had to ask Spencer for a cup of sugar and how one thing led to another. I don't share the kinds of details Kat reveals so freely, but I do indicate that our meeting was a booty call and I'm not sure the hottie in 7G is long-term material. Then again, Valentine's Day isn't the beginning of a marriage; Kat didn't dare me to find the man who's going to meet me at the end of the aisle.

While I'm describing the night, a smile tugs on my cheeks, something inside me wakes up-the daring, bold, sex-having, spontaneous, fun part of me and for once, my heart doesn't feel quite so heavy.

Risking Kat's wrath, I publish the write up, this time using four and three-quarters stars. Damn, Spencer was good. Then I get back to trying to figure out my future.

A few minutes in, my email dings with a notification.

You're inspiring me to get back out there and date, not because I need a man. Sadly, I believed in the Prince Charming myth for too long and grew frustrated when he didn't show up, but to date just to have fun? I honestly never thought of it that way.

Me neither.

Then another person writes I'm very concerned about your sudden promiscuity. Please reply to discuss your salvation.

Tori's avatar is in the next comment and all it says is Yeehaw! Kat must have given her the blog address.

One of the ladies from the last post asks Is the hottie in 7G off the market?

She's missing the point.

A fourth writes I just signed up for a program called UBoss for women who want to awaken their inner spark, connect with their desires, and discover their dreams and go after them-oh and have fun while doing it. I think it might interest you and thought I'd pass it along.

This last part gets my attention. I click the link.

Where I expect a clunky website with a roster of woo woo solutions, a money-grabbing scam, or a cult, the site is modern, feminine, and completely legit. A block of text asks Feeling stuck?

Yes.

I scroll down.

Uninspired?

Yep.

I keep scrolling.

Confused?

Uh, huh.

Know there is potential in you and talents untapped, but not sure how to access them?

This website is speaking my language.

I read several paragraphs about a four-week program, emphasizing the importance of tapping into my truest, rawest, deepest inner desires in order to manifest a life from which I don't seek escape.

I like the sound of that. A lot. Maybe this is like a belated New Year's resolution. Perhaps I'm ready for change.

I read several testimonials and reviews from graduates of the program and it all seems encouraging and real. One woman left her dead end job and now earns six-figures doing work that brings her joy and satisfaction. I never thought I'd hear job and joy in the same sentence.

Using the method, another lady revamped her life, lost ten pounds, left a lousy relationship, did volunteer work in South America, and now operates a non-profit with an amazing team of big-hearted creatives.

My curiosity grows and I spend the next hours reading the founder's story and why she started UBoss. I watch several videos about the benefits of the program and frequently asked questions. I press the tab that says Ready? There's just one paragraph in the center of the screen.

Being stuck, uninspired, and confused isn't your destiny. Chances are you've tried to think your way out of your situation, but can't figure it out. The solution is to get out there and live more. If you're anything like me, that's easier said than done, but if you trust me and more importantly, yourself you can do anything. I am your guide for four weeks, reintroducing you to yourself, to the sources of your happiness, pointing you toward joy, and ultimately helping you reveal your deepest desires. I invite you to take this journey with me, the worst that can happen is you'll make a huge transformation bringing fun and freedom into your life, and the rest, well, you'll be well on your way to living the life of your dreams.

Coincidentally, there are only ten minutes left to sign up because the program starts tomorrow, Monday. I fill out a long questionnaire and part with half of my savings. My throat is dry, but there's also a little flutter of excitement in my gut.

Shortly after, I receive a notice to join a private online group with the other members of the program. I get a cookie from the kitchen, take a deep breath, and then introduce myself using the screen name Navybean. The moderator explains how we're here to support each other and this is all confidential. She wants us to treat this space like a get together with our favorite gals and we can log on whenever we want. There will be weekly modules with video, worksheets, and tasks we have to do, along with checking in with each other.

User DaisyDuke31 asks how I found out about the program and I describe the dare, the blog, and the comment it turns out user MelodyMiles left on my blog. From the anonymous safety of my laptop, I've already made it a practice to tell strangers about my sex and dating life so when they ask about The Boyfriend Book Blog I tell these new strangers about junior high, Claire, and my high school heartbreak. I talk about college and explain my old job and how gossipy everyone was. I tell them how I love reading and writing, but don't necessarily see myself as a novelist because, well, having people actually read something I write would be like one of those dreadful dreams: showing up naked to talk to an auditorium full of people, but then I'd have to stand there and read the book, in its entirety, naked. Nuh uh. I don't think I could do it. I chime in when other women describe their woes: bad marriages, troublesome children, high pressure from parents, lack of money, compulsive eating, and general confusion and stress about what they should be doing with what ShellsXOX calls her wild and precious life.

We bare our souls. We write thoughts and feelings we could never utter aloud. We talk each other through our troubles without judgement. I see myself reflected in them and not only is it motivating, it's inspiring because despite their self-doubts, they are all amazing women, they just don't see it, which makes me wonder if I need to look in the mirror a little more closely.

Twilight settles over Manhattan when I say my goodbyes to the group. The founder of the program, and chief executive of fun, Mimi Boss, tells us we're the chief executives of our lives. She assures us that by creating a general atmosphere of fun, amusement, and contentment, everything we desire will become clear, and we might even realize we already have what we want, we just don't see it as such. She closes with When we're feeling stuck, it's because we're thinking about how everything is so wrong in our lives when we should look at what's right.

Chapter 14.