"I was couch surfing, living off pasta, my college minor, and inspiration. I took a few more odd jobs, still making my way north, but with less urgency. I considered the life of the artist, a vagabond backpacker, struggling to make it until I found an agent. It had a certain romantic luster, but I wanted more than that and was determined to make it on my own."

"The first to break the family mold."

"As we know I'm decent at breaking things." He finishes his glass of wine in a long sip. "I was staying with this guy who was a graphic designer. He had a website for ebooks and made decent money creating covers-both premade and custom. My skills do not lay in graphic design, but we got to talking one day and he was telling me about self-publishing. I thought it was something for hacks and people that couldn't quite pull off the polish of a novelist; I discovered neither was true. The idea stuck with me and I looked into it during my breaks at the restaurant."

I flip through the book and don't see the name of a publisher on the copyright page.

Carrick scoots closer to me. "This copy is an original from the first, self-publishing run. I had a friend edit it, my buddy made the cover, and then I hit publish."

"Congratulations," I say. My tone conflicts with the pulse of my emotions.

"I went from cut off, to homeless, to couch surfing, to a bestselling author."

"How did the book get traction?"

He shrugs. "I wrote the truth."

"I think that's illegal, a libel lawsuit waiting to happen." Perhaps I could win this war in the courtroom.

"I don't mean the actual truth, just my desires, what I know to be true. Have you ever heard the saying, 'Write what you know'?"

I nod.

"There's a corollary: Write what you'd like to know. I wanted to know love so I went to some of the most romantic cities in Europe: I people watched, I hung out in cafes, I talked to locals, lovers, and yes, the broken hearted." He pats his chest. "Though I know enough about that first hand." A shadow crosses his face.

The wine and the way he continues to look at me with those blue eyes soften the jagged edges of my sword, my resolve, and the fight in me. "Are you going to keep writing?"

"I'm not sure. After the first book started selling, I got an agent and a traditional publisher picked up the series. I have a few other ideas floating around. I'd like to go back to Europe. There's a lot of the world to see and a lot of love stories to tell. I can take my work wherever I want."

"I guess this gives new meaning to the customs question, 'Are you traveling for business or pleasure?'"

"I'd like to have a reason to stay here." Meaning fills in his eyes when he smiles. "I never in a million years thought I'd write steamy romance novels," he says with an amused chuckle. "Life as the romantic Marine pays the bills and then some."

"Steamy romance novels?"

"There are a few scenes. Mostly I leave it to the reader's imagination, but it's not fade to black either."

"Do your parents know?"

He shakes his head. "No one outside my direct publishing contacts knows the real identity of C.K. Flynn except you. I'm a romance writer. You're a romance reader, are you going to give it a chance?"

I finish the wine and pick up the book. "I'm not going to burn it," I say, taking aim.

"That's a start."

I put on my coat, ready to fire. "Thanks for the grilled cheese."

"Thank you for listening to me," Carrick says, standing in front of me. His hands rest on my arms, his eyes lock on mine, and the angle of his lean is a suggestion. I am nearly out of ammunition.

The dim city light, filtering through the window at his back softens his masculine edges, bathing him in a soft glow. From a deep, irrational place, I have the urge to trust my weight to his capable arms, hoping the pressure of an embrace can steady me against the chipping, eroding feeling I experience in my chest. Defeat.

"I should go." My voice is little more than a squeak.

"You should stay," he says, pulling me into a hug, making the effort that I cannot. "I feel your heart beating."

I look up, wishing we could start over or that we were different people, meeting for the first time. He licks his lip. I bite mine. It's happened like this before and I won't risk having it end the way it did, not again.

"Goodnight, Carrick," I fire, because in war, we'll even sacrifice ourselves to get what we think we want. Sometimes words, the flat panel of a turned back, and a goodbye are the fiercest weapons we have.

The frigid night hastens me home. Swept up in Carrick's story and my own conflicting emotions, I rush down the hall to my apartment, thankful, for once, that Katya's not home. I'm not sure how I'd explain what just happened.

He talked. I listened. Is that how forgiveness happens? Is that how I start to let go? I don't know, but I do log onto my computer, intending to visit my UBoss girls for some wholesome distraction, but instead I search C.K. Flynn-clever usage of his initials and his middle name.

I find his author website and spend the next hours stalking him, even though there is no definitive him. He's cagey about his identity, often changing the subject when the topic comes up in interviews. The photo in his biography is of two people with linked pinkies. I look more closely and recognize my right hand because of the infinity knot ring I used to wear. We were on the beach, joking around one afternoon before everything happened. We were doing trust falls and then seeing whose pinky was stronger, leaning back until one of us slipped into the sand. The photo is of our fingers, linked from behind-the same ones on the cover of the book. Claire must have snapped it.

I read his bio, which doesn't reveal much other than where he went to college, his interests in fluffy pillows, clean sheets, and pie. I snort. Coming from a well-known family, I can see why he might not want to broadcast his identity. I read a few more interviews, mostly on the writing process. Considering his oversized ego, his gratitude and humility at his success surprises me. I'm intrigued and keep reading until I hear the front door open and close followed by the padding of soft footsteps through the kitchen and down the hall.

I log onto UBoss and only a few of the girls are online discussing what they wanted to be when they were kids. It was part of an exercise from the uncovering module. I skim, reading that DaisyDuke31 wanted to be an actress. Another woman wanted to be a teacher. MelodyMiles wrote that she wanted to be a famous pianist and is still working on it. Even though she and I met, no one divulges their true identities, much like C.K. Flynn. GraceD comments that she wanted to be like her aunt-an archeologist. DaisyDuke31 writes Are you here Navybean? If so, what did you want to be when you were a little girl?

My fingers hover mutely over the computer keys.

Chapter 24.

Gym Stud Waking up the next morning isn't the struggle it usually is to face a new day full of uncertainty and inertia. Perhaps it's the nearing of the end of a long-waged battle or maybe it's the warm kiss of the sun, streaming through the window.

But later, doing Mr. Douche's bidding turns the day into a slog and the day after that. By night, my mind orbits around the conversation Carrick and I had, picking out pieces, analyzing satellites, and taking new trajectories.

By the third day, I'm running on empty, but whenever I lay down, as tired as I am, my mind circles the words and their meanings and explores their frontiers. I'm hung up on the play of the light on his features, the various shades of his smile, his serious and deliberate expressions as we waged our battle, and the damp glittering in his eyes when things got heavy.

I revisit, recap, and replay the night, the grilled cheese, the pie, and his story and apology now inscribed on the map of my mind, leading me where? My heart beats out an answer. That's not a safe place to land. My mind and my heart clash and the fight begins again.

I avoid his book, not ready to see romantic Rome. My library borrows are a distraction until I start playing the possibilities of us against the characters' relationships, wondering what I'd do differently and what I should have done differently. The enemy has infiltrated my territory.

I studied Kat's teaching schedule; I've managed to avoid her by keeping busy because I'm not ready to face what are sure to be questions-ones, I can't yet answer for myself. I'm craving a grilled cheese sandwich when she bursts through the door, spots me dipping a spoon into a jar of peanut butter before I can scuttle off, and says, "Ha! There you are."

"Hi." Even the monosyllabic greeting is an effort. My body wants to slip into sleep, but my mind guns for strategies and tactics as it analyzes the other night. My heart, ever the peacemaker holds up signs in protest: War is not the answer. Give peace a chance. All you need is love. I lower my spoon and put it in the sink.

"Where've you been?" Kat asks, setting her keys on the counter.

"Staging a peaceful protest."

She frowns. "You've been avoiding me."

"Sleep has been avoiding me."

"I'm just wondering how the food at the Grilled Cheese Factory is. I've been having a craving for a buttery-" she says vaguely, taking off her coat.

"Funny you should say that, I was just going to make a sandwich."

"Peanut butter?"

"Appetizer. I'll make you a grilled cheese."

She stalks over to me. "I hear the sandwiches at the Grilled Cheese Factory are gourmet: sundried tomatoes, avocados, olives, three kinds of cheese..." she barricades me between the fridge and the counter.

"I had plain white bread and American cheese. Nothing special. It was fine."

"Define fine."

"We talked."

She claps her hands together, startling me. "About?" she asks, unwilling to give up.

I swallow. "About the past. About where he's been. About stuff." The contents of the conversation shuffle by as stark and disparate as the contents of our refrigerator.

Katya exhausts her patience with me on a sigh. "Are you glad you talked about the past, where he's been, and stuff?"

"Yeah. No. I'm not sure. I'm confused and very, very tired."

"I hear you awake at all hours, tapping away on your computer."

"I'll try to be quieter."

"You're as quiet as a mouse. Maybe you need to get loud," she says, raising her voice. "A couple of weeks ago you were parading around here in red lipstick. Are you still doing Mimi's program? What happened, Navy?"

"Carrick happened."

"It can't always be him."

It is.

"Are you depressed?" she asks genuinely concerned.

I consider this, turning over the symptoms. "No, just tired."

"It's time to move on."

"I know." But I can't until I win this fight.

"If you're not going to help yourself, I'm taking matters into my own hands. Or rather, took matters-" She claps me on the shoulder. "You'll be happy to know, once more, I've intervened." Her voice is as bright as the light in the fridge as I take out a stick of butter.

"What?" I ask, pulled from my recycled thoughts about romantic Rome, the casualties of war, and sandwiches.

"Spencer was a success, but he's out of town. The Man-bun-barista was a fail-I'm sorry about that. My bad. I should have done a background check or something. Although we did get a few good meals out of the deal. And the brownies. Remind me to pick up some more sugar. But that's only two dates. The dare continues..."

"I have insomnia and unless you're hooking me up with a sleep specialist, I'm afraid these bags under my eyes mean that I remain cloistered in the apartment."

"Nonsense, a little concealer will do the trick. You need to sleep with someone."

I scrub my hands down my face. "You do realize I haven't slept in days so what you're saying hardly makes sense. Anyway, that's not the solution."

She puts an impatient hand on her hip. "Sex is always the solution."

"I thought you said Spencer was out of town." My laughter at my own weak joke sounds like a poor imitation of a dying goose.

She smiles coyly. "Omar was at the gym last night. I told him you'd been sick and needed to get strong again with the help of a personal trainer, which he is."

"I'll admit Omar is hot, but he doesn't want to see my sad, tired, sweaty ass at the gym."

"He does and he will. Tomorrow at four."

"I'll be napping."

"No, you need to get your blood pumping and your juices flowing."

I throw my hands up in the air, sending four slices of bread sailing, and grimace. "Don't talk about my juices!"

"I miss your blog posts."

I slap slices of cheese on the salvaged bread.

"I dare you," she says as the butter in the pan sizzles.

Going to the gym on a Sunday afternoon is about as appealing as having lemon juice squirted in my eyes, which is exactly how much they sting after not sleeping much for the last few days. Kat makes sure I'm dressed in impossibly tight Lycra and escorts me out the door, down the hall, and onto the elevator so there's no chance I'll take a detour back to my bedroom.

She orders us coffee and mercifully, the Man-bun-barista isn't behind the counter. Maybe he fled the country.

A cellophane Valentine's Day decoration hangs from the window reminding me of the sort of kiss. I distract myself with a display of mugs that say things like I love you a latte, words cannot espresso how much you mean to me, and you're the cream in my coffee.

"Aw, you and your Valentine's Day date should start here." Kat points at a sign for red velvet mochas. "All that caffeine is sure to get your juices flowing."

I give her a withering look as the person behind the counter calls our names.

Kat all but shoves me through the door to the gym, nearly sending the remains of my peppermint stick double espresso all over the pristine white front desk.

"I told you I was supposed to be napping."

"Not with all that caffeine and sugar you won't be." Her nervous smile suggests she second-guesses her intervention and her coffee selection.