“Yeah, I heard about you. Heard you’re Archie Buchanan’s roommate,” he says with a shit-eating grin, punctuated by a huge dimple. He’s got the same kind of overly styled look Archie does, and the same vibe exuding way too much money.

“You heard wrong,” I say, sidestepping him neatly in my quest for the baked-potato bar; there is no way I’m letting this dude get between me and my bacon bits.

“Does that mean you’re still in need of a bedmate?” he calls after me, but thankfully, he doesn’t follow. I shudder the interaction off me and get in line behind a broad set of shoulders in a striped polo. I’m balancing the tray in one hand and sneaking a piece of smoky bacon into my mouth with the other when I hear the cutest accent in the entire world, sweeter than maple syrup, saying, “Why thank you, ma’am.”

I look up, having to see the face that belongs to those four words, and I am not disappointed. Striped Polo looks like walking, talking sunshine—healthy golden tan, healthy golden hair, and a smile warm enough to ward off the New Hampshire chill I know from experience will be here before we know it.

He looks like he grew up on a farm, or at the very least is definitely not from around here; not one single thing about him reminds me of a certain ex, including the way he catches my eye and gives me a nod and confident smile as he walks past.

What is it they say? The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else? Well, Craig Larson is definitely in my rearview, and Farmboy shows some interesting potential.

Here’s hoping he doesn’t know me as the Rumson Girl.

“Your drool is gonna stain the linoleum,” a voice behind me says as I watch Farmboy take a seat at an otherwise full table, squeezing in next to a girl with a neat French braid.

I whirl around to see Salem standing behind me with a green apple in hand, no tray. “So’s your jealousy.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Neither do you.” But I appreciate the wake-up call, noxious as it was, and I finally move again, taking a seat at an empty table. Salem joins me a minute later, having added a tall cup of Coke to his nutritious lunch. “Is that really all you’re eating?”

“My mom says it’s not polite to comment on others’ food,” he informs me, taking a big bite of apple that sprays juice squarely on my cheek.