“He won’t run into the street.” Unfortunately. I check my phone for messages. There’s a dozen from Sydney. She’s pissed off I won’t call her back. She knows something catastrophic has happened for me to have packed up her dog for a road trip.

I text her back the standard message.

I’m good. He’s good. Have a good time.

“Half off The Kermit if you’re interested.”

I slip my phone back into my rose Hermes mini bag. “The Kermit?”

“Dandelion greens, romaine, apple, lemon, ginger, turmeric.”

“Green juice?”

She nods.

I shake my head. “I don’t see any hot guys. No need to accessorize right now.”

“Well, there’s one inside making half-priced Kermits.”

“I’m not in the market for any guy. I’ve had my hand and heart destroyed in the past five days by the male species.”

“That sucks.”

“Totally.” I nod.

She shrugs. “It doesn’t hurt to just window-shop.” Her head snaps toward the door to the cafe.

I focus on Swarley.

The young woman pulls out a chair and takes a seat. “I’ll watch him. Go tell Jake you want The Kermit, half the dandelion, extra apple.”

I nod slowly. “Thanks.”

Michael Bublé belts out the chorus to “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” over the high-pitched hum of the blender. It’s just like the L.A. location—hippie posters, mismatched tables, everything recycled or reclaimed. I don’t fit in here.

“Cute shorts.” A tall, very Gwyneth Paltrow looking blonde shoots me a welcoming smile as she pours a dark red smoothie into a mason jar, tops it with fruit and mint garnish, and slides it to an older lady sitting at the bar, reading a book.

“Thanks. They’re Paige cuffed denim. And old … I got them at the beginning of last summer. My boyfriend decided to screw his cook before I could acquire a new wardrobe for this summer.”

She laughs. “I don’t know anything about Paige cuffed denim, and my wardrobe is from five years ago, and even then I got it from a secondhand store, but I’m sorry to hear about your boyfriend cheating on you.”

Five-year-old clothes from a secondhand store. I just want to hug the poor thing or take her shopping. “Yeah, all men are lying, cheating, monkey-spanking dick cheese.”

The deep rumble of a man clearing his throat startles me. I didn’t see him over in the corner behind the glass display. He’s all muscly and tatted up—messy copper and golden blond hair. Challenging, dark eyes pin me to my spot as he glances over his broad shoulder, straining the corded muscles in his neck.

The Gwyneth lookalike chuckles. “Jake, you and your fellow men have a new title. I rather like it, don’t you?”

Jake inspects me with wandering eyes. It’s nothing new.

“I’m not impressed,” he says and turns back to cutting vegetables.