We had planned a run around Central Park, which was definitely a departure from my usual meet-for-coffee-or-a-cocktail first-date routine. I felt a slight pang of guilt using a date with Serena as a way to pull my brain out of my thoughts about someone else, but as soon as we hit the pavement I was convinced it had been a good move. She was outgoing and did the bulk of the talking, but she also seemed to genuinely enjoy the run and she laughed at my dumb running jokes.

“I’m in charge of understanding fashion trends, picking jewelry and accessories for shoots and features, scouting the market so I know what should be in the magazine each month,” Serena said, her blond ponytail swinging gracefully down her back.

“Wow, I had absolutely no idea what an accessories editor even was,” I huffed, trying not to let on that I was out of breath. She was pacing for a race next weekend, which meant she was trying to keep her miles under eight minutes each. I was a nine-minute-mile guy, and I was definitely hustling to keep up with her.

“I style photo shoots too.”

“That seems like a lot to do on top of training for the marathon,” I marveled.

“Well, that’s not even all of it. I’m also on a committee for a charity gala happening at the Museum of Natural History in August. All the proceeds go toward ALS research. My sister-in-law was diagnosed last year.”

“God, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“I tend to channel my grief into productivity. I’m probably a little type A,” she said with a small laugh, though her face hinted at sadness. “Did Eleanor mention that?”

Eleanor had, in fact, mentioned that. But she’d also said Serena worked closely with her fiancé Henry’s group at the magazine and that he thought she was also “generally nice,” which was as good of an endorsement as any. And true to Eleanor’s promise, she was “hot.” Beautiful, really—with long tan limbs and sharp cheekbones and pale-blue eyes.

Serena was easily someone I’d normally be attracted to, and I could see why Eleanor thought she’d be a perfect setup. So why was I feeling absolutely no spark? It was probably work, and the stress of Damien quitting, I reasoned. I had too much going on.

“You have to come,” she continued. “We’ve sent out the formal invites, but I’ll email you the info and get one out to you.”

Six miles later, we leaned over a bridge by Sixty-Fourth Street, stretching. My calves throbbed, my arms ached, but still—I felt good. Serena was amiable and chatty, making me laugh once or twice. Our conversation was easy and familiar. Enjoyable, even. This had been nice. Perfectly nice.