Issuu

‘Amy Lea knows how to write heart-clutching romance’ B. K. BORISON

AMY LEA

International bestselling author of Set on You

THE BODYGUARD AFFAIR

praise for

THE CATCH

“If e Proposal and While You Were Sleeping had a baby, it would absolutely be e Catch! Such a wonderful mix of enemies to lovers and small-town tropes. [Lea] once again knocks it out of the park with her sharp banter and steamy tension!”

— Sarah Adams, New York Times bestselling author of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

“Amy Lea knows how to write heart-clutching romance. e Catch is a real catch, and I can’t wait for readers to devour it.”

—B.K. Borison, New York Times bestselling author of First-Time Caller

“Amy Lea’s brand of rom- com feels like 2000s nostalgia with modern, intelligent heroines and unputdownable writing. Evan and Mel’s slow-burn romance comes with everything: smart humor, chest-aching emotion, stakes that had me invested from the fi rst page, and happy tears for their well-earned happily ever after. I loved every page.”

—Tarah DeWitt, USA Today bestselling author of Left of Forever

“An adorable small-town romance. . . . Mel and Evan’s love story will reel you in, and it’s the perfect way to end Amy Lea’s Influencer series.” —BuzzFeed

“Lea’s talent for writing complicated but ultimately likable characters is on full display as things between Melanie and Evan become

more and more comically disastrous before they start to get better, and her expert knack for comedy makes this story a standout.”

—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

praise for

EXES AND O’S

“Unapologetically romantic, wonderfully sexy, always brilliant. . . . With this stunning sophomore novel, Amy Lea has oﬃcially rocketed her way into my heart as a must-read author!”

—Ali Hazelwood, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Deep End

“Amy Lea’s Exes and O’s is for anyone who’s ever dreamed their book boyfriend could exist in real life. It’s a charming and funny friends-to-lovers romance that sparkles with [Lea’s] signature sweetness and steam.”

— Carley Fortune, #1 New York Times bestselling author of One Golden Summer

“Laugh-out-loud, ardently feminist, and with a hero straight out of a fevered daydream, Exes and O’s is an outright, unmitigated delight!”

— Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author of e Paradise Problem

“Exes and O’s is every rom-com reader’s dream, a delightfully meta romp with a heroine who loves tropes as much as her readers.

Tara’s quest to fi nd herself a second-chance romance of her own is swoony, hilarious, and ends in the perfect HEA.”

—Emily Wibberley and Austin Siegemund-Broka, authors of Book Boyfriend

“A gorgeous friends-to-lovers slow burn, Exes and O’s is fi lled with fun, charm, and an appealing hero who sees and loves the protagonist for exactly who she is. A perfect mix of relatable characters, hilarious banter, and steam, Exes and O’s is for everyone who has wondered about past relationships and future loves.”

—Lily Chu, author of Drop Dead

“I flew through this book—Amy Lea packed every sentence with so much hilarity and heart. Get ready for some trope-y goodness in Exes and O’s, including a meta awareness of those same tropes that’s a blast to read. If you love the roommate vibes of New Girl, a heroine who’s unabashedly ‘extra,’ and a hero who accepts her for who she is, you won’t want to miss this one!”

—Alicia Thompson, USA Today bestselling author of Never Been Shipped

“The resulting romance is as sensitive and swoony as it is self-aware, playfully engaging popular romance tropes. Th is is a winner.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Exes and O’s is equal parts tender and laugh-out-loud funny, with an earnest appreciation for the romance genre singing loudly from every page. With her sophomore novel, Lea proves she’s here to stay.” BookPage (starred review)

praise for

SET ON YOU

“Fresh, fun, and extremely sexy. Set on You is a romance of unexpected depth.”

—Helen Hoang, New York Times bestselling author of e Heart Principle

“Set on You is energetic, steamy, bubbly, and so, so fun. But more than that, it’s also a hugely important book that celebrates body positivity in the most joyous way possible.”

—Jesse Q. Sutanto, USA Today bestselling author of Next Time It Will Be Our Turn

“Set on You is the best kind of workout: one that ups your heart rate with its swoony hero, makes you sweat with its slow-burn tension, and leaves you satisfied with its themes of empowerment and selfacceptance. With a fresh, hilarious voice and a deeply relatable protagonist, this romantic comedy is enemies-to-lovers gold.”

—Rachel Lynn Solomon, New York Times bestselling author of What Happens in Amsterdam

about the author

AMY LEA is the international bestselling author of romantic comedies for adults and teens, including Set on You , Exes and O’s, e Catch, and Mindy Kaling’s Book Studio selection Woke Up Like is. Her acclaimed works have been featured in USA Today, Entertainment Weekly, Cosmopolitan, and more. When Amy is not writing, she can be found fangirling over other romance books on Instagram, eating potato chips with reckless abandon, and snuggling with her husband and two goldendoodles in Ottawa, Canada.

TITLES BY AMY LEA

the influencer series

Set on You

Exes and O’s e Catch e Bodyguard A air

The BODYGUARD AFFAIR

PENGUIN BOOK S

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author’s note

Thank you a million for choosing e Bodyguard A air as your next read. While this story is generally light, I would be remiss if I did not include the following content warnings: detailed accounts of childhood abandonment, homelessness, and a parent with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. Notably, the depiction and severity of Alzheimer’s in this book is informed by research and medical consultation, and reflects one fictional character’s experience. It is not intended to represent all experiences of those living with Alzheimer’s, nor those of their families and caregivers. Alzheimer’s disease aﬀects each person uniquely, with symptoms and progression varying widely based on individual circumstances and medical factors. Please take care while reading.

e Bodyguard A air also portrays a ctional Canadian prime minister and his family, as well as fictional heads of state, government oﬃcials, and political parties. In particular, the book features a fictional private security detail responsible for the

x author’s note

protection of the prime minister. Incidents, dialogue, and characters are products of my imagination and are not intended to depict actual events or people. I also want to acknowledge that, in reality, Canadian prime ministers and other high-ranking government oﬃcials are guarded by the RCMP’s Protective Operations Close Protection Units.

Please note that any inaccuracies regarding political protocol, policies, or terminology are my responsibility alone and likely have been changed for creative reasons. They are not to be taken as factual and accurate accounts or views expressed by the government of Canada.

The BODYGUARD AFFAIR

chapter 1 Andi

three years ago

There’s something liberating about sitting in a crowded bar, elbow to elbow with drunken strangers, casually writing a piping hot love scene.

Until tonight, I’ve avoided writing in public, mainly because I’m an easily distracted individual, an unintentional eavesdropper. When the women next to you are having a “serious sitdown” with a third friend who is “almost certainly” being catfished by a bald man in a trailer park in Manitoba, one can’t just tune it out. Then there’s Taylor Swift’s newest single about her big breakup with Joe blaring over the speakers, her poetic, lyrical genius fi lling me with life and withering imposter syndrome simultaneously. Or the man in a toque joking that I’m “hard at work on the next bestseller,” a well-meaning quip that’s both depressing and as likely as a short, mild Ottawa winter

(hint: highly improbable, practically statistically negligible). Even the piece of lint on the sleeve of my sweater can induce a brain fart.

Then there’s the ever-present risk of someone glancing at my tablet, seeing my latest penis euphemism, and being so scandalized, they choke to death on a mouthful of bar nuts. A touch dramatic? Maybe. But one has to consider these things. Ottawa is a reserved, buttoned-up city.

To be fair, the patrons at this bar are too busy drinking and socializing to care about the stone-faced woman sitting in the corner, wrapped in her emotional support cardigan, lost in her quest to make fictional people fall in love. Th at, or they can’t decipher my tiny size 8 font.

Distractions aside, being in public oﬀers a wealth of inspiration, like the women secretly playing footsie under the table next to mine while on dates with unsuspecting men. The petite lady who can barely keep her hands oﬀ her man as he twirls her around on the strobe-lit dance floor.

I’m not sure why I haven’t done this sooner. With the intensity of my new day job, getting words down in the privacy of my apartment is becoming a rarity. That’s why I’m taking advantage of the time until my best friend, Laine, shows up.

The crowd melts around me as my fi ngers dance across the keyboard, barely keeping pace with my brain. With each keystroke, I slip deeper into my starry daydream of a fictional world. It’s an enchanting place where men aren’t trash and there are gentle, sugary forehead kisses aplenty. Where every touch is laced with a tenderness that makes you feel weightless. In my little world, love doesn’t fi zzle, it endures. It scoops you up and holds you tight in its warm embrace, making good on its prom-

ise to never let go. It makes you feel like everything will be okay, even if it won’t. I’m so lost in my own head, I barely register when someone tugs my hand.

“I should have known I’d fi nd you hiding in the corner,” Laine shouts over the pulse of the music, eyeing my tablet screen with her heavily lined hawk eyes before I can slam it shut. “What are you doing?”

“My to-do list for work,” I say quickly, cheeks afl ame with the heat of my blatant lie as she hands me a gin and tonic. Here’s the straight-up truth: I haven’t told anyone about my writing since I started a couple months ago. Not even my best friend, who knows everything about me, down to my monthly cycle. Maybe it’s superstitious and silly, but if I tell people, it’s no longer mine. It’s no longer a magical, sacred project I can escape into, tend to in my quiet moments. It feels too new, too raw. Sharing it with people, particularly Laine, who will demand to read it, opens it up to scrutiny and critique that I don’t have the mental fortitude for—yet. In fact, I’d rather hurl myself into the rapids of the Ottawa River than live with the knowledge that, somewhere out there, a human being has read my words and may have thoughts (good or bad).

While I love Laine, I already know she would judge me. Hard. Anytime I pick up a romance novel around her, she rolls her eyes and suggests something with a gold Pulitzer Prize stamp on the cover. If you looked on her bookshelves, you’d only fi nd classics, war and terror academia books, and poetry.

So, for now, I write for me.

“Come dance!” Laine barely waits for me to shove my tablet in my bag before dragging me onto the congested dance floor. “Love the one-piece. Very Audrey Hepburn meets Catwoman,”

she decides, twirling me around. It’s a far cry from skintight, high-gloss pleather, but Laine has a tendency to give aggressively ego-boosting compliments. The jumpsuit in question is black chiﬀon with a fl irty keyhole back, not that it’s visible under my cardigan. But for a woman working in politics, nothing feels better than abandoning the tyranny of tummy-control pantyhose.

I close my eyes, drink, and let the lights blur around me in a red haze. For the fi rst time since my breakup three months ago, I’m feeling playful, rebellious, and, dare I say, a smidge sexy— until I have to use the bathroom. In a one-piece.

Comfort aside, I hadn’t considered the logistics of peeing in a one-piece. So here I am, vulnerable, outfit around my ankles, boobs out, praying whoever just walked in can’t see me in all my nude glory through the alarmingly wide crack in the stall door.

And then the worst happens. Because of course it does.

While I’m mid-pee, the door fl ings open to a pair of startlingly blue eyes. I’ve never seen eyes this striking—like the artificially colored blue raspberry Kool-Aid my little sister and I used to chug straight from the plastic jug on those swelteringly humid summer days in our top-floor apartment with no AC. The kind that stains your tongue and teeth for a week.

The eyes in question belong to a very startled man.

At least, I’m pretty sure it’s a dude. The bathrooms in this bar are unisex, individual stalls.

We let out simultaneous screams, though mine is more like a piercing wail. I fl ail about on the toilet like an injured fl amingo, endeavoring to cover my ugliest bra—thick straps, “nottonight” beige, probably three years too old to deserve any place in my drawer. It’s so bad, I forget to hide my lower half, which

is covered by sweet nothing. Th is exact moment is why I don’t often leave my house.

“Shit!” He slaps a palm over both eyes and stumbles backward into the sinks in a blind frazzle. “I am so sorry. The door wasn’t locked, I—” I can’t hear the rest, because he quite literally dashes out of the bathroom, leaving the stall door swinging wide open.

With a groan, I hobble oﬀ the toilet to close the door. The lock was broken all along. Go figure.

Before someone else walks in on me, I wash up and beeline it back to the dance floor in search of Laine. No sign of her freshly permed curls anywhere. A quick scan tells me she’s migrated to a booth along the back wall. She’s cross-legged, in what appears to be deep conversation with my ex-boyfriend, Hunter, who’s come straight from the oﬃce, based on his sweatervest— a staple in his oﬃce wardrobe. Tonight’s vest is mustard yellow.

I’d nearly forgotten that Hunter was coming tonight. Then again, why wouldn’t he? He’s Laine’s friend, too, and when we split, we made an agreement that we wouldn’t let it aﬀect our group dynamic.

The three of us met over a year ago as sun-starved baby interns working for Eric Nichols, the leader of the Democratic People’s Party (DPP)—the third party that no one ever expected to win. I used to consider it the best day of my life. The day I started my dream job and met my best friend and my boyfriend.

The three of us got closer when our contracts were extended for the election, and again when the DPP won and transitioned into power. We did everything together. Morning coﬀee runs, lunches at the oﬃce, eyes bloodshot, poring over spreadsheets,

take-out containers sprinkled over our desks. Weekends exploring museums, doing Parliament tours, dominating at trivia pub nights, consuming ill-advised late-night poutines with too many toppings. The usual things poli-sci geeks do for fun in the nation’s capital. Laine used to joke about being the third wheel, but these days, it feels like I’m the third wheel.

But I don’t let myself think about that. Not right now. Tonight is a happy night. We’re celebrating Laine’s official promotion to permanent staffer with health and dental benefits. She signed the offer letter today after dreaming of being one of the few East Asian women on the Hill since being elected class president in grade five. Give her thirty years and she’ll be the next prime minister of Canada. I’m calling it now.

Whatever Laine said must have been funny, because Hunter is dangerously close to falling face-fi rst into her ample cleavage. I catch the subtle way he squeezes her shoulder aﬀectionately, his thumb tracing a smooth circle down her arm— a move he used to do with me. Our eyes meet as I approach, and he fl ashes her one last frat-boy-president smile before slinking out of the booth to give me my spot back.

“Andi Lenora Zeigler!” He shouts my full name heartily, brows raised, as though my existence on earth delights him. Ever since we broke up, he tries a little too hard to be congenial in public. Excessive arm pats, laughing way too loudly at my jokes. “I never got to congratulate you on the new gig.”

“Oh. Thanks. And congrats to you, too. I know communications was your dream,” I say, barely hiding my cringe. We sound like coworkers by the watercooler, not exes who dated for nearly a year and shared a dingy apartment above a dim sum place in Chinatown.

The crease between his brows deepens in a dramatic show of sympathy. “Don’t worry, you’ll join us soon. Once you do your time as household staff.” He says it so quickly, I’m too caught off guard to respond. Household staff, aka my new role as the prime minister’s wife’s assistant, isn’t exactly considered prestigious or desirable.

I wait for him to fully disappear toward the bar before squeezing in next to Laine, who uncharacteristically averts her gaze to her lap the moment I make eye contact. I contemplate telling her what Hunter just said, but then I remember the one rule: Never put Laine in the middle. She’d never take sides anyway. Instead, she’d come up with endless explanations:

You know Hunter, he doesn’t have a lter!

He didn’t mean it like that, Andi. He has a good heart. e best. Did you know he volunteers with Big Brothers Big Sisters?

“Some guy just walked into my stall while I was peeing,” I announce instead, keeping my head low.

Laine’s brows shoot up to her hairline. “You didn’t lock the door?”

“I thought I did, but it was broken. And that’s not even the worst part. The guy saw everything because I had to take this whole thing oﬀ.” I motion to my onesie.

“Full bush?” she asks, because apparently that’s an important detail.

“Not full. But overdue for a wax.” Not that I’m planning on getting one. No one’s venturing downtown anytime soon. No point in subjecting myself to socially sanctioned torture just to impress a man.

Laine erupts in booming, witchy laughter, following it up with a smack on my thigh. She does that when something particularly

amuses her (which is most things). Her tendency to feel every morsel of emotion with her whole body is one of the things I love most about her. Her intensity is what makes her excellent at her job. When she’s fi nally collected herself, she turns and pops her head over the back of the booth like a gopher peeking out of its burrow, scanning for predators. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know. I was too mortified to get a good look at him.” Aside from his eyes.

She slaps the back of the booth like she’s at a high-energy sporting event. “Andi, is that him?”

I duck my head even lower, chin to chest, making a triple chin. Highly attractive. “Not looking.”

“Code red. Code red. He’s coming over. And he’s kind of . . . hot. Not really your type, but—”

I shrink inward, averting my hard stare to the ring of condensation pooled on the sticky table. I will not make accidental eye contact with whoever just saw me nude, hunched over on the toilet. I refuse.

“Uh, hey.” It’s defi nitely him. It’s the same deep, rougharound-the-edges voice that yelled Shit! in the bathroom. There’s a weight to it, a grit that stops you in your tracks.

I don’t look up. If I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

After three of the longest seconds of my life, my theory proves false.

“Andi? He’s still here,” Laine informs with a sharp poke in the ribs.

Death, please take me.

I begrudgingly lift my eyes, raking them over a pair of darkwash jeans, a gray Henley T-shirt covering arms more muscular than I’ve ever seen up close, a prominent Adam’s apple poking

through a dark, neatly trimmed beard. His face is boyishly cute, with a slightly bulbous nose and ears that stick out a little from beneath overgrown waves the color of dark roast coﬀee. And then there’s those blue eyes, crinkling at the corners, twinkling even in the dim bar lighting.

Laine is 100 percent right. He is not my type. And by “not my type,” I mean aesthetically superior to me in every way, face and body.

Before I can slither under the table and disappear forevermore, those eyes latch on to mine. He raises his hand, fi ngers hesitating in midair, like he hasn’t decided if he’s committing to a wave or a handshake. Apparently, he decides on neither, shoving both hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Uh, hi?” I say.

“Hi.” He stops, the apples of his cheeks turning a touch pink above his beard. “Sorry. I already said ‘hi.’ Um, I think we, uh, just met in the bathroom?” He jerks his thumb back in the direction of the bathrooms, squinting adorably at me with one eye.

“Yup. We sure did,” I yelp.

“I wanted to apologize and make sure you were okay.”

“Oh, uh, thanks? I’m okay.” As okay as one can be mere minutes after a stranger inadvertently saw their naked body.

I expect him to do us both a solid and leave, but he lingers.

“It won’t happen again,” he assures me with a dip of his chin.

“You won’t walk in on an unsuspecting stranger in the bathroom again?” I clarify, my gaze stuck somewhere around his full, soft-looking lips. I can barely look at him without my cheeks heating, wondering if he’s secretly judging me about my lazy grooming.

“Never. I’m gonna peek under the stall fi rst to make sure it’s

unoccupied.” He stops and winces. “Actually, never mind. Peeking under the stall . . . that’s equally creepy, isn’t it?”

“Yup. Sex predators tend to do that kind of thing.”

“I swear I’m not a sexual predator. Or a predator of any sort. God, I can’t believe I just said that. I feel horrible about the whole thing.” I can tell he’s genuine, based on the furrow of his thick brows, the downturn of his shoulders.

“Don’t. It wasn’t your fault. The lock was broken. It’s all good,” I say, sitting up a little straighter.

I’m not convincing enough, because he’s still rooted in place, hands twisted in front of his torso. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I fully accept your apology.” I meet his eyes reluctantly.

“Okay. Well . . . have a good night?” He cheerfully pats the top of our booth before backing away, one side of his mouth quirking into a lopsided smile that sends a single spark pingponging down my spine.

“Have a good—bye.” I slow-wave, watching him turn away into the crowd. He rakes his hand through his waves and strides back to the bar, plunking down beside another guy in a backward ball cap who’s also scarily fit, tattoos decorating both arms.

Laine gives me another slap on the thigh, though this one is with purpose. “Um, are you ill?”

“What?”

She shoots me a hard stare from under her thick lashes. “Bathroom guy. He’s . . . hot. Weirdly hot. Like, does-notbelong-in-Ottawa hot. I wonder if he’s a Sens player or something. He kinda has that hockey guy swagger. And the shaggy hair. Minus the wet dog smell.”

I don’t recognize him, not that I’m familiar with the Sens

roster. As someone with weak ankles and zero bodily coordination, I don’t exactly follow sports. “So?”

“So! He was fl irting and you let him walk away. You don’t let guys like that walk away,” she says, apparently under the delusion that I’ve sent the love of my life away into the mist, never to be seen again.

“He just came over to apologize,” I assure her. He smiled at me a fair bit, but I assumed those were sorry-I-accidentally-sawyour-pubes smiles. Like the way I smile weakly at panhandlers outside my apartment.

Laine emits a disgruntled sigh and levels me with a look that screams, Come the fuck on. “He was interested. He’s still looking at you. Right now!”

I brave a look, confident she’s lying to boost my morale.

Shit.

She is not.

Our eyes meet again and he grins, revealing dimples. Dimples. The kind I write about. Sweet Christ. I swiftly look away, back to the relative safety of Laine.

“A few days ago, you were lecturing me about staying single and focusing on my career,” I remind her. Laine isn’t normally one to push romantic relationships. She swears by being a singleton and doesn’t plan on marrying, ever—hence her condemnation of romance novels.

“And I stand by that,” she says, pausing to fi nish her gin and tonic. “But there’s no harm in a one-night stand with some random you’ll never see again, especially if it helps get you out of your funk. I mean, look at him. He just looks like he knows his way around down there.”

“I’m not in a funk. I just got a new job,” I point out.

For some reason, Laine is concerned that I’m not over the breakup. Maybe she’s right. Hunter and I were only dating a year, but it felt like longer, especially after we moved in together so soon.

On our fi rst day of work, he’d sent me a DM on our internal messaging system that read, Co ee? He was as consistent with the messages as he was with his sweater-vest collection. We’d trade jokes about our boss and her tendency to send frantic emails without subject lines or punctuation, or worse, entire emails within the subject line.

He was passionate, realistic, and analytical about everything, never saying things he didn’t mean. Whenever he wanted to make a purchase, like a new pair of dress shoes, he’d spend hours and hours researching. He came from a prominent family in the city with a long history in politics. Something about him just oozed reliability— something I’d never had before. And so I let myself trust him. I let myself fall. Fast.

Everything was perfect, until the lead-up to the election. Hunter was tasked with coming up with social media slogans and captions for the campaign. He was overwhelmed with other work, so I stepped in to help, coming up with three. One of them was actually used in the PM’s victory speech the night of the election: “There’s no us versus them. Only us.”

I never expected him to credit me after the fact, but he never acknowledged my role in helping him, even privately. It was like he actually convinced himself he wrote it. He started talking over me in meetings or, worse, correcting me in front of our boss. Th ings like this happened more and more toward the end of our internship when it became clear there would be only one

job opening on the media and communications team, a role both of us wanted.

One night in bed, he’d rolled over and said, “You do realize only one of us can get the job, right?”

“Yeah. I know. And I’ll be happy for you if you get it,” I’d said genuinely.

“Same,” he’d replied, though he couldn’t look me in the eyes when he said it. Instead, he went around and around, explaining how this job was his dream. How he’d always regret it if he put our relationship fi rst over his career (not that I ever asked him to).

“I could . . . not apply,” I’d oﬀered weakly.

The moment that came out of my mouth, I knew I’d lost myself entirely. I’d actually oﬀered to sacrifice my dream job for him, after working my ass oﬀ to get scholarships for university and grad school.

He didn’t take the suggestion well, because me stepping aside would mean he “didn’t earn it.”

After that, things were awkward for a solid month. When he started sleeping on the couch and stopped sending me DMs and niche political memes throughout the day, I knew it was over as fast as it began.

We ended things mutually, amicably, high-fiving to “staying friends.” Both he and Laine helped me move out a week later, the day he got the job over me.

I never told Laine the gritty details, because airing all my grievances about him would have put her in the middle. Besides, it was easier to keep things civil.

“Laine, I’m very over him,” I assure. Even though seeing him

still makes my stomach pinch. Not in an I miss him way. More of a he hurt me and never took accountability way.

Laine works down a swallow. “Actually, I’m glad you said that. Because I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something—”

“Look, I’m not bringing anyone back to my place tonight except a falafel shawarma platter with extra garlic sauce,” I cut in before she can lecture me.

“Okay, but will a falafel bring you to orgasm?” she asks.

I snort. “Close to it. I think you have too much faith in men. Hunter never got me there, and he had a year to figure it out.”

Her entire face creases, pained. “Hunter and I like each other.” It comes out so fast, I almost miss it.

In fact, I’m about to pull my phone out to preorder my shawarma for tonight when she snatches it and turns it face down on the table, like I’m a toddler with no impulse control.

“Did you hear me, Andi?”

I blink. “You and Hunter . . . like each other?” I repeat that approximately seven times before the meaning begins to sink in. “As in . . . more than friends? How—why didn’t you tell—”

Laine launches into a long-winded confession while I drift in and out of consciousness, only coming to when she casually mentions how Hunter’s original DM was actually meant to be for her. He mistakenly got our names mixed up (ha ha, so funny, right?) and was surprised when I poked my head over the cubicle wall and took him up on coﬀee. Here is where she stops to pledge that he “genuinely” fell for me, but that there was always something unspoken between them. Of course, they only came to that realization “way after” we broke up.

I think my body is slipping into shock, because I can’t move, or swallow my drink. I think I’m passing out, because in a blink,

I’m lying in the booth, legs up in birth position (minus the stirrups). Laine and Hunter (who swoops in out of nowhere) are above me, fanning me with napkins, asking if I’m okay and if I require medical assistance.

I manage to sit up with a violent cough, taking in the sight of them—my ex and my best friend— sitting side by side next to me, touching. Touching.

Realistically, the signs have been there for weeks, ever since we broke up. Laine has been “busy” nearly every night and weekend, which I chalked up to us starting our new jobs and me getting lost in my writing. But then last weekend happened. Laine told me she was too busy with work to hang out, only to post a shot of her fancy cocktail on social media hours later. Five minutes later, Hunter posted a photo of the same drink, from the opposite angle. Again, I chalked it up to the fact that the two of them now work at the Privy Council Oﬃce (PCO)—the department that supports the PM and Cabinet—together, while I was all the way at 24 Sussex—the PM’s oﬃcial residence. Naturally they were going to become closer after seeing each other at work daily.

I have to stop myself from going forehead into table. “So you two are . . . together? As in dating?”

They look at each other, barely containing their bliss, and nod simultaneously, as one. Hunter even takes her hand and squeezes it for emphasis.

Laine offers a weak smile. “I told Hunter I couldn’t make it official until I had your blessing. I figured, since you two broke things off so mutually and you no longer have feelings, that you’d be okay—”

“Yes, I’m okay with it. Of course I’m okay with it,” I say a

little too quickly, mouth bone-dry. Because of course I am. I have to be. It’s been three months, technically almost four, since things went awry. It’s not like I’ve been brokenhearted over him. So why does the sinking sensation in my gut feel like betrayal? Isn’t dating exes against girl code?

“We never expected it to happen,” Hunter continues, as though I’ve asked for a repeat of their origin story. To my horror, he starts listing all the reasons they’re perfect for each other, as though I’m the hard-to-please De Niro– esque father-in-law with some sort of authority or say in the matter. I sit there, redfaced, nodding aggressively, pretending to be completely and totally on board with this. I have no choice in the matter. Laine is my best friend. I have to support her, right? It would be selfish otherwise.

At one point I must zone out, because Laine pokes me in the rib. “Andi? You good?”

“Fantastic,” I say with more enthusiasm than I feel. I don’t know if I’m happy, mad, or sad; all I know is I need to get the hell out of here. Stat. “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should celebrate tonight. Love is in the air, after all,” I say, buttscooting out of the booth as fast as humanly possible (not very fast).

Laine punches the air, victorious. “That’s the spirit! Go get that celebratory peen. You deserve it.”

In my shock and delirium, I amble my way to the crowded bar, where I spot him. Bathroom guy. He’s still in conversation with his tattooed friend. I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe jealousy, a desperation to prove myself after Hunter and Laine. But I approach. Rapidly. Aggressively.

He sees me coming in hot before I can talk myself out of it, his lips parting in surprise.

In my limited experience, guys who look like him are usually the grunting, brooding-in-dark- corners types. But there’s a lightness, a warmth to him that’s strangely comforting. Kind of like holding your frozen, winter-kissed hands over a toasty outdoor bonfi re. It takes me oﬀ guard. So much so, I let out an ahh sound before saying hi, which comes out like, “Ahoy hoy.”

Jesus.

My greeting hangs in the air for a brutally long moment.

“Ahoy hoy?” he replies, unsure whether to laugh or not.

I decide to push through, not acknowledging it, even though I’ll never forget this moment as long as I live. “I, uh—I realized I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Andi Zeigler.” There’s a pause, like he’s waiting for me to continue. Only, I don’t know what else to say about myself. “And I’m, um, well—I don’t know what I’m doing or saying anymore, so I’m just going to leave now. Bye!” I spin on my heel to make a run for the exit. Th is was a terrible idea. Falafel platter, here I come!

A few strides away, a hand on my shoulder gently turns me back around. Bathroom guy is smiling at me and I don’t sense pity. He extends his other hand and says, “Nice to meet you, Andi. I’m Nolan Crosby,” without a beat, totally casual, as though I wasn’t fleeing him.

Nolan Crosby. It suits him.

“I don’t do this often,” I decide to inform, as if it weren’t blatantly obvious.

“Approach guys at bars?”

I shrug. “Ask guys to go home with me.”

His right brow fl icks up. “Oh? I’m coming home with you?”

“No!” I scream. I’m much worse at this than I ever realized. With Hunter, it was easy, because he did most of the talking and charming. I barely had to say two words. “I mean, unless you want to?”

He watches me for a beat, and I’m certain he’s about to back away slowly, like that GIF of Homer Simpson vanishing into the bushes.

“I have food!” I add, for no good reason.

Th is must pique his curiosity, because his eyes brighten on the spot. “Food, huh? What kind of food?”

“Well, actually I’ll have to stop at the twenty-four-hour grocery on the way home. I only have cherry tomatoes in my fridge,” I say, racking my brain to take inventory. I might have some old olives from a solo charcuterie night weeks ago. Do olives expire? “But I’ll make you something good. Like . . . pierogies.”

He tilts his head like he’s trying to assess whether I’m serious. Apparently he decides I am, because he says, “Sure, I could go for pierogies.”

chapter 2 Nolan

You really don’t have to make me food,” I assure Andi as we zigzag through the produce aisles in Peevey’s, her neighborhood twenty-four-hour grocery. Bad call on the name, in my opinion.

She peers at me warily over her shopping cart, which is humongous compared to her. “Th is is the third time you’ve said that. Do you think I’m a bad cook or something?”

“No, not at all.” I mask my hesitation, eyeing the cart, which contains a single bunch of green onions and three loose pears (no bag). And we’ve been here for at least fi fteen minutes.

“Then do you not want to hook up?” she asks, pouting those glossy, plump lips. It’s disorienting, the twinge I feel whenever I look at them.

Truthfully, my hesitation is more about my own guilt over being here instead of home, where I should be on my last night

before going on a six-month military deployment. “Do you?” I ask pointedly.

“Yeah. I do.” She doesn’t sound hesitant in the slightest, leveling me with a wide, earnest expression. My stomach free-falls. Under bright grocery store lighting, her eyes are hazel, not brown.

“Okay, then I do, too,” I say, more turned on than appropriate in the middle of the produce aisle.

I hadn’t noticed her in the bar before walking into her stall, but I recognized her when she emerged minutes later. She stood out in the crowd. Her posture was stiﬀ and tense as she fidgeted with the sleeves of the oversized sweater covering her jumpsuit.

She wore her dark hair in a tight bun, which kind of went with her whole vibe of hiding in the back with her friend. Her eyes darted nervously to the door every five seconds, as though searching for an escape. When I went to apologize, she avoided all eye contact and angled herself in the opposite direction, arms folded tightly over her chest.

So when she approached me so brazenly minutes later, I was stunned. Even more so when she asked me to go home with her.

I’d misread her, and I don’t misread people, ever.

“In case you couldn’t tell, I don’t normally do random hookups,” she declares. I don’t know if it’s a vulnerable admission or a warning.

“What changed?”

“Certain events have happened in my life recently. But I won’t bore you with the details.” Her eyes bulge at the cost of lettuce before she mumbles, “Who am I kidding? I’m not getting any vegetables.”

I try not to laugh as I follow her dutifully down the cracker

aisle like a puppy. “You wouldn’t bore me, but I understand if you’d rather not share with someone you don’t know.”

“Meh. I mean, you’ve already seen . . .” She waves a hand vaguely to her lower half.

I stumble back and grab at the shelf for balance, nearly taking down a neatly lined row of Cheez-It boxes. “No. I really didn’t see anything. I think I actually blacked out.”

“Are you just saying that because you feel bad for me and my ugly grandma bra?”

“Nope. And it wasn’t ugly, by the way.”

She furrows her brow and points at me. “Wait, you said you blacked out and didn’t see anything!”

“I said I blacked out and didn’t see your . . .” I vaguely gesture back at her, and she fi lls in the blanks. “I didn’t say I didn’t see above the waist.”

She hides her face behind a Triscuit box before chucking it into the cart as if it wronged her.

“It really wasn’t that bad. And who cares what your bra looks like? Good tits are good tits regardless of the bra.” For a second, I’m scared that was too vulgar a statement. That’s what happens when you’re exclusively around guys 99 percent of the time—you lose your fi lter.

But it makes Andi smile. “That might be the most romantic line I’ve ever heard.”

I pretend to bow, relieved. “I’ll be here all night. Or as long as you want me.”

For the next half hour, we zip down every single aisle. She fi lls the cart with more random items, like a bag of fresh-baked crescents rolls from the bakery section, sliced turkey, a jar of hot

mix pickles, and frozen pierogies. Then we do a second loop “to make sure we didn’t forget anything,” as though there was a method to the madness. It’s a good thing, because she adds marble cheese, sour cream, and bacon (for the pierogies).

“You seem to know your way around,” I note.

She shrugs. “Grocery shopping is overwhelming. That’s why I like this place. It’s never busy, at least not late at night when I come after work.”

I’m about to ask her what she does for a living, but she spots a cheesecake display in the bakery and doubles back.

“Don’t judge. Th is cheesecake needs me,” she says, cradling the plastic container like a baby.

I assure her I’m not judging, and we finally head to check out. Her place is a couple blocks away, which would normally be fi ne if we weren’t carrying heavy groceries, and if it weren’t minus-20 degrees Celsius. I insist on taking all but one bag, leaving her with the lightest one. She protests, but ultimately concedes once she realizes she’s not getting them from my grip.

“Wow, you really live where all the action is,” I say as we turn a corner down a dark side street. There’s at least thirty people sitting in clusters around the sidewalk. I immediately slip into work mode, posture erect, senses heightened, scanning every person, shadow, alleyway, and doorway for any sign of danger.

“Yup. I had two criteria: no roaches and close to Roger’s Diner so I can have easy access to their mozzarella sticks. They’re my writing fuel,” she says far too casually, seemingly unfazed by the people. She probably does this walk all the time, which actually makes me feel worse. Th is area is sketchy for anyone, including me, let alone a young woman by herself at night.

“Writing fuel? Are you a writer?” I finally ask, trying to mask

the worry in my voice as we pass by the biggest clusters of people, most of whom seem too strung out to do more than watch us with vacant stares. There are still some stragglers toward the end of the block, but not as many.

She doesn’t respond for a few moments, and I’m worried I’ve hit a nerve until fi nally she says, “Yeah. I am. Well, kind of. It feels weird to call myself a writer. I only just started.”

“A beginner is still a writer,” I say, intrigued as we round a pile of snow shoveled inconveniently onto the sidewalk.

Before I can ask a follow-up question, an older homeless man in an oversized coat and boots with a hole in one toe approaches, eyes focused directly on Andi. Instinctively, I step in front of her, shielding her.

“Hi, Ted! How are you today?” She waves over my shoulder before going around me.

He bows his head, covered by a nice warm knit hat with a pompom. I’d peg him at around fi fty, but he could be younger. His skin is weathered, patchy with some sores. Both hands are visible and relaxed, not clenched. “Well, I’m still kickin’. Got treatment for my frostbite today.”

There’s no edge in his tone, just softness, so I relax my stance marginally. Over the years, I’ve gotten better at trusting my gut. Good instincts are important in my job. You either have them or you don’t. They have to be instant, because sometimes, you need to make life-or-death decisions on the fly. And there is zero room for error.

“Th at’s great news,” Andi says, her shoulders dipping in relief.

“And how’s my baby boy doing? He still limping?” Ted asks. “Lars is doing really well. His paw seems healed. He went for

a nice run with me this morning. I’ll bring him by tomorrow morning.”

Ted dips his head politely again. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

Andi studies him for a moment. “You sure you’re doing okay?”

He looks down, twisting his hands. “I didn’t make it to the Mission in time for supper.”

She immediately makes a grab for the grocery bags in my grip, gets on hands and knees, and riﬄes through them on the sidewalk. “I almost forgot, I picked up some of your favorites.”

She pulls out the pack of crescents rolls, sliced turkey, three pears, and a box of Wheaties (low sugar).

I thought those items were really random, but I never would have guessed they were for someone else.

Ted’s eyes widen, welling with appreciation as she piles them in one bag and hands it over. He takes it gratefully, clinging to it like a lifeline. “You’re really trying to fatten me up with all this fancy food, aren’t ya?”

“Sure am. It’s going to be a cold winter.”

“Not with you around. You always brighten my day.” He fl ashes her a broad smile, which she happily returns.

“Have a good night, Ted. See you in the morning.”

Ted dips his head in a nod before eyeing me suspiciously, like he’s just realized I’m here. “Th is your friend?”

“Yeah. Th is is Nolan,” she informs him.

He watches me for a beat. I suppose he decides I’m safe, because he gives me an approving nod before waving us oﬀ. “Take care of my Andi, now. She’s my guardian angel.”

I have many questions, but my fi rst is, “Who was that?”

“Ted. He lives at the Mission down the street. He’s harmless, by the way. Most of them are,” she adds as we turn into her apart-

ment complex. It’s a redbrick six-story walk-up with an old, rusty fi re escape barely hanging on to the side of the building.

“Seems like a nice old guy.”

She swipes her key fob, and we trudge up the creaky stairs. “Oh yeah. He’s hilarious. Reminds me of my grandpa on my dad’s side. I’m temporarily watching Lars since it’s too cold for him to be on the street.”

“He has a dog?”

“Yup. And he takes better care of that dog than housed owners. Gives him most of his food, the comfiest blankets,” she informs me. “That’s actually how we met. Lars started following me home looking for scraps, and then Ted and I got to talking. He was worried about the cold weather at night and said he might have to surrender Lars to the shelter. If he had, he’d never have gotten him back because of Lars’s breed and temperament. They’d have put him down, and that would have broken Ted’s heart. So I oﬀered to keep Lars at my place.”

“That’s really nice of you to do that for someone you don’t know,” I tell her. And I mean that. Not many people would go out of their way for a stranger and their dog.

She lifts a shoulder in an easy shrug. “Everyone falls on bad times sooner or later. The only diﬀerence between me and someone like Ted is that I’m lucky enough to have a safety net.”

That statement strikes me as she leads me up all five fl ights of stairs. I’d never really thought about that before. It’s easy to say it would never be you. But it could be, if you’d been born into certain circumstances. If you’d made a few wrong turns.

Lars is wary of me immediately when we walk in and attempts to hide under the coﬀee table in the living area, though he barely fits. He’s huge, at least eighty or ninety pounds of solid muscle by

the looks of it, with a short, sandy coat. “Sorry, he’s sketched out by people he doesn’t know after living on the street. Especially men. Are you okay with dogs?”

“I love them. I miss having one around,” I say genuinely. “You don’t have one of your own, I take it?” she asks. The closest I ever got to having a dog was whenever my sister and I were sent to live with Aunt Shelly. She had a ten-pound bichon frise, Matilda, who ferociously growled at me and nipped my ankles whenever I got too close. And by the time I’d built enough trust with her, either Mom would come back or we’d get sent to live with another family member. I never stayed in one place long enough to have a dog of my own, though I always dreamed about it.

“Nah, I wish. I’m gone too much with my job. Wouldn’t be fair to the dog.” I bend down to peek at Lars under the table. He lets out a low growl, so I back up to give him some space. I got used to dealing with street dogs while on tour overseas. Most are wary and generally distrusting of humans, unless you give them food regularly.

She watches me, and for a second, I think she’s about to ask what my job is. Then she seems to decide against it, settling for, “Understandable.”

“How about you? I take it you’re a dog person?”

“In a way. I never had one of my own, either. My sister and I begged my parents for a dog every year at Christmas. But they always said it was too expensive. Then, when we could aﬀord one, it was ‘too much work.’ ‘ Too much responsibility.’ We got betta fish instead. Those colorful ones,” she says, her tone tinged with latent disappointment.

I laugh. “Ah, the good ol’ starter pet.”

She shrugs. “My sister always forgot to feed hers and clean its tank, so I ended up taking care of both of them. Not that they lived long. Poor M. Sea Hammer and Swim Shady.”

I dip my chin. “Rest in peace. Great names, though.”

While she unpacks the groceries in the kitchen, I sit a distance away on the floor and try to coax Lars out. Andi hands me a slice of marble cheese, which works like a charm. Lars inches out from under the table just far enough to gobble the cheese from my palm. I expect him to take it roughly, maybe even bite me. But he takes it gingerly, just barely brushing my palm with his lips before backing away to safety underneath the table, hitting his head in the process. After he devours the cheese, he inches out a little farther, nudging my hand with his big wet nose for more.

Andi hands me another cheese slice, which brings him out from underneath the table entirely.

“He likes you,” she says, watching as Lars tentatively sniﬀs my lap, in search of more cheese. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to, um, freshen up,” she informs me, her voice going higher.

“No rush,” I call over my shoulder, while dodging a sloppy kiss from Lars.

“Sorry for the mess, by the way.” Her voice is slightly muﬄed by the wall between us. “I moved in last month and haven’t had the time to unpack.”

I pan around for the mess she’s referring to. There are a couple boxes stacked in the hallway, a half-drunk glass of water, a notebook, a laptop, and some crumpled paper on the coﬀee table. Nothing out of the ordinary for a writer. “You’re one of those people who apologizes for mess when there’s zero mess, aren’t you?”

“You don’t think this is messy?” she calls from the bedroom. It looks clean to me, nondescript even. Oﬀ-white walls, plush cream carpet. All the furniture is also of the neutral variety, no fluﬀ, no patterns or designs. She hasn’t put up any artwork, personal photos, or vases or candles on her shelves or tables like you’d usually fi nd in a woman’s place, not to stereotype. At the very least, she does appear to have a hefty dead bolt on the front door. The same can’t be said for the sliding glass door. The lock latch looks broken. There’s only a wooden stick wedging the door closed, which looks like the snapped end of a broom handle. The locks on the windows also leave a lot to be desired. I could probably bust them open with one hand. At least she’s on the top floor.

“I’ve seen worse,” I tell her through the wall. “Your place is very clean. I mean, aside from the half-put-together desk,” I say, eyeing it in the corner near the sliding glass door, which leads to a small, snowy balcony. It looks like an IKEA desk, with only one side assembled.

“Ah, yeah. I ordered it because it said easy assembly. It is not, for the record. And I’m pretty good with instructions usually. Shit. I totally forgot to boil water for the pierogies.”

“Oh, no worries, I’ll put them on. Just—uh . . .” I attempt to get up, but fail. I don’t know what I do, but at some point, Lars decides I’m an okay human and plops his massive body into my lap like a baby. He’s asleep, heavy, his warm head resting on my chest. I feel bad moving an inch. He seems comfortable.

Andi comes out in a tank-top-and-shorts pajama combo, which accentuates her curves. Shit. Her long hair, which was previously in a bun, now cascades down her back in thick waves. It’s lighter when it’s down, with some blond highlights framing