"Pepper plants?" I ask, ruling out the possibility he's dealing with personal problems such as illness or death of a loved one.

"Yeah, he came from a family of farmers and cultivated peppers on the side-spicy ones. Started Willy's Wild Hot Sauce. I'll bring you a bottle next time you come to the gym. He built a hot sauce empire."

Money probably isn't an issue with a family inheritance and a thriving personal training career. "Awesome," I say, remembering the label on Kat's bottle of hot sauce in the fridge. "I always thought a great name for a hot sauce would be awesomesauce. Get it?"

He chuckles politely.

This is my final shot to save the game. If he's just plain nervous around women, I'll make him comfortable, very comfortable. I put on my most coy and suggestive smile, trail my finger along his jawline and say, "It's cold. Want to come to my apartment and warm up?"

"Ah," he hesitates. "That's really cool of you, but like I said, early morning tomorrow. I have to get up at five. Thanks though."

Cool, indeed. Not frigid or icy, because Omar probably doesn't have a mean bone in his body. He's kind, thoughtful, sweet, but certainly not interested. Cool as in calm, disinterested.

He steps forward and lifts his arms jauntily like he's never hugged me or anyone else, which I find hard to believe given the big family and abundance of friends.

Our shoulders tap and then his arm grazes my boob. Bingo!

He stumbles back. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn't mean to-" he starts, apologizing profusely.

"It's okay. We're... cool. Thanks for the training session and dinner. Goodnight," I say, stepping toward my door.

He dips his head, waves, and opens his mouth to say something, but I strut away so he can see what he's missing, a girl in a tragically short dress twisting her ankle on the top step. I glance over my shoulder, but he's already gone.

I guess he's just not into me.

Chapter 27.

Buns and Shakes I avoid my blog, UBoss, and the green smoothie Kat left in the fridge for me before she went to the last day of her advanced yoga teacher training. Without her to talk me out of this definite blow to my ego with Omar, along with the low, steely clouds hovering over the tops of the surrounding buildings, and the quiet, yet ongoing conflict with my heart, I decide I'm going into hibernation for the rest of the winter-or the weekend, at least.

First, I need supplies. I bundle up and set out for the bookstore and then the supermarket. I'm on a quest to gather books and chocolate, and lots of each.

I clutch my hands together under my mittens, fighting off the cold, but I cross my fingers, hoping my Book Boyfriend isn't working today only so I don't have to feel guilty about not completing Kat's dare. Valentine's Day is a week away and I don't think I have it in me to keep up the charade. Not that Omar alone dashed my dreams of a doily-heart date, but I'm tired, cold, and the mixed feelings I have about Carrick point toward spending the rest of the winter in my room.

Omar's rejection isn't the kind I shed tears over, we hardly know each other, but I'm feeling fragile and unattractive when the little bells jingle on the door of the bookstore. Although I didn't put on a bra under my puffy parka, so there's that.

I don't take off my hat-not Carrick's, not Kat's-, but my own with a matching scarf that my grandma made, making my reflection look more marshmallow-like than human.

I hightail it to the romance section because I have one thing on my mind: a beach read, a romantic escape, a hot, hunky alpha. I want flowers and wooing, thoughtful little love notes, and sex, lots of hot, passionate, raunchy sex. Sex in elevators, in the backseats of cars, on kitchen counters, on office desks, anywhere and everywhere. I want the sweet and the salty. I want the f-u-n that I'm not having.

I pick up several new releases and then I thumb through the shelves for a few of my favorite authors to see if there are any titles I missed. Fairchild, Faust, Ferdinand, Findley... Flynn. Not what I was looking for, but curiosity is an irresistible visitor. As I read the back of one of C.K. Flynn's books from the Love Letters series, heat licks my wrists and the bit of my exposed face, begging for release like steam from a kettle. The stack of books topples out of my hands and as I try to catch them midair, my unzipped bag goes flying, scattering loose coins, my reading glasses case, phone, and a tampon.

I tug my hat down over my face at the crash, echoing on the dusty floor, and cringe with an inborn sense of embarrassment. Flustered, I lower to a crouch, gathering my items and the books, when a figure bends over next to me. He passes me my phone, a few coins, avoids the tampon, and then the book by C.K. Flynn.

Beads of sweat escape from under my hat, stinging the corner of my eyes. I'm itchy and sweating and red faced. I mumble a courteous, "Thank you," and look up, meeting cognac eyes. I actually don't know exactly what specific shade of brown that is, but it's the word that came to mind.

"Missed you coming by. Haven't seen you here in a while," says the clerk aka my flirtatious Book Boyfriend.

"Library," I croak. I clear my throat since I haven't yet spoken to a human today.

"Preparing for a long weekend with the big storm coming?" he asks.

"I, uh, yeah. I guess so." Inclement weather is news to me. Maybe Mr. Douche will call a snow day and I can actually hibernate.

Bookstore Boyfriend's (aka BB, moving forward) tapered finger taps C.K. Flynn's cover, brandished with two pairs of feet rubbing together. "Don't you always wonder what authors who use acronym's real names are?"

"No. I mean, not in this instance."

"Do you know the author?"

"Oh, um, just a fan, you could say."

His eyebrows form double peaks as though he's always pointing something out with wry interest-or devilishness. "You don't see many dudes who write this stuff, not that I'm paying attention."

"No, you don't," I confirm, especially not this particular dude.

He takes my books to the counter. "I'll leave these up front if you want to continue browsing," he says helpfully.

"Oh, um, I think seven books is enough."

"Always good to stock up. There's a new one by S.L. Parvell," he says with a wink, referring to an erotica writer.

What happened to innocent boy next door? I suppose looks can be deceiving.

"I'm good." I stick with the sweeter, cleaner romances; they contain sex, but I prefer to leave a little to my, ahem, active imagination.

"You sure?"

For a moment the look on his face makes me wonder if he's asking if I'm a good girl (unlike the naughty leading ladies in Parvell's novels) or confirming that I don't want any more books. I nod vaguely and he smirks.

"My name is Tristen, by the way." He holds out his hand and I unsheathe mine from its mitten, wipe the little balls of cotton and sweat on the side of my coat, wrinkle my nose in apology, and give it a shake. It doesn't fit like a glove (I notice these things) and it's a little clammy, but mine is too.

"I'm Navy."

"Navy? What kind of name is that?" He asks. Again, I'm not sure if he's curious or what.

"An old name," I say, leaving it at that.

"Nice to finally meet you, Navy." I don't think it's supposed to start snowing until tonight, but if you'd like to go out and grab some dinner-"

Say what? Hold on. I'm being asked on a date by number four on Kat's list of guys she wants me to date, the Book Boyfriend? How is this possible? Am I experiencing heat stroke? I consider taking off my outer layer, but then I might scare him off with my crazy hair.

Do I want to have dinner with a guy who likes books? Yes, please.

"That'd be great," I say, tucking a greasy, stray piece of hair behind my hat. I really need to shower.

He rings up my books and tucks them in a bag. "I should be done here at six or so. Sometimes the person who works evenings and restocks is late. I'll text you when I'm free."

I swipe my credit card to pay at the same time we exchange numbers, and then he passes me my bag and receipt.

When I step outside, an Arctic blast sends the receipt skittering down the sidewalk. I dash after it and nearly slip as I capture it beneath my boot. I glance down and notice he only charged me $9.95. The seven books should tally up to at least a hundred dollars with tax, which I'll gladly pay to support the bookstore and authors. I'm a booklover and consider it my contribution to the arts even though I can't deduct it at tax time.

Maybe there was a problem with the barcode reader, but it's too cold for me to turn back. I'll ask him later. Knowing I have a date with my Book Boyfriend puts a smile on my face and a skip in my step, though not an actual skip because I don't want to slip on the frozen slush.

I stop by the supermarket, not getting quite as much chocolate as I originally planned, but fill my basket with brownie making ingredients, grilled cheese staples, and Kat's favorite smoothie stuff since there's a storm coming.

By the time I get home, my smile is frozen in place, along with a little bit of saliva. I thaw in the elevator and hurry down the hallway, my bags swishing and knocking against my legs.

The water runs in the bathroom, telling me Kat's home. I unpack the groceries and then my books, but where I thought I'd purchased seven books, despite the error on the receipt, there are a couple more: the Parvell book I said I wasn't interested in and the one by C.K. Flynn that I didn't intend to purchase. I scratch my head; there must have been a mix up or something.

Kat hums, decompressing in the tub after her training immersion and doesn't holler for me to tell her about last night.

I write a blog about the lackluster date with Omar, despite my attempts to spice things up. Well, as spicy as a girl who can barely get past a jalapeno can manage. However, if his family is in the hot sauce business, maybe I didn't turn the heat up enough.

I opt for transparency and tell The Book Boyfriend Blog readers how I wanted to curl up into a book-reading ball for the better part of the weekend, only emerging from my cocoon for chocolate. Then I leave them with a tasty little tease: In a surprising turn of events, the Book Boyfriend, the friendly and helpful clerk at my local indie bookshop, asked me out on a date. The Hottie in 7G, the Man-bun-barista, and the Gym Stud may not have worked out, but perhaps I saved the best for last. What do they say, fourth time is the charm? No, I guess that isn't what they say, but who cares. I have a date with a nerd like me. Yippee!

I hear a splash and then Kat yells, "Navy, why didn't you tell me? Why do I have to find these things out on your blog?"

I laugh and go to the bathroom door. "Because you were relaxing. I didn't want to bother you."

"You're such a goofball." Her wet feet slap on the tile floor, the towel whooshes around her, and then she pops her head through the crack in the door. "You went from rejection to redemption. Hmm. Where are you guys going?"

"He's going to text me."

"What are you going to wear?"

"Not sure."

"Do you think he's into the sexy librarian thing? You could totally rock that look. A vintage skirt, some pearls, a low bun. Yeow."

"I don't know," I inhale deeply, bob up and down, and then it turns into a hop and we're both squealing. "Maybe he's the one," I whisper.

Spencer was some sexy stuff, Bash was a dud, and Omar was as sweet as can be, but not into me. I've kind of gotten interested in the idea of having a date on Valentine's Day or maybe even getting to know someone. The girly girl in me, the feminine vixen, the betrayed teenager, and person who entered college with a broken heart thinks being asked out, having someone show interest in me is pretty damn exciting.

At six, I'm dressed and ready in a fitted sweater with a scarf draped around my neck, I couldn't do pearls even though Kat practically choked me with them. I wear wide leg jeans since it's cold, and a pair of spikey-heeled boots that might cause me to break my ankles. Kat swipes on some lipstick, which I instantly smear.

"Hold still. You're impossible," she says. "But beautiful, as always."

"You really think so?"

She nods. "If you haven't noticed, I'm not friends with ugly people."

I laugh. "Of course you'd say that."

"It's true. Name one of my friends who's ugly?" she asks.

Tori is stunning. Marc is the most handsome man I've ever laid eyes on. Lydia is ethereal...the list goes on. "No, but you also tend to see the beauty in others."

"Because I see it in myself," she says practically stabbing me with her lifted eyebrow as if to say I better do the same if I know what's good for me.

"So you think he might be the one," I ask.

"You just never know."

"I kind of hated you for this dare, but I'm glad you helped me."

"I may have given you a nudge, but you've been doing the heavy lifting."

I flex my arm. She grabs hold of it and pulls me into a hug before stepping back and surveying her handy work. We exchange a warm fuzzy kind of look that best friends share.

"What are you doing tonight?" I ask.

"Believe it or not I think I'll take a page from your book and stay in, chill, maybe read or-"

"Since when do you read?"

"I read...sometimes."

"More like binge watch shows on Netflix."

"That too," she says, picking up my phone and checking the time-half past six.

I explain that Tristen said sometimes the person who comes in after him is late and I repeat this an hour later when he still hasn't texted.

We settle on the couch and watch an entire episode of Gilmore Girls when my phone finally dings.

Meet me in twenty. There's a link for an address.

"Okay, gonna run."

Kat squeezes my hand, and I exit the hall to the sweet, buttery and chocolate scent of cookies baking. Maybe Mrs. Hess plies her dogs with baked goods.

I spring for a cab to take me to the restaurant not wanting to risk my demise in the boots. The neon sign hanging over the entryway says Chester's Buns and Shakes. The outline of a big-busted woman winks and her electronic arm points to the word shakes.

Music pumps when I step inside. The pearls would have been out of place. However, so am I, at least with a sweater on.

The woman at the hostess desk looks pointedly at me, as if to confirm this fact, or rather, her bare nipples aiming in my direction boldly indicate that I don't belong here.

I check the address on my phone, and sure enough, it's correct. Maybe my Book Boyfriend has a rowdy sense of humor and this is a practical joke.

Just then, Tristen waves to me from a table. I stalk over, on unsteady feet, unsure if I misunderstood. I'm not the kind of girl who reads S.L Parvell and I'm certainly not the kind of girl who bites into a hamburger at a topless restaurant-not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not me.

"Hey, you made it. I thought maybe I gave you the wrong address," Tristen says.