It was all he’d said, then he’d kissed the hollow of my throat and blazed a sensual trail up my neck, along my jawline to my ear, and whispered, “So beautiful in blue.”
I’d melted.
I’d believed all his sweet, swoony words. He’d said so many things that had set my skin on fire, that had made my heart hammer, that had made my panties damp.
Even now, as I clutch the clothes I wore with him, then didn’t wear with him, goose bumps rise on my flesh. I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself to burn the house down.
It’s the only way.
I leave my apartment, march ten blocks uptown, and donate the bag of clothes to the nearest Salvation Army.
When I return home, I open my laptop and find the folder with the photos I took of the two of us. I’m tempted, so temped to grab a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, run my fingers over the pictures, then download Skype and call his number in Europe to ask why the fuck he didn’t show.
But I can’t be that girl. I start my first job tomorrow. I need to be a responsible grown-up. I can’t be the clingy twenty-one-year-old who isn’t able to deal with being ditched.
I’m Penelope Jones, and I can handle anything.
I bring the folder to the trash, then I call up his contact information. His email address. His stupid phone number in Spain. I slide his name to the garbage can, too. My finger hovers over the empty trash icon for several interminable seconds that somehow spool into a minute.
But as I remember the way I felt last night, all alone at Lincoln Center, it’s wholly necessary to stab the icon.
Let him go.
A clean break.
For the next ten years, I do my best to keep him out of my mind.
Until I see him again.
Chapter One
Penny
Present day
Shortcake runs free up the steps. She wags her tail the second her white-gloved paws hit the top of the staircase in our building. My sweet little butterscotch Chihuahua-mix glances back from above me, her pink tongue lolling as she pants.
“Show off,” I say to her.
Her white-tipped tail vibrates faster and I take that as my cue to bound up the rest of the stairs, my heart still beating hard from our morning run in Central Park. Last summer, when I brought Shortcake home from Little Friends, the animal rescue I run—she’d insisted upon being mine, slathering me in kisses from the second she’d arrived—I never would have imagined she’d also demand to be my running companion. But she’s a fast and furious little widget, all seven pounds of her. We’re training for a Four-and-Two-Legs-Race that’s part of Picnic in the Park to raise money for a coalition of local animal rescues.
When I reach the fourth floor, Shortcake scurries ahead, rushing to the door of the small one-bedroom we share in the upper 90s. It’s all ours, and it’s near work, so I can’t ask for anything more.
With her leash rolled up in one hand, I unlock the door and enter my home. It’s my oasis in Manhattan. The walls are painted lavender and yellow, courtesy of a long weekend when my friend Delaney and I went full Martha Stewart and turned the place into a haven of pastels. I’m not normally a pastel girl, but the soothing shades work for me in here. They make me happy.
I like being happy. Crazy, I know.
I fill Shortcake’s water dish, and she guzzles nearly all of it down before sprawling on her belly across the cool kitchen floor, arms stretched in front and legs behind, super-dog style.
“By all means, feel free to spend the day lounging,” I say to my favorite girl.
She flops to her side.
“I’m totally not jealous of your lifestyle at all,” I say as I strip off my exercise clothes then go to take a quick shower.
When I’m done, I grab my phone. I check my daily appointment list as I blow-dry my dark brown hair. Normally, I’m based at the shelter, working with the animals and my volunteers, or heading to the airports to meet the dogs coming in from other states so we can find them homes. Today, though, I need to dress up and put on my best public face. My assistant, Lacey, has set up meetings for me this week with restaurant owners about catering the upcoming picnic. We’re in a bit of a bind—the original restaurant slated to cater it had to cancel at the last minute. In a city stuffed with places to feed your face, you might think finding a restaurant is an easy task. But with a date a mere two weeks away, the options narrow quite quickly. So far, my effort to nab an eatery has been a big bust. I’ve been calling all over town in the last few days, but have yet to come across a restaurant that’s both free that day and the right fit.
My quest continues though, since Lacey tracked down four restaurants with openings the day of the picnic. As I twist my hair into a clip, I click on her email.
First up is Dominic Ravini, who runs an Italian joint best known for its “heavenly” spaghetti, Lacey tells me. Bless her. But I just don’t think spaghetti is right for a picnic, unless we switch it up to a Lady and the Tramp theme.
I peer over at Shortcake. “I’d share a strand of spaghetti with you anytime,” I say as I dust on some blush. She thumps her tail against the floor. I take that as a yes, bring me home pasta for dinner please. With meatballs, of course.
Next, Lacey writes that I have an appointment with a burrito shop. I give the email a quizzical stare. Though Lacey assures me it’s classy, I’m not convinced burritos are the best choice, either. I need to find a restaurant that can strike the perfect balance of sophistication and informality to entice the guests to donate to the shelters but still fit the picnic-in-the-park theme.