“Intelligent, sweet, and fun, this romance succeeds on all levels.” —Publisher’s Weekly STARRED review of Yes & I Love You

Yes & I Love You

Book 1 - The Say Anything series

2022 Holt Medallion Winner for Long Contemporary Romance

A beautifully emotional new contemporary romance from New York Times and USA Today bestseller Roni Loren.

Everyone knows Miz Poppy, the vibrant reviewer whose commentary brightens the New Orleans nightlife. But no one knows Hollyn, the real face behind the media star...or the fear that keeps her isolated. When her boss tells her she needs to add video to her blog or lose her job, she's forced to rely on an unexpected source to help her face her fears.

When aspiring actor Jasper Deares finds out the shy woman who orders coffee every day is actually Miz Poppy, he realizes he has a golden opportunity to get the media attention his acting career needs. All he has to do is help Hollyn come out of her shell…and through their growing connection, finally find her voice.

Audiobook: Libro.fm | Audible | Books-A-Million | B&N

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Chapter 1

Sometimes Hollyn Tate pretended she was in a movie. She had the script. She knew her lines. Her curly blond hair was blown out to perfection and not frizzing like crazy in the New Orleans humidity. Her heart wasn’t pounding too hard in her chest. Her facial expressions were totally under her control and appropriate for the situation instead of her Tourette’s calling the shots. She was a confident chick in the city on the way to the rest of her life.

Her big career break was just around the corner. Her gaggle of whip-smart, funny friends was texting her about meeting up for drinks and gossip after work. The future love of her life was waiting to bump into her and knock her bag out of her hand—the perfect meet-cute. She was Carrie in Sex and the City. She was Meg Ryan in anything. She was Mary Tyler Moore throwing her hat in the air. She was that girl. The camera would zoom in on her as other people strolled along the streets around her, their presence only a blur in the background. This was her day. Her world. She was owning it.

Hollyn tried to imagine the scene playing on a movie screen as she walked, seeing this better, bolder version of herself navigate the uneven city sidewalks with grace, the brightly painted storefronts the perfect pop of color in the background. If this woman bent down to snag one of the clovers pushing through the cracks in the pavement, it’d have four leaves. Hollyn tried to believe the image, believe that this woman existed. The mental movie got her through the walk to work.

Sometimes.

Today, the fantasy was faltering, her lack of sleep making her extra jumpy. She turned the corner, and the bright-blue, four-story WorkAround building split the sun’s morning rays, scattering the light. The converted warehouse took up the entire corner, and the sign advertising Office Space for the Creative that hung from the second-floor balcony swayed in the humid breeze coming off the Mississippi River. She took a cleansing breath and worked to unclench her fingers.

Even though she didn’t get the overwhelming nausea she had suffered during her first few weeks at WorkAround, her stomach still roller-coastered and her neck muscles balled up like fists. The image of that confident, camera-ready woman slipped away from her like a rogue spirit escaping its temporary host. Another ghost haunting the streets of New Orleans.

She rehearsed her plan for the morning in her head. She’d tried to memorize the people who usually worked on her floor each day so that she knew who to give a quick good morning to (those who responded with a nod and polite smile) and who to avoid (those who wanted to do the dreaded water-cooler chat—even though WorkAround would never have something as gauche as an actual water cooler). But the nature of the coworking space meant the faces were always changing. People renting hot desks on the first floor didn’t tend to last long. Those renting actual offices like hers had a little more staying power.

She checked the time on her phone, comforted that it was still early and that most of the people at WorkAround wouldn’t be in for at least another hour or so. One of the perks of working for herself was making her own schedule. Most of her coworkers took advantage of that benefit, rolling in around nine or ten and heading straight to the in-house coffee bar where Jackee, a woman with green hair and zero customer service skills, would take your order with a grunt and unceremoniously plunk your coffee or fancy tea in front of you without a word. Hollyn loved Jackee. Coffee and no expectations. Her kind of person.

She dropped her phone into her bag, and her thumb tapped each fingertip on her right hand in a familiar back-and-forth rhythm. One two three four. Four three two one. A little twinge of relief went through her at the ritual. She punched in her access code and opened the glass door, which was already covered in dewy condensation, and the blast of frigid air-conditioning hit her along with the sound of fingers on keyboards. She inhaled deeply as she stepped inside, trying to center herself. There was the scent of burnt toast in the air from someone’s failed breakfast mixed with one of the “curated” aromas that were pumped into the building to “heighten creativity and productivity”—jasmine today, from what she could tell. Lucinda, the owner of WorkAround, had the aromatherapy on some undecipherable schedule—probably in tune with the moon phases or something.

Hollyn did a quick scan of the main floor. A few of the hot desks were taken—desk being a flexible word. Any flat surface with a chair or couch next to it could be rented as a hot desk. The first floor of WorkAround catered mostly to one-person operations—writers, bloggers, online shop owners, app developers. People rented desks so they didn’t have to work alone at home—or, worse, from their parent’s house—and they could socialize with others from different backgrounds and jobs. Like paying for your favorite spot at Starbucks or the library to guarantee it would be there waiting for you every day.

But unlike a library, there was nowhere to hide in this setup. It was an extrovert extravaganza. The first floor was wide and open with high ceilings, exposed red brick, shiny ductwork, and tall windows lining the back wall. Blue, yellow, and gray couches were set up in groupings to encourage collaboration and socializing. Potted ivies and succulents dotted the tables to make the room feel less industrial. Everything was designed just so. This view was the snapshot WorkAround sold to people online. Look how modern and hip and social this place is! Why work at home when you can be part of something bigger?

The photo of this floor had originally made Hollyn want to bow out of this experiment completely. She’d been ready to dismiss what her online therapist, Mary Leigh, had suggested could help Hollyn work through some of her social anxiety. At the time, Hollyn had been so freaked out that she’d barely left her house for a month, but maybe becoming a shut-in wasn’t all that bad after all. Because an open floor plan full of chatty strangers and nonstop collaboration? Hell and no and What kind of monster designed this madness? But then Hollyn had seen the private offices, had imagined working in a space so bright and modern, and had fallen in love with the idea of getting a little slice of normalcy—an office to go to each day. The price was that she had to get past this part each day—the good-morning gauntlet.

She hitched her laptop bag higher on her shoulder, doing her finger-counting a few more times, and headed toward the coffee bar with her I’m-busy-don’t-bother-me walk—her only defense against getting pulled into anxiety-inducing small talk. She could’ve stuck earbuds into her ears, but Mary Leigh had insinuated that doing so would be cheating. As if Hollyn’s mental health was something that had an answer key.

A few people smiled her way or said a generic “morning,” and she responded in kind, but she didn’t pause. Most of them didn’t really want to talk anyway, especially not this early. Eye on the prize, she made it to the coffee bar in the back corner of the main floor as if someone was clocking her speed. She stopped at the counter with a sigh of relief and dug in her bag for her WorkAround card, which got her two free beverages a day. A sharp bang had her attention snapping back upward.

“Motherfluffer,” a female voice said through what sounded like clenched teeth. More metallic banging ensued, and Hollyn leaned over the counter to see what was going on. A woman with dark-red hair—not Jackee—was crouched in front of a low metal cabinet, her back to Hollyn, yanking at the door with a surprising amount of force, considering her small frame. “Why the hell would they lock this up? Are we really going to steal industrial-sized bags of dark roast? It’s not even that good.”

Before Hollyn could back away, the woman’s head turned, and the scowl she wore brightened into a welcoming smile when she saw her standing there. “Oh! Hey, um…”

The woman didn’t know Hollyn’s name. Hollyn could see her mentally searching for it. Hollyn knew hers—Andrea, goes by Andi—because she made a point to research everyone who worked on her floor. She was nosy that way.

“Hollyn,” she provided after clearing her throat.

Andi snapped her fingers and popped up from her crouch like a jack-in-the-box. “Right, Hollyn. Sorry. Pretty name. We must’ve never done the name thing.” She pointed to her chest. “Andi. I work a few doors down from you.”

“Hi.” Hollyn shifted and fiddled with her bag, willing her facial muscles to stay smooth and relaxed. She needed coffee, not conversation. Hell, she should have a T-shirt that said that. It applied in so many situations. “Where’s Jackee?”

Andi sighed dramatically and tightened her ponytail. “Gone. Apparently, she sold an educational app to a big company and did a whole Screw you guys, I quit routine last night. F-bombs were dropped, aprons were tossed. Somehow no one got this on video.” She rolled her eyes. “The night crew really let us down on that one. But yeah, she’s off to be some kiddie tech mogul, it seems.”

Hollyn’s eyebrows lifted, and her nose scrunched a few times against her will, the fight to keep her expression under her full control failing.

“I know, right?” Andi said, as if Hollyn had answered her. “I had the exact same reaction. I can’t imagine Jackee interacting with children in any way—unless it was to invite them inside her gingerbread house in the woods to go all Hansel and Gretel on them. I was half-convinced she was poisoning the coffee of anyone who didn’t tip well. But yay, good for her, rah, rah, siss boom bah and all,” she said, tone droll as she lifted her hands and shook imaginary pom-poms.

“Bad news for us, though, because I can’t get to the supplies, and Lucinda is locked in her office on a conference call, so I have no idea where to find the keys.” She gave the locked cabinet a murderous look. “How am I supposed to write a new chapter and record a podcast today with no coffee?” She put her hands out to her sides with a huff. “I can’t work under these conditions!”

Hollyn stared at Andi’s whirlwind of rapid-fire words and expressions. Andi was on her Avoid list for just this reason. She’d learned that podcasters wanted to chat up everybody. So. Much. Talking. Everyone was a potential guest for them to interview. It set off all of her run-and-hide instincts. Hollyn didn’t know what to say beyond, “So no coffee?”

Andi gave a grim headshake. “I guess I can go to Chicory across the street, but it’s so expensive, and the owner is this creeper who’s always telling women to ‘Smile, it’s a beautiful day.’”

Hollyn’s nose scrunched again, and she rubbed it, trying to quell the nervous tic that wanted to take over her muscles.

“Exactly. Does he not realize how aggressive that is? First of all, that’s a sign of a sociopath, trying to control my behavior.” She lifted a finger like she was making a point in court. “Secondly, dude-bro, I don’t need to smile to make you feel more comfortable. I’ll smile after I get my damn overpriced coffee and get out of your tourist trap.”

A laugh bubbled up in Hollyn’s throat, but it got caught and she made a weird choked sound instead. Ugh. Awkward, aisle one. Why did this have to be so hard? Why couldn’t she just have a conversation like a normal person? So much of her wanted to be able to chat with ease with someone like Andi. Why couldn’t her body and brain cooperate?

Andi smirked and tapped her temple. “Sorry. Horror writer and true-crime podcaster. Everyone is a serial killer until proven otherwise.” She put her forearms on the counter and leaned closer. “But seriously, watch out for coffee-shop guy. Could have bodies in the freezer.”

“Ha.” Hollyn nodded. “Got it.”

“Do you want to walk over together? Safety in numbers?” Andi asked, stepping around from behind the bar. “If he tells us to smile, we can both give him our best resting bitch face.”

Hollyn’s cheek muscle jumped against her will, her tics surfacing with a vengeance when she had to interact with strangers. She didn’t have resting bitch face. She had resting twitch face. But either way, she wasn’t going to walk over with Andi. Yes, she was supposed to be here to push past her comfort zone (I hear you, Mary Leigh!), but she already felt like she was walking barefoot on thumbtacks today. “Um, sorry. I really need to get to my desk. Maybe next time.”

“Wow. You’re going to go without coffee?” Andi asked, blue eyes wide. “Brave woman.”

“I have a Vitamin Water,” Hollyn said, awkwardly patting her bag, which clearly had no room for a bottled drink.

Andi tilted her head, her dark-red ponytail tipping sideways, like she was trying to figure Hollyn out.

Good luck with that, Hollyn wanted to tell her.

“What’s your poison?” Andi asked. “I’m going over there anyway, and I can grab you something. I’ll get Lucinda to reimburse us for the coffee. We pay rent here and are guaranteed two free drinks. If she doesn’t have a barista, we get an IOU.” She pinned Hollyn with eye contact, trapping her.

“I, uh…”

“Café au lait, chicory coffee, cappuccino, mocha, latte, cold brew, black tea, green tea, matcha…”

Andi was going to keep listing until Hollyn gave in. “Iced decaf, whole milk, one sugar.”

Andi’s eyebrows lifted. “Decaf? Actual people order that?”

Hollyn’s ears burned. This was why she’d picked up a coffee habit in the first place—because “normal” people drink coffee and not drinking it causes others to comment. But too much caffeine was a big no-no for her, so decaf was her only option. “I had to quit the hard stuff. It messes with my sleep.”

“Ah, gotcha. My condolences,” Andi said with a smile that made the little ring in her nose glint in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. “I’ll bring your imposter coffee to your office.”

Hollyn knew it was shitty to let Andi fetch coffee for her. But walking over meant more conversation, and she was already sweating and restless under Andi’s observant gaze. So, Hollyn nodded and pulled a five-dollar bill from her purse. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem,” Andi said in a way that made Hollyn think she really didn’t see it as one. Andi plucked the money from her fingertips. “But if I’m not back in half an hour, call the police and tell them to look at coffee-shop guy first.”

Hollyn’s lips twitched into a brief smile. “Okay. Don’t die.”

“Yes. Always the number one daily goal.” Andi gave a little wave and headed to the main door, greeting people as she passed them, totally comfortable. The envy that welled up in Hollyn became a physical taste on her tongue. What must that be like? To move through life so at ease? To wear your personality on the outside? She shook her head and walked past the coffee bar to the stairs that led to her floor.

Movie-version Hollyn would be friends with a woman like Andi. Movie Hollyn would know what to say and would be able to keep up with the rapid-fire conversation. Movie Hollyn would also go upstairs and create a chance meeting with Rodrigo, the superbuff healthy chef vlogger who worked down the hall. But there were no cameras, no script, and Real Hollyn just wanted to hide in her office, close her door, and get her work done.

The second floor was mostly quiet when she stepped out of the stairwell. A few people had their office doors ajar, but all the glass-walled conference rooms were either dark or had closed doors, soundproofing them. One of the two podcasting studios was active, the light above the door illuminated, and both video recording spaces were occupied. Through the crack in the door, she could see Emily Vu, a productivity blogger, adjusting the lights inside to shoot a video. Hollyn shuddered. She’d feel like she was in an interrogation room under all those lights.

Hollyn’s office was the last at the end of the hall of glass-walled rooms. The space was small but bright, with a big window that gave her a sliver of a view between buildings of the Crescent City Connection bridge. The soft yellow on the one solid wall was soothing, and the mid-century modern desk was so much nicer than anything she’d ever owned that she couldn’t help but run her hand over the smooth walnut every time she came in for the day.

When she’d first seen the space, she’d nearly swooned. Anytime she got knots in her stomach about coming to WorkAround, she’d think about this cozy office with its pretty desk, its city view, and its cushy armchair in the corner. It was the office space she’d fantasized about when she’d worked from the beat-up thrift-store table in her mother’s house. The only change she would make would be doing away with the two glass walls.

The wall she shared with her neighbor was frosted, but the one facing the hallway was not. If she weren’t at the end of the hall, she’d feel like a hamster in a cage. But no one came down to her end unless they wanted to go out through the back staircase to smoke or vape, and she kept her back to the door most of the time anyway. She smiled. Andi would probably tell her to never put her back to a door. Can’t see the serial killer coming that way.

Hollyn flipped on her desk lamp and fired up her laptop, wishing she had a hot cup of coffee in her hand. She liked the ritual of sipping it slowly while she went through her email each morning, but the half-empty, lukewarm bottle of water she’d left behind the other day would have to do for now. She got settled at her desk and opened up her inbox.

Something loosened in her body. Outside these doors, she felt like an alien trying to learn the native language. But in here, at her desk, she got to be herself.

Her computer dinged with new mail. There was one nastygram from someone who didn’t like her review of their “experimental pop funk” band. She rolled her eyes at the invective. Get over it, man. The only experimental part was picking a lead singer who was tone deaf and who couldn’t stop grabbing his crotch. Two requests for dates. No, thank you, overeager strangers. A forwarded article from her mother about a new supplement she should try. Delete. And finally one with a subject line promising a once-in-a-lifetime offer. She hovered over the last email, placing silent bets before clicking it. Would it be an offer to refinance her mortgage, a secret bank account in the Bahamas, or a dick pic? She rolled the mental dice and clicked.

And we have a winner!

The screen filled with a high-definition close-up GIF of a dude inserting his penis into the toe of a black high-heeled shoe, the clip looping to give the full thrusting effect. She snorted and then tilted her head, studying the image. Since her entertainment column on the NOLA Vibe site had taken off in popularity, she received these kinds of emails often enough that she’d started to categorize them. Frat boy who drank too much and made bad choices? Lonely soul? Potential stalker?

Miz Poppy, the moniker she used for her reviews of movies and local entertainment, got the gamut in her inbox. Hollyn was amazed by the assumptions people made about a person based on their cartoon avatar. The red lips, long dark hair, and tight black outfit of her cartoon alter ego got more date requests in one week than she’d gotten in her entire life. If she could live life in a cartoon world, she’d be killing it. But alas, Miz Poppy only existed in the imagination of her readers. If they knew Miz Poppy was really some chick with unruly blond curls, an even more unruly anxiety disorder, and a penchant for high-top Vans instead of high heels, they’d be vastly disappointed.

Lucky for her, no one but her editor and boss at the NOLA Vibe knew who the real Miz Poppy was, which meant misguided penis guy got to keep his fantasy about Miz Poppy’s shoes. What he would not get was a reply. She lifted her hand to delete the email, but before she could, a knock sounded at her door.

Her body tensed, and she automatically went into if-I-stay-still, maybe-they-won’t-see-me mode. No one ever knocked on her door. There was a Do Not Disturb door hanger that she’d bought in the French Quarter hanging off the knob. It had a picture of a voodoo doll full of pins. The message was pretty damn clear. But before she could go into full flight-or-fight mode, she remembered Andi was bringing coffee. She needed to turn around. Be a functioning human for a few more minutes.

The glass door made a soft whooshing sound as it opened. “Um, hello?”

Not Andi. The voice was male and one she didn’t recognize. She really needed to turn around now, but she could feel the electricity moving through her, her nerve endings jumping. Her fingers twitched against the arms of her desk chair, tapping the pattern. One two three four.

“You ordered a coffee?” the guy said, his tone unsure.

Hollyn wet her lips—get your shit together, babe—and forced herself to spin her chair to face the door. A guy she’d never seen before was standing inside her doorway, holding a cup of coffee and watching her. Her breath caught. One, because he was a stranger and in her office expecting her to speak words. Two, because, holy shit. Hot.

He looked like he could be modeling for a WorkAround ad. Tall and lanky with an untucked, short-sleeved button-down and skinny jeans that said he was trying but not too hard. Square tortoiseshell glasses framing hazel eyes. And dark, shaggy hair that was just a little too long on top to be considered neat.

He gave her a chagrined half smile, and his gaze traveled over her, making her insides ripple with awareness. “Whew. So she is alive,” he said. “That’s a relief.”

“Excuse me?” Her throat had narrowed to the circumference of a pencil, and the words came out broken around the edges.

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and his smile went full span. “Well, it would suck if on my first day at a new place, I was the one to find the body.”

She was supposed to smile back or laugh or something, but as usual, her body didn’t cooperate. She didn’t do well one-on-one with any stranger, but this guy was launching her system straight to Armageddon level. Attraction was the worst. It was like detonating a bomb inside her, setting off all the most embarrassing aspects of her anxiety and Tourette’s. Most people got a little nervous when they were attracted to someone, but for her, it was amplified a hundred times over. She was doing everything she could to act chill, white-knuckling her neurons, but she knew it couldn’t last. She was bound to tic or say something awkward. Her tension increased—a rubber band being pulled, pulled, pulled. “Did you need something?”

Inwardly, she winced at how rude it sounded.

He flinched and his smile dropped a few watts. She felt a pang at the loss of it. “Uh, yeah, sorry. This woman I met downstairs, Andi, asked if I could bring you this.” He lifted the coffee like he was offering a sacrifice to the gods. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your—” His gaze flicked over her shoulder to her screen, and his eyes widened behind his glasses. “Work? Private moment with your boyfriend? Shoe-fetish research?”

She closed her eyes, mortified, not even bothering to look behind her. “It’s…spam.”

“Hey, no judgment. You do you, friend,” he said genially. “I was just looking for Lucinda, and Andi said you’d know where to point me.”

Hollyn’s face was so hot she felt sunburned. She forced herself to meet his gaze, and fought to keep her tics at bay, hating the fear, hating this thing that took her over when she was around other people. Her fingers tapped on the arm of her chair, and she tried to breathe in the way Mary Leigh had taught her—slowly, deeply. She didn’t need to be afraid of Cute Guy. Cute Guy was just here to bring her coffee and get directions and look amazing in a pair of jeans. It wasn’t the end of days. No need to panic or stock up on canned goods.

Her body didn’t get the memo, though, and she could barely get the words out. “Her office is at the other end of the hall. Last door before the big conference room. Knock first.”

But he wasn’t looking at her. He was still staring at her computer screen, amusement dancing in his gold-green eyes. “If there’s such a thing as athlete’s foot, do you think one can…catch that in other places? I mean, maybe he should use a condom.”

She glanced at the computer. “Or a sock.”

The words had jumped out without her planning it, and his attention flicked to her, that infectious grin returning. “A sock.” He laughed. “Obviously. The only proper protection from a shoe.” He shook his head. “Why don’t I ever get spam that interesting? I just get offers from Russian models wanting to be my wife. They promise to”—he made air quotes with his free hand—“‘make me so happy in a special way.’ I’m assuming this means they make a kick-ass borscht.”

Hollyn pursed her lips at his faux Russian accent and looked down, wanting to laugh but knowing that if she did, it would come out like a parrot squawk with her muscles so tense. “Sounds like a good deal.”

“Right? I mean, the beet really is an under-appreciated root vegetable. I’m weighing all the offers carefully,” he said with mock seriousness and set the coffee on the corner of her desk, bringing the scent of his shower-fresh soap into her space. He put out his hand. “I’m Jasper, by the way.”

She stuck out her hand, knowing there was no way to avoid the handshake, and his warm, confident grip wrapped around hers, sending a zinging awareness straight up her arm and spreading through her chest. His gaze met hers and held, like he was trying to see inside her head, to read her. The connection was too intense, the eye contact impossible for her to hold. Her fingers wanted to count. She quickly released the handshake. “Thanks, for uh, bringing the coffee.”

“No problem.” He stepped back, giving her an expectant look, and then asked with a teasing tone, “And you are?”

She looked down at her hands, which were clenched tightly, and she realized that she’d let this go too far. If Jasper was new here and got the impression she was someone he could chat and joke around with, she’d have to go through this rush of anxiety every damn day at work. She needed to get better with people, but she couldn’t start with someone like Jasper. That would be like deciding to learn guitar and going straight to a Jimi Hendrix song. She needed to learn her chords first. Best to cut the hot new guy off at the pass.

“Busy,” she said flatly.

“You—” He paused, as if checking he’d heard her correctly. “Oh, right.”

She looked up, finding him frowning, and the room seemed to dim around her.

He squinted like he couldn’t quite tell if she was being serious, but then he pushed his shoulders back, straightening. “Yeah, well, sorry to bother you. Good luck with your…shoe-fetish guy.”

She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak.

Jasper headed back toward the door, wearing the confused expression of a guy who wasn’t used to being shut down. And why would anyone shut him down? He was hot. He was funny. One of those people who was probably comfortable in any situation he walked into. He and Andi would get along great.

A pinch of jealousy made her gut tighten.

He stood in the doorway and jabbed his thumb to the left. “I guess I’ll go find Lucinda.”

He was giving her an opportunity to make things right. To undo her rudeness.

She couldn’t look him in the eye, and her urge to tic had hit the breaking point. She quickly turned her chair toward her laptop, putting her back to him. “Thanks.”

Her tone was clipped, dismissive.

“Sure. Okay.” There was a heavy beat of quiet as if he was going to say something else, and she braced herself. Some strange part of her wanted him to push back, to not let her off that easy, to not let bitch mode scare him off like it did everyone else, for him to see that she didn’t really mean it but didn’t know how else to get through this kind of thing. But then the door shut quietly behind her because what else could he possibly want to say to someone who wouldn’t even tell him her name?

There. It was done.

Jasper would turn into another coworker who would put a label on her—bitchy, awkward, snobby, weird, rude—one of the many adjectives that she’d been pinned with before. Didn’t matter which one he picked. This time she’d earned it fair and square, and it would keep him away.

Mission accomplished.

She should feel relief.

She peeked back over her shoulder. The hall was empty, and she slumped in her chair. She didn’t know why she felt so disappointed. As if she would’ve done anything but cower if he had still been standing there. It wasn’t like she could morph into another person, go after him, and be all, “Oh, so sorry, Jasper. It’s just been a bad morning. You know how it is. I’m Hollyn. Thanks so much for the coffee. Why don’t I show you around the building and introduce you to a few people? After that, we can grab some lunch and you can tell me all about yourself, and then I’ll tell you why we should start up a sordid office affair and hook up in the copy room. You like Thai food? Great, let’s go.”

She put her head on her desk and banged it softly.

Maybe this whole WorkAround thing had been a terrible idea. Maybe Mary Leigh was wrong and had given her shitty advice. Maybe the whole online therapy business was a sham, and she was being life-coached by some nineteen-year-old operating out of her parents’ basement.

Her computer dinged with an email notification, and she took a breath before lifting her head and clicking. The numbers were in for last week’s Miz Poppy posts and two new freelance assignments had hit her inbox. Work. The sight of it unwound some of the tension and put an end to her pity party of one.

Calm. The hell. Down.

Don’t catastrophize. That was what Mary Leigh would say.

Okay, so she’d had a minor freak-out. Fine. She couldn’t expect perfection. She couldn’t let one embarrassing incident shake her confidence in this plan. She’d worked too hard to get to this point. This didn’t have to be a thing. Jasper didn’t have to be a thing.

Look, Mary Leigh, coping mechanisms in action! Mark that in your chart and stamp it with a smiley face.

***

By the time lunchtime rolled around, Hollyn had tucked away the stressful morning into the let’s-pretend-this-never-happened file and was in the zone, crafting her next post. She was feeling pretty good, resolved even, until she went downstairs for decaf number two and froze a few feet away from the coffee bar. Jasper was behind the counter, pouring a cup for someone else, a blue apron tied around his waist.

Her stomach sank.

He wasn’t just another person renting a hot desk—someone easily avoided. He was the new Jackee. He was the new keeper of the coffee.

Jasper smiled her way and lifted a hand in greeting. So freaking friendly. So damn nerd-hot. “Hola, Ms. Busy.”

Smile back! Smile back! Smile back, she silently screamed at herself. Be a functioning human!

Instead, a grimace pulled at her face, a yank of muscles she couldn’t control. His smile fell, a startled look flashing in his eyes. Then annoyance. A little part of Hollyn died inside. She turned on her heel and walked right back the way she came.

In the stairwell, she leaned against the brick wall and closed her eyes, mortification bleeding through her and making her limbs tingle. No no no. She could feel the telltale signs, but it was too late to stop it. All systems had already been engaged.

Hello, panic, my old friend.

She mentally reset the calendar she kept in her journal where she tracked how many panic-free days she’d had in a row with the title Don’t break the chain. The chain had been broken. Again.

If her mother were here, she would be shaking her head at her with that knowing look on her face. See, honey, I told you moving to the city was a bad idea. You’re not ready for this. You may never be. That’s okay. Just come home.

As Hollyn’s heartbeat raced and sweat glazed her skin, all the things she’d pictured in that imaginary movie of herself melted into the ugly reality. There was no four-leaf clover for her. There was no meet-cute. Her awkwardness was not adorkable like a movie heroine. She was a goddamned disaster. This monster that clamped its hand around her throat and took control of her muscles was real and it was bigger, meaner, and more determined than ever.

Maybe her mother was right.

She slapped the wall with the palm of her hand and let out a sound of frustration, the noise echoing through the empty stairwell.

No.

She. Would. Not. Run. She loved working in her cozy office. She loved that she was finally earning her own money—even though there wasn’t much of it. She loved having the freedom to go out in the city at night instead of having to watch life go by through a TV screen in her small hometown. She was Miz freaking Poppy, goddammit. She was famous. You know, regionally. Microregionally. Like very micro. On the internet.

She groaned at her lame pep talk, but it at least distracted her from replaying the awkward encounter with Jasper over and over in her head. This didn’t have to be a big deal. She would not let her attraction to some cute barista derail her plan. She could deal with this.

He was just a guy. In a world full of them.

So what if this particular one thought she was rude? It’s not like she was trying to date him. She wasn’t capable of dating anyone. In fact, she never had to speak to Jasper again.

She had nothing to worry about.

Everything was cool.

Totally cool.

Ugh. Maybe she needed to find a new office.