my dark ponytail, which was beginning to slide out of its tie. Then I started up the car and backed out of the spot. In a blink, we were at my condo. I pulled into the garage and let Duke lead me up the stairs by his leash to my loft, a recently renovated, completely Pottery Barn-furnished, two-bedroom condo I was insanely proud of. Never mind that I’d been living here four years already; I loved the dazzling white kitchen, the granite countertops, the wrap-around island, the gleaming pine floors, and the wood-burning fireplace. I bought this loft with my own money, money earned from my company, CB Branding. Every time I walked through my front door, I felt a little swell of pride.
I slipped inside, dropped my keys on my foyer table in the gleaming bowl, and let Duke off his leash.
“Go,” I told him. “Go get your bone. Go get it!”
He trotted to his soft blue bed near the fireplace and grabbed an only slightly-chewed bone, wagging his tail.
“Good run today,” I said. “Was that a 5K? Must be 35K in dog.”
I poured myself a glass of water and filled Duke’s bowl. I sipped and opened my laptop to stream the morning news, hoping for a quick check of the weather before I showered. The perky hosts of Wake Up Denver were in full chatty mode this morning, sitting behind their silver half-circle desk, the orange show logo emblazoned on the front and a happy sun peeking over a blue mountaintop. Behind the hosts stretched the beautiful Rocky Mountains, bathed in sunlight.
“Welcome back to Wake Up Denver!” chirped the middle-aged host, Kyle, wearing another one of his basic bland suits that somehow managed to match his perfect salt-and-pepper, pre-Just-For-Men look. “If you’re not quite up yet, this next segment is sure to get your blood pumping.”
I raised an eyebrow at Duke. Kyle always said this or something like it, no matter what the segment. He was either running out of things to say in the morning or easily excitable.
Kyle’s co-host, Cissy Cho, smiled at the camera, her sleek black hair perfectly straight and gleaming. “Stopping by to visit with us today is none other than Dr. Susie,” she said. “The best-selling author of What’s Wrong with Mr. Right and Checklist for Love. Dr. Susie will talk to us about her current release, The Dater’s Handbook—a how-to guide for the modern single gal.”
Ugh. Modern single gal? What was this? 1945? Anytime I heard the word “gal,” I always thought of black-and-white, Humphrey Bogart movies with plucky sidekick heroines who wore pencil skirts with suit jackets and hats, and were always called “spunky.” So, obviously, Cissy had hooked me. Now I had to watch this next segment for entertainment value alone.
Though, technically, I wasn’t a single gal, spunky or no. I had…Peter. He owned his own bar, and worked out nearly every day—he could bench-press me in a pinch. He was all man. Nobody would ever accuse him of being too sensitive or in touch with his feelings. But who wanted that? Not me. Conversations about the L-word gave me the willies. My older sister, Nadia? She’d discuss relationships all day. I’d rather make a joke than get into anything serious.
Peter was perfect for that. He never dissected his emotions, and that meant I never had to delve into mine. It was, in many ways, a perfect relationship, though Peter would be the very first to tell me I shouldn’t call it that. “Relationship” was one of many labels he hated. Just like “girlfriend” and “boyfriend,” other labels he despised. But then he’d always say, “Why put love in box? Why put a label on it?” It was what it was.
During the commercial break, I went about trying to figure out what to have for breakfast. I should drink a healthy, yogurt-blueberry smoothie. But what I really wanted to do was head to the coffee shop a half block away and grab two chocolate croissants and a pumpkin spice scone. I sighed. No. Today, I’d have self-control. Today, I’d not cave in to the cravings and pretty much undo all the good I did running the trail this morning. I had a sweet tooth, courtesy of Mom, that acted more like a sweets monster. It demanded endless icing-crusted, gooey chocolate sacrifices all day long.
No. Blueberries. Yogurt. Blender. Nothing chocolatey or carb heavy. I nodded, determined, as I packed the blender and made a healthy, low-cal, low-carb, no-processed-sugar breakfast. I took a drink, trying hard to tell myself this was just as good as a gooey chocolate croissant right from the convection oven. The show came back as I sipped the smoothie, my inner sweets monster not the least bit satisfied. I tried to ignore its grumblings as I glanced at the screen and saw the camera pan out to Dr. Susie. She was blonde, well put together, mid-forties, not an eyelash out of place. She probably never fought cravings for a chocolate croissant. I bet she was a strict kale-lemon juice smoothie kind of woman. Maybe she knew something I didn’t.
Cissy, the host, held up a copy of The Dater’s Handbook.
“Dr. Susie, I’ve read your new book and I love it,” Cissy gushed. “But for our audience members who haven’t, why are so many women having issues finding the right men in today’s dating world?”
Dr. Susie smiled, as if she were a teacher about to impart wisdom on her young charges. “Well, like with most issues in life, the first step is admitting that you have a problem. In this case, it may be hard to admit but…” Dr. Susie turned her attention to the camera, and it felt like she was talking right to me. “Ladies, the problem is not the men in your life. It’s you.”
Me? What was she talking about? I was just fine.
But Dr. Susie wasn’t finished. “You’re picking the rebel guy, the fun guy, the deep brooding artist—”
I thought of Peter and nearly choked on my smoothie. There wasn’t really anything brooding or artistic about him. He was a jock, through and through, but I liked that about him. He was simple.
“When what you really need is someone reliable, dependable, responsible.”
“Reliable, dependable and responsible,” I mimicked, and then I glanced at Duke. “Sounds like they’re talking about you.” Duke cocked his head, as if to tell me I’d left something out. “But they forgot about loyal.” He seemed satisfied by that, and I bent down and scratched him behind the ears. I finished my smoothie and glanced at the clock. Time for a shower or I’d be late for work.
I arrived at my office with a little extra bounce in my step. I loved coming to work every day in the tchotchkes company I’d built from scratch. I might not be promoting world peace, but I sure as heck was plastering logos on foam stress balls, water bottles, and reusable tote bags. My phone rang before I was even to the elevator, and I recognized the number of a potential client I’d been trying to land for weeks. Bob Meister owned a national chain of grocery stores.
“Bob!” I clicked on my hands-free set as I swished by the security desk in the lobby and waved to the guard. “Thanks so much for calling me back. So, here’s the capsule pitch for your logo…” The elevator doors shut, but thankfully, my cell reception held. “Think about this: every day, millions of fans fill stadiums doling out their hard-earned money on their favorite beverage. And—”
The elevator doors opened on my office floor and I stepped out, heading to the two glass doors of my office where I employed about thirty people. I headed down the samples hallway, happy to see everything in place, all the shelving and cubicles immaculate, just the way I liked them, and of course, straight ahead, the wall of windows looking out at the Rockies. That view was why I’d picked this building for our headquarters. When I stared at that window, I thought about Dad, the man who’d told me when I was twelve that I should be my own boss one day.
“We
