Page 34 of Bittersweet

I can’t think likethat.

There’s no point wanting what you can’thave.

“Sounds great.” I nod to the girl, whose Colgate-white teeth gleam as she grins back atme.

“Right! You take a seat and I’ll get started.” She skips through a doorway to a room in the back, and I make my way over to the bench that runs along thewindow.

I open my computer and start my morning ritual. The Wi-Fi password is listed on the wall, and I hook up in no time.Easy. That’s how my life is going to be from now on. Easy. Because I’m making the choices that are good for me. Smart choices. Ones for thebest.

Loud, obnoxious dance music pumps from the speakers above me. I flinch. Um . . . did I just unknowingly join a rave? What thehell?

“Do you like techno?” Smoothie Girl yells to be heard over the music. “It’s better than coffee in the morning.Wooo!”

She dances with a smoothie jug in one hand, adding a host of ingredients from the display in front of her to it. I cringe. Maybe she’ll just listen to one song like this. Maybe, just like coffee and a muffin used to be my morning ritual, one crazy song and a dance around the café is hers. Maybe this won’t be as bad as itfeels.

I open my e-mail app, try to block out the hideous music, and wait for the data to load. A wedding submission. A press release about a newflorist.

A cancellation from anadvertiser.

Ugh.

I thread my fingers through my hair, reading the e-mail twice to make sure it’strue.

Itis.

It absolutelyis.

“Damn it,” I mutter, looking out the window to the street. They’re not my only client, but they’re a big one, and the fact that they don’t see value in the blog anymore not only hurts my wallet, it hurtsme. It’s easy to say don’t take business personally, but when you give so much of yourself, put so much out there, well, it’s hard notto.

My eyes gaze out onto the street, the businessmen and women rushing to get to their jobs, walking with determined faces that speak of places to go, people to see. I’ve never been able to do that. I’ve always wanted to do my ownthing.

I look to my screen again.Focus, Romy.If I don’t focus, “my own thing” is going to become moving back in with myparents.

Tap,tap.

I startle. Marc Moretti stands on the other side of the window, his lips raised in a halfsmile.

“Hey,”I mouth, waving, and he walks around to the door of thecafé.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Marc strides across the white tiles and pulls out the stool next to mine, not waiting for aninvitation.

“Fancy.” I smile, because something about the way his eyes sparkle makes it hard not to. “Am I going to get in trouble for visiting a café when I’m supposed to be on adiet?”

Something dark flashes across his features. “Trouble?” He lets loose a low chuckle. “I’m sure if you were, I could find appropriatepunishment.”

My breath catches. Is he . . . did hejust. . .

Is my personal trainer flirting withme?

“Hey, Marc!” the blonde behind the counter calls, her high-pitched voice just audible above the music. “Theregular?”

“Yes please, Angie.” He gives her a thumbs-up.

“All right!” she calls, her head bobbing in time to the music as she twirls and adds more fruit to the jug before placing it on the blender. The roar of the machinery makes it too loud to talk, giving me an opportunity to study Marc more closely, to try and get a handle on this man outside of his naturalenvironment.

Away from the gym, Marc seems softer, as if the fluorescent lights made all the planes and angles of his face that much more severe. He looks at me, and the way his dark eyes linger on my lips . . . a shiver runs through me. One week ago, it was as if he were studying me like I was a science experiment, someone whose body—and life—was on a downward spiral, thanks to having no impulse control when it came to indulging in food. Now, the spark in his eyes says he’s a starving man and he could eat mewhole.

I lower my gaze, lingering on those broad shoulders. Those arm muscles—biceps, triceps, Tyrannosaurus-reps for all I know the difference between them—they bulge out of the black tank he’s wearing.Yummy.

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