Yes, you can do it. Aisha responds to my brain signals again. And, trust me, I’ll be making sure my mom does too.

I sigh, and then click the buttons to remove the app. Fine. Anything else?

Yes. ♥ you.

♥ you too.

And if I ever see Jordan again, I will 100% kick her ass.

I laugh. Aisha is about four foot eleven but does an intense kickboxing boot camp class three times a week. I wouldn’t take any bets against her. Thank you, I write back. Though maybe not in her condition.

You’re right, she writes. I’ll give her an IOU for . . . let’s say . . . 8 months postpartum?

Sounds fair.

The front door jangles and I look up to see a familiar face walking through it. Gotta run. My client’s here.

Ooh. Scope him out for me? I could definitely use a little extra work this month.

Will do.

I stand up as I put my phone away, calling out Jude’s name to get his attention since I have the advantage of knowing what he looks like. He’s got artfully styled reddish-brown hair and an equally well-groomed beard. His eyes are green and he’s almost definitely picked out his form-fitting T-shirt to highlight both them and his biceps, obviously a perk of his job as a personal trainer. If this was twenty years ago, and this guy was just trying to pick up girls in a bar . . . he definitely wouldn’t need my help.

As it is, it won’t even be a stretch to recommend Aisha’s photography services to him. Considering what he’s got to work with, and Aisha’s magic mix of the right lighting, the right poses, and her secret-sauce filter . . . I’m pretty sure she could make him look like Jude Law if she wanted to.

“Hello. Miles, is it?” he says, as he walks over toward my outstretched hand.

Yeah, the accent was the right choice. Sure, it might be a little hard to figure out exactly what he’s saying, but it’s probably just hard to hear over the sound of all the dropping panties.

“Yes. Hi, Jude. A pleasure to meet you. Please have a seat.” We shake hands, and he gets settled down at the table across from me. “Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” he says. “I’m actually off of caffeine these days.” Noted. He thinks for a second. “But do you think they’d be able to get me a cup of hot water with some lemon in it?”

“I’m sure that can be arranged. I’ll be right back.” I wait in line and give my drink order to Evelynn’s replacement barista, who doesn’t comment on the fact that I’ve been sitting here for hours and have now ordered something she has to give me for free. I leave a dollar in her tip jar for good karma.