And then he—oh lordy—he pulled a tall bottle of purest white milk from the cold case, twisted the cap, and drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sweet—”

“—Christ,” I finished for the woman next to me, standing there with her mouth hanging open, who’d been lucky enough to witness the same glory I had.

“Almighty,” a third slack-jawed bystander added to the mix, this time a tall stockbroker-looking type, his own mouth falling open in worship.

I immediately pinched myself, certain I’d fallen asleep somewhere and was experiencing some kind of wonderful, but imaginary, dream.

Ouch. Not dreaming.

I began looking around, trying to find the hidden camera, as this was surely a prank show of some kind. The city of New York would never let someone this beautiful just walk around loose like this; it could start a panic.

The two people I’d been staring with had already gotten in line, so it was time to strike, before someone else claimed him.

I straightened myself up to my full height, glad I’d worn something casually sexy this morning. A silky summer shift, it was a little like a bathing suit cover-up, a little like a nightie, and a lot like sexy. I threw my hair back over my shoulder, breathed in deeply, and strutted over to his stall.

I waited in line. I looked over his wares. I was convinced we’d be horizontal before noon. I tasted a few of the samples he’d thoughtfully provided for his customers. I tasted sweet grassy clover in the buttery Camembert, deliciously twisted dark in the Stilton, and was bowled over by his strong cheddar, finally selecting a lovely Brie. I was convinced we’d be vertical before midnight.

I watched and listened as he interacted with his customers, picking up little hints here and there about the man. He was commanding, forceful, short on words but long on brooding, and the furthest thing from a natural-born salesman. His products must be good enough to stand alone, because clearly this guy wasn’t winning anyone over with his conversational skills. Would I go in strong, and knock him down a few pegs? Or soft and demure, thinking he liked a soft, sweet girl who turned into a crazy one in bed?

Didn’t matter. Because the closer I got to him, the strangest thing happened. My skin flushed, my knees wobbled, and my heartbeat got all fluttery. It was my turn in line next—what would I say? I tried to will my racing heart to calm down, to tell the butterflies inside me to shut it, it was time to snag this guy. But when his eyes fell on me, those beautiful blue piercing eyes, and they traveled the length of my body and back up again, the eyebrow with the scar rising in (Appreciation? Admiration? ­Carnal frustration?) question, he merely said one word.

“Brie?”

“Oh. Yes,” I whispered, not trusting my voice to go any louder. He nodded, wrapped up a package, and handed it to me. For one instant, one glorious fireworks-filled instant, his finger brushed mine.

I mentally placed an order for wedding invitations.

“You pay the cashier down there,” he said, jerking his chin toward the cashier.

As he looked past me to the next customer, I suddenly remembered I had legs. And boobs. And a lovely round bottom. I remembered how to regain control and get us back on the horizontal schedule. But he afforded me only one more glance, and while it was clearly at my legs, he was done with me.

I shook my head to clear it, somehow made my way to the cashier, and paid for my Brie.

I mean. This guy.

I stole one more look over my shoulder, and saw his gray-blue eyes flash once more toward me, feeling it all over my body.

But I was left holding his Brie, and nothing else.

Back at home I started plotting for next Saturday. And the Saturday after that. And . . . you guessed it. Because week after week, cheese after cheese, I’d lose all my nerve and all my strut the second those eyes looked at me, looked through me.

“Brie?” he’d ask, and I’d answer, “Oh yes.” He’d wrap it up, I’d walk away on shaky legs, and our time together was over, but for the exquisitely lustful fantasies that ran through my head every day as I counted down how many more days I had to go before seeing him again.

This was beyond a crush. This was beyond a quick naked tussle behind the dairy truck. This was maddening.

And I’d see him tomorrow morning!

I fell onto the couch, squealing, kicking my legs into the air like a cricket.

Chapter 2

Saturday mornings were set in stone. I always got up early, went to Bar Method class (half ballet, half yoga, all hard-core), picked up my dry cleaning and a smoothie, then went home to shower. And dress. And strut. And Brie. But somewhere between the shower and the Brie, there was Roxie.

“Girl. How’re the sticks?” I asked, sinking down onto the couch with my berry-banana concoction.

“How’re the sirens?” she shot back, her answer every week. My best friend for years, we’d fallen into the habit of chatting more often now that she was back on the correct coast and only a ninety-minute train ride away up in the Hudson Valley. We’d always stayed close, but something about living closer to each other had kicked our friendship up a notch, and now I looked forward to our weekly Saturday-morning chats. I spent a similar hour each Sunday morning on the phone with our other best friend, Clara, whenever she was in the same time zone. A branding specialist for luxury hotels, she was frequently out of the country on business.

“How come you haven’t shipped me one of your coconut cakes yet? My doorstep is suspiciously devoid of Zombie Cakes care packages . . . who should I talk to about that?” I teased, slipping out of my sneakers and examining my pedicure. I might need to pop over this afternoon for a shine-up.

“You can talk to the lady in accounts receivable, which is me. As soon as you buy a cake, you’ll get a cake, it’s that simple,” she said with a laugh. “I’m starting a business here; I can’t be giving away the profits.”

“Can I get it at cost?”

“Sure. It costs fifty-five dollars, plus shipping.”

I rolled my eyes. Roxie had recently started a food truck in her hometown of Bailey Falls, using her grandfather’s old Airstream trailer. She was already making a name for herself in the Hudson Valley and had even brought the whole show into the city on a few occasions. It took time to start a business, naturally, but she was doing it in exactly the right way. She’d started small, and with a little guidance from me in terms of marketing, she was kicking some ass. Her cakes were wonderfully rich and nostalgically old-fashioned, a great combination. “How was your week?” she asked, snapping me back from my thoughts.