Bridge: Wait, what's this really about? You know he's an idiot as much as I do.

Bridge: Did the assistant from planet bitch say anything to you?!

I bite my lip. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. But I'm in too deep to stop now. Bridget, stubborn as she is, would text every hour on the hour until I finally gave in and responded. Or she'd just bombard me as soon as I got home.

Me: Nothing really, Blythe just sort of suggested Patrick was playing me…

Bridge: Well, that's as good a sign as any that he's really into you! Or she wouldn't be so worried!

Me: You think?

Bridge: Definitely! You're probably just a little sensitive to the idea because of the whole John fiasco in college. But we're grads now. Much more mature dating standards.

I sort of want to remind her that just two nights ago her date was caught walking around naked by her best friend and her brother, which really doesn’t help us on the whole maturity level thing, but I let it slide.

Me: Thanks, Bridge!

And I slip my phone away before anyone in the office notices that I am clearly stationed at the coffee machine and not working by any standards. Taking one glorious sip, I shuffle back to my cubicle, careful not to let a single drop spill.

Bridget's right.

At least, I hope she is.

When I sit back down, I feel my butt vibrating and pull my phone out for a quick second, thinking it's Bridget. But to my surprise, it's not. It's him. Patrick. I immediately grin. Butterflies swarm in my chest. And I realize that even if he is a player, I don't really care. Hey, I've been a virgin for twenty-two years, I think I can wait a few more months to see if a guy is the real deal or not. But I remember our kisses, which did in fact wiggle their way into my dreams, and think, well, maybe not…

Patrick: Shake Shack, tonight? I have a break in work from around 6 to 8, just enough time for dinner.

I immediately start to text back that I'm in, but then pause.

Do I want to be so available? Do I want him to think I'm just at his beck and call whenever he wants? Or should I be busy? Should I make him work a little harder? Dating politics are the worst… And then another question pops in. Do I really want to eat macaroni and cheese alone tonight, wondering the entire time what it would be like to be out with Patrick instead?

Yeah, no…

Me: Sure! I'll meet you there at six.

Patrick: Perfect.

And it is, it really is.

Because now, for the rest of the day instead of obsessing over Blythe's snide remarks I'm daydreaming about milkshake kisses—which, really, does anything beat that? The answer you're looking for is no. Well, then again, maybe chocolate kisses. Really, I should run an experiment to figure this out. These are the sorts of things every girl deserves to know.

As it turns out, I don't have to wait too long for my answer.

"Skylar!"

I turn, glancing up from my spot in the line wrapping around Madison Square Park to see Patrick approaching with two paper cups in his hands. I got here first and decided to stake out a place in line—the sooner we get to the front, the better. The smell of burgers and fries has already got my stomach twisted in knots. It's only a matter of time before my body rebels against me and starts groaning embarrassingly loudly, demanding food.

"You know, this place always has a crazy line, but I thought in mid-October on a surprisingly cold night, we maybe wouldn't have to wait as long," he says, shivering for a second as he steps next to me. "Here."

I take the cup from his hand and my palm instantly warms from the heat. Bending down I smell the lid. "What's this?"

"Hot chocolate." He shrugs, but then grins deeply, honey eyes glowing. "You said last time I was missing chocolates, so I thought I would do the next best thing. I want to be newsworthy after all."

"Oh, you are…" I say and then trail off, holding his gaze, hoping I look at least a little flirtatiously mysterious, and not like, a serial killer with crazy eyes or something.

"I am?" he asks.

I shrug. "I may or may not have started working on my next column this afternoon and you may or may not be the subject."

"I'll have to remember to buy an issue to see how I scored."

I lean in, whispering, "I have some inside information I can give you."

He moves closer, meeting my eyes. "Oh yeah?"

"You scored pretty highly."

"Good," he murmurs and then winks.

And I can't help it. I close the gap and kiss him. His lips are warm and taste of cocoa, and as soon as we touch, I want more. But then my neurosis catches up with my body and I freeze. I just kissed him—kissed him. Was that too forward? It's only our second date, are we at this level? The making out in public before the sun has set level?

Shut up, brain!

I push the thoughts away, stretching on my toes as Patrick presses his hand into the small of my back, deepening the kiss. My free hand finds its way to his chest, tugging on the zipper of his coat to pull him just a tad bit closer. I'm lost in the chocolate and the heat and the buzz gathering beneath my skin.

"Is she peeing, Daddy?"

Well, that'll take the mood right out of a situation. But then I pause, feeling a warm trickle slip down my thigh, hearing the soft pitter-patter of droplets.

Crap!

Am I peeing? I mean, I feel like that is something I would know I was doing.

Wait…

Is he peeing?

I pull away from Patrick, wide-eyed and beet red, and look down.

My hot chocolate.

I sigh. Relieved. But then I see that my cup was crushed between our bodies and both of us are mildly covered.

"Shoot!" I curse, wiping the liquid off my jacket, running my hand down the front of my pants, and swatting the spill away. Luckily, it's coming off pretty easily and after a moment I switch, rubbing Patrick's jacket, wiping the material clean, murmuring, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

But then I freeze. Because my hand is rubbing the bottom of his coat, which is on top of his slacks, which are over his, uh, privates…

I snatch my fingers back.

Did I just feel Patrick up in public? Oh my god, did I just sexually assault him? And in front of a little boy too!

Petrified, I look up—right into his perfectly beautiful evergreen-tinted eyes. Now we're staring at each other in silence. He doesn't say anything. I don't say anything. An eternity seems to fill the air around us, creating a bottomless gulf between our bodies. An impassable divide. And everything in my body says to flee, to retreat, to get away as soon as humanly possible.

So I blurt, "Napkins!"

And then I run…like a five-year-old.

This is so not the second date I had in mind.

A few moments later, I'm cowering in the bushes on the side of the restaurant—stomach growling with the enhanced smell of delicious food—reminding myself to breathe, just breathe. It's not a big deal. I'm making way too much out of nothing. I mean, he probably didn't even notice. If he was fourteen, that might have just rocked his world. But he's twenty-four, and experienced, and now probably just thinks I'm crazy because of how I reacted…pull it together!

I take a deep breath, looking around, meeting the eyes of a few strangers tossing curious glances in my direction. I mean, I'm crouching behind a bush for crying out loud. Does it get any worse than this? Then I hear the ominous flap of wings and look up. I'm directly below about twenty pigeons, and each bulbous eye is pointed in my direction, shining with a devilish gleam. A whole new bout of terror clenches my gut.