"I'm serious, she wasn't fooling around." Kat claws the air with her hand. "Though she was wearing a giant rock so you probably don't have anything to worry about. Did you text him to confirm."

I toss her my cellphone.

"You want me to do the honors? Navy, this is about you stepping outside your comfort zone," she says, echoing the content of the UBoss program. She clicks away and a wicked grin blooms on her face.

"What did you write?"

She passes me my phone. I'll be the one with the red lips.

I harrumph. "Serves me right."

"We know that he serves up the perfect latte, espresso, and cappuccino. I wonder what else," she teases. "The good news is you'll probably find out. He has his own place."

"No roommates?"

She shakes her head.

"On a barista's salary?"

"Maybe that's his day job-and by night he's the next big social media app designer or he moonlights as a male model or he has a trust fund and likes making people happy by designing little leaves and hearts on the foam of their lattes. He can cook, that's what matters. When I get married, my fella better know his way around the kitchen."

"Why?"

"Because it's sexy. And so is red lipstick. Now, what are you going to wear?"

After she has me try on five different outfits-one tighter and more revealing than the next-, she casually says, "I almost forgot. I ran into Carrick. It turns out he's staying near the gym where I teach my evening class. I got his number."

"You don't want to date him."

"Not for me, silly."

"Not for me, surely."

"Yes for you."

"No way."

"Number five. Technically speaking you already sorta went on a date with him."

"Coffee doesn't count."

"I made the dare. I make the rules." Kat's hands are on her hips like Wonder Woman in her power stance.

I cross my arms in front of my chest. "Kat, we have a history and I can't go there."

She ignores this. "He's cute."

"Then you date him."

"Nope, there's something about him. Maybe the way he said your name. The way he looks at you. I wouldn't lose this number if I were you," she says, passing me a slip of paper.

This is exactly what I do. I crumple it up and toss it toward the heap of boxes in the corner of my room that I need to bring down to recycle in the basement.

"Oh come on. I had to fish around in my bag for a pen and then his fingers were freezing when he wrote it down."

"I'm not dating Carrick." I'm not talking to him or seeing him again if I can help it.

I bundle up and set out for Bash's apartment as Katya's farewell, "Have fun with the man bun," rings down the hall after me.

Bash lives in the village where the cement turns to cobblestones and the squat buildings jumble down the narrow streets.

I knock. From behind the wooden door of Bash's apartment, pots and pans clatter. Music pumps and footsteps approach.

When he opens the door, Bash's dark, lidded eyes sweep over me, landing on my mouth.

"Hi," I say.

A rapid clicking sound approaches followed by a streak of mottled black and brown and white flying past Bash and knocking me onto the floor. A pink tongue licks and licks and licks the lipstick off my lips. The dog practically licks my entire face off.

"This is Dude Taco," Bash says, patting his dog on the head, but not calling him off. "And I'm Bash. Like a party."

A woman with almond shaped eyes and a small nose slips by. "I was just going."

"You sure? Dinner should be ready in twenty."

After the door slams, I stand there, puzzled as Dude Taco's tail slaps against my leg. He circles me in excited loops.

Bash is at the stove and a flame erupts from a saucepan. He calls over the hum of the vent fan, "Don't mind Jazmin-my sister. She gets off on grand entrances and exits."

"Oh. Yeah, you look a bit alike."

"It's our strong mutt blood."

"Mutt blood?" I ask.

"Our family has been in the US for so long we're just about every nationality, but one-hundred percent all-American. I grew up outside Houston. How about you? Where are you from?" I detect a slight southern accent.

"Cape Cod," I say, trying to pet Dude Taco and get him to calm down.

Bash is an identical flurry in the kitchen, minus the fur, as he juliennes, sautes, and flambes. He keeps up an ongoing dialog about his parents' restaurant, what it was like growing up in Texas, a few embarrassing stories about his sister, and how he ended up in New York City. Business opportunity, apparently, but he leaves it at that.

"I hope you don't mind garlic," he says, adding a sprinkle of chives over the plate. "I present pan seared Chilean sea bass with white wine lemon butter, sauteed asparagus with garlic, slivered almonds, lemon peel, and whipped mashed potatoes."

"You didn't have to go through the trouble," I say, impressed.

Dude Taco sits next to me, waiting for scraps.

"It was nothing. You can thank my dad for the dinner idea though. It was the special at the restaurant tonight." He shrugs. "It's Monday night, right? They usually do a lighter meal like fish coming off the weekend. I would have made it anyway. And it's a shame Jazmin didn't want to stay. She's a picky eater. Some people are coming by later so it won't go to waste. Always a party here." He keeps up conversation while checking his phone every other minute.

I take a bite of the tender asparagus and say, "Well, I'm glad I get to eat it while it's still warm. Delicious."

Dude Taco whines.

I take another bite and as my plate empties, I learn the various minutia of his parents' restaurant: the employees, politics, the great napkin dilemma of 2005, and more information than I ever cared to hear.

It's impossible to get a word in edgewise, but that's fine because the food is good. Really, good. He rattles on about the recent difficulty in getting fresh mussels from PEI out to Texas. I learn about Rose, the pantry lady and her trouble with her green card. There is also concern about sourcing tomatoes this spring with a shortage out of Florida.

"Sounds like you keep on top of things at the family restaurant."

"You bet. And you wouldn't believe the stuff that goes on at the coffee roasters."

I spend the next half hour, while I finish the better part of a bottle of wine, hearing about his coworkers, bosses, and the mystery of the coffee stirrers that keep going missing.

"I tell you, someone's stealing them."

I don't even want to know why.

Just then, Bash launches from his seat and says, "I hope you left room for dessert. I made brownies. But not just any brownies. These are dirty brownies, stuffed with Oreos and Reese's peanut butter cups. I got the recipe from the coffee shop. My parents would never serve these at the restaurant." While he slices them, he confesses that he didn't actually use Oreo's from a bag and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. "I made them. Homestyle. From scratch."

"Impress-" I start, but he goes on, plowing right over the last syllable.

"I had a craving. But don't worry, they're not that kind of brownie." Before I can ask what he means, he continues, "I made the candy over the weekend, but had to pick up some cocoa. There's this place uptown that has the most incredible variety of-"

I don't hear the rest of what he says because I'm in heaven. Chocolate loving, gooey, sweet, smooth, delectable, ecstatic heaven.

"You did save room," he says when I lick my fingers clean.

Dude Taco whimpers.

Bash's potatoes still sit in a pile on his plate, his asparagus spears hardly touched, and his sea bass, a sad waste. I should ask for a doggy bag or maybe he's saving it for the dog.

However, I could eat like this every night. I pour myself the last of the wine, lean back in my chair, and ask, "So, what's on the menu tomorrow night?"

He smiles and says, "I'll have to check, but usually they do a scaled up version of taco Tuesday and their homemade guacamole is killer. I'll see if I can get the recipe. Same time tomorrow night?"

"Sure," I answer, spotting the reflection of my painted red lips in the hall mirror. Maybe there's some magic to them after all.

Despite Bash's incessant talking, the night was a reasonable success. Whoever said the way to a man's heart is through his stomach never tasted Bash's cooking.

I pause at the door, give Dude Taco and pat on the head, half expecting Bash to say good night, or at least walk me out. Instead, he's back in the kitchen. Over the vent fan I call, "Would it be okay if I take a couple of those brownies home?"

Chapter 16.

Smashed Potatoes I spend the next few days scraping through Mr. Bouche's demands at work, completing the daily dares in the UBoss program, along with checking in with my accountability partners: DaisyDuke31, MelodyMiles, and ShellsXOX. They cheer me on when I skip out of the office at lunch and go to the movies solo-ordering at least three items from the concession stand-and turn up the music loud at home and dance before Kat gets home. Naked.

Today's dare is to go shopping for an outrageous outfit. The rules state: no leggings, sweatshirts, or cotton. Think Lady Gaga, Prince, and the showbiz greats. Don't be inhibited. Color is your friend. Be daring. Mix and match patterns. Be bold. Spread your wings.

This is a job for Katya, but since I haven't told her about the UBoss program, I can't come up with a clever reason that I'd want to go shopping. I never go shopping. She knows this. As a fashionista, she hates this. However, her being busy with classes this week has made it relatively easy to sneak in my dares. However, the outfit poses the biggest problem. I can't pull off some of the crazier getups I see in the various boutiques I shop in the Village not because I feel uncomfortable, but rather I don't feel sexy, feminine, or like myself-more of a caricature, Miss Cartoonton, and I know that's not the point of the program, which emphasizes authenticity and listening to my gut. Mine grumbles, craving some of Bash's dirty brownies.

I'm nearly home when I veer into an upscale boutique I'd ordinarily never give a second look. I spot the outfit instantly.

When I get back to the apartment, I check in with my UBoss girls: I almost gave up on today's dare, but then tried one last store on my way home. The outfit was on the display in the front. It was meant to be. I picked out a fitted, light pink cashmere sweater and a navy blue maxi skirt. What do you think?

ShellsXOX writes That doesn't sound very outrageous. No offense.

I reply There's a slit that goes all the way up my leg-Angelina Jolie-style.

Vavavoom! MelodyMiles says.

DaisyDuke31 chimes in It'll look fab with a red lip-when you go out on your Valentine's Date.

The mention of my Valentine's date reminds me of my blog, sorely in need of an update. I title my latest post Going with my Gut.

#2 The Man-Bun-Barista (name changed for privacy) Appearance: dark hair, lidded eyes with the occasional bulge-probably the results of a caffeine deficit or surplus-, tattoos, slim, a bit wiry on second glance. Looks like he might be growing a beard? Definite hipster vibe-slightly greasy or maybe in need of a shower?

Behavior: amazing cook, chef, and baker. Extremely talkative. Actually, overly so. Hardly let me get a word in, which was fine because my mouth was full of food, people!

Connection: has a dog named Dude Taco. Invited his sister to stay for dinner. Didn't make it out of the kitchen. Didn't kiss. Didn't do anything other than eat. Not complaining.

In summation: Bash has a shaky three stars. If he were a restaurant, it would be a Michelin five star rating for sure, but he's merely a man with incredible kitchen skills and a seemingly inexhaustible ability to talk. I'm not into the silent type, but he swings to the other extreme talking incessantly while the music pumps and the dog runs wild.

Another turn off was the multitude of texts he received, somehow managing not to break speech and answer them at the same time. And he's jittery. Not nervous I don't think, but constantly in motion like a toddler on chocolate and coffee. Maybe he infuses himself up with a mega dose of caffeine while at work. Oh, and have I mentioned he goes to the bathroom every twenty minutes? I've started timing it.

I've taken to updating the blog with the dinner menu, not having much else to report. I spent the last couple of nights indulging in pulled jackfruit and black bean tacos with colorful pineapple and heirloom tomato salsa. Dessert that night: S'mores bark, which was a triple layered threat of chocolate, graham cookie, and marshmallow. I got photographic evidence so I'd never forget the meals. Sadly, I'll also never forget about his grandmother's hip replacement, his conspiracy about the stirring sticks that routinely go missing at the coffee shop, and various other pieces of information that hold no relevance to my life-or his. He's a walking Wikipedia of useless chatter. A total bum out, but... the food redeems him!

The other dinner was a pasta dish with burrata, fresh basil, and a spicy, creamy, I don't know-what-y sauce that was so divine I swear I had an orgasm. That also could have had something to do with the bottle of Rose I polished off. By the end of the night, I was feeling, how shall I put it? How would Kat put it? In a word, frisky. It might be the red lipstick. But Bash wouldn't know he doesn't let me talk and if I eek out a single word, he bulldozes right over me.

I was so full when I left though, that even if I had the energy to bake cookies to entice Spencer to come over, he couldn't because he's out of town. Tomorrow's daily dare is for self-pleasure and with any luck, I'll have the apartment to myself.

I don't include the last bits in the summary, but only moments after I click publish there's an email notification with Tori asking me for the recipes.

I reply I'll do my best.

My bedroom door flies open. "Never mind the recipes, I want leftovers."

I raise my eyebrows.

"What? I subscribe to your blog so I get instant updates when you post. It seems like you have a growing audience. And not just Tori, Marc, Lydia, and the rest." She peers over my shoulder at the blog dashboard and clicks the stats button. "Whoa, you've had thirty-thousand hits. My, you're popular."

"So, what haven't you publicly professed about Man-bun? I feel like you're keeping something from me. Are his bedroom skills as legendary as the ones he has behind the stove?"