I’m not feeling that rush. It’s probably the day I’ve had, but the DJ is lackluster. His set is similar to last week’s. In fact, I’ll bet it is last week’s set. And the week before’s. And the week before that’s. I doubt I can even muster the urge to dance.

“Hey.” Diana nudges me with her elbow, her eyebrows waggling suggestively. “Arabian admirer at three o’clock.”

I turn to my right, to see a tall, ebony-haired guy standing about six feet away with a group of friends, his near-black gaze locked on me, his smirk flirtatious.

A “whoa” slips through my lips, as a rash of butterflies churns in my belly. He’s attractive and built. Not my usual type, but he’s the kind of attractive that would make him any girl’s type. God knows how long he’s been sizing me up over there, waiting to catch my eye, hoping for a returning smile, the bat of my lashes, a wink . . . anything to give him the green light. I’ll bet his voice is deep. I’ll bet his skin smells of citrus and peppery cologne, and he has to shave twice a day to keep that chiseled jaw smooth. I’ll bet he likes to stand inside a girl’s personal space as he talks to her—not close enough to crowd her, but just enough to make her feel a hint of intimacy, a craving for a touch. I’ll also bet he never leaves the club alone, but he always—gladly—wakes up by himself.

And that telling him I have a boyfriend won’t scare him away.

But I do have a boyfriend, I remind myself. Jesus, Calla. This is the third time in the past few weeks that I’ve found myself drooling over an attractive guy—twice at a club and once while seated at a park bench over lunch, when a blond in a tailored pinstripe suit strolled past me, leaving me slack-jawed.

I make a point of hardening my expression and turning my back to him, hoping he won’t mistake it for coyness and will simply move on. Picking up girls at clubs is like baseball for those kinds of guys, only with way more chances to swing before they strike out.

“Hey!” Diana frowns, her narrowed gaze now locked on the bar. “Isn’t that Corey?”

I spot the familiar-looking mane of lush blond curls. “Maybe?” The tall, lanky guy certainly looks like Corey from behind. And his shoulders hunch over slightly, like Corey’s do. And he’s dressed like Corey would be—in a fitted and stylish black collared shirt and tailored dress pants.

The guy turns to show his youthful, clean-shaven profile, confirming our guess.

I try to ignore the feeling in the pit of my stomach as I dig my phone out of my purse, thinking that perhaps he called to check in after all.

Nothing. Not even a text.

Diana scowls. “Who’s he with?”

I zero in on the faces around him. I’ve met three of them before. “Coworkers. I guess this is what he meant by having to work late,” I mutter.

“Well, I guess we should go over there and . . .” Her words drift as there’s a part in the crowd and the diminutive female tucked in beside him appears. The one whose back Corey has his hand settled on, midway down in a semi-affectionate way. The way that says they’re not together but he desperately wants them to be.

We watch as he leans down, says something in her ear, and then pulls away. No doubt something witty. I’ve always loved his sense of humor.

Her long, chestnut-brown hair sways as she tips her head back and laughs, earning his grin. I can almost see the twinkle in his eyes, the same one that charmed me so long ago, when we would come out to the club with our friends and stand at the bar, his hand settled on my back like that.

A sinking feeling settles into my chest as pieces click together. Stephanie Dupont started working at the advertising agency about three months ago. I met her once, at a party. She had a boyfriend then. But does she still? Because Corey looks like he’s putting in his application.

“So you’re going to go over there and throw your drink in his face, right?” Diana says through gritted teeth. “No, wait. Don’t waste your drink. Use this one.” She grabs a random glass from the ledge where someone left it, half-full of melting ice and mangled lemon slices.

I contemplate it for a split second. “Why bother?”

Diane’s eyebrows crawl halfway up her forehead. “Because he lied to you about working tonight? Because he’s right over there, one drink away from cheating on you. And with a major downgrade, by the way. I mean, come on, look at you and then look at her.”

I can’t see her face, but I remember her being cute and wholesome, with deep dimples and a friendly smile.

I don’t answer and Diana’s voice turns shrill. “How are you not more upset right now!”

“I don’t know.” Sure, it stings, but if I’m being honest with myself, that bite probably has more to do with my ego than anything else.

My heart should be aching with loss.

My stomach should be twisting with betrayal.

My eyes should be burning with emotion.

But if anything, what I’m feeling right now could be described more like a mixture of disappointment and . . . relief?

Diana huffs. “Well, what are you going to do?”

I shake my head as I try to make sense of it. My yearlong relationship with the seemingly perfect guy is unraveling in front of me and I’m not feeling any urge to storm over there and fight for it?

“Wait, I know!” Diana spins around. “Where is he?”