“Oh, well,” I said, forcing a casual shrug. “That’s just part of the job.”

THAT NIGHT, I dreamed about Connor. I awoke flushed, my whole body tingling from the sensation of dream-Connor tracing his long fingers over and inside my body. My cheeks grew hot and I pulled my covers back up over my face. I was relieved it was Saturday and I wouldn’t have to go into the office, where I was sure the indecent scenarios my sleeping brain had conjured would be glaringly obvious. My only conversations with Connor that day would be over email, and for that I was grateful.

The dream continued resurfacing during the course of the day, popping into my head when I was in the middle of reading a case or blending a smoothie for lunch or responding to Audrey’s texts about what she should wear on her second date with Max. Memories of the dream (the feel of his soft lips meeting mine, his hands being assuredly placed on my hips, then stroking the skin there lower and lower and lower …) kept me so mellow I didn’t even feel any anxiety over what Audrey and Max might talk about on their date.

I was still luxuriating in my secret fantasy as I walked to my usual Saturday afternoon nail appointment. I could already hear Monet teasing me about the blush in my cheeks, and I was debating whether to tell her some version of the truth when I thought I saw Connor’s tall form on the sidewalk in front of me. I stopped short, certain my overactive imagination had created this apparition. I watched the Connor-like image as it walked ahead of me, certain it would soon fade into the nothingness it assuredly was. But when it pulled open the door to Columbia Brews and disappeared inside, I realized it wasn’t some sort of shade. It was Connor, in the flesh.

Sweat tickled my palms. This was my perfect opportunity to casually chat with him outside of work, to try to repair some of the damage that had been done to our relationship. All I had to do was walk into the coffee shop, act surprised to see him there, and then … what? My inclination was to talk about work, but I knew Audrey would chastise me for that. Let him see you as someone other than his colleague, she had said to me, and that advice rang through my ears. But what should I say? What would Audrey say in this situation? I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself as her, imagine what she would say if she happened upon the object of her affection while out. She would clap her hands joyfully, the gold bracelets she often wore tinkling with the motion, and she would make a joke about him stalking her. Or would the joke be about her stalking him? Audrey did self-deprecation better than I did; she always managed to seem humble yet still glittery.