“Not enough snow.”

“I’m going to find that airfield!” He shot toward the coat closet.

“No! We’ll—we’ll hike.”

“Hike?” He looked as if she’d suggested bird watching.

She thought fast. “There’s a really treacherous path along the bluffs. It’s so dangerous that it’s closed off when there’s wind or even a hint of snow, but I know a back way to get to it. Except you need to be really sure you want to do this. It’s narrow and icy, and the slightest misstep could send you plunging to your death.”

“You’re making this up.”

“I don’t have that much imagination.”

“You’re a writer.”

“Children’s books. They’re completely nonviolent. Now, if you want to stand around and talk all morning, that’s up to you. But I’d like a little adventure.”

She’d finally caught his interest.

“Let’s get to it, then.”

They had a good time on their hike, even though Molly never quite managed to locate the treacherous path she’d promised Kevin—maybe because she’d invented it. Still, the bluff they crossed was bitterly cold and windy, so he didn’t complain too much. He even reached out to take her hand on an icy stretch, but she wasn’t that foolish. Instead, she gave him a snooty look and told him he’d have to manage on his own because she wasn’t going to prop him up every time he saw a little ice and got scared.

He’d laughed and climbed up on a slippery pile of rocks. The sight of him facing the winter-gray water, head thrown back, wind tearing through that dark blond hair had stolen her breath.

For the rest of their walk she’d forgotten to be obnoxious, and they had far too much fun. By the time they returned to the house, her teeth were chattering from the cold, but every womanly part of her burned.

He shrugged out of his coat and rubbed his hands. “I wouldn’t mind using your hot tub.”

And she wouldn’t mind using his hot body. “Go ahead. I have to get back to work.” As Molly rushed toward the loft, she found herself remembering what Phoebe had once said to her.

When you’re raised as we were, Moll, casual sex is a snake pit. We need a love that’s soul-deep, and I’m here to testify that you don’t find it by bed-hopping.

Although Molly had never bed-hopped, she knew that Phoebe was right. Except what was a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a healthy body, but no soul-deep love, supposed to do? If only Kevin had acted shallow and stupid on their walk … but he hadn’t talked about football once. Instead, they’d talked about books, living in Chicago, and their mutual passion for This Is Spinal Tap.

She couldn’t concentrate on Daphne, so she flipped open her laptop to work on “Making Out—How Far to Go?” The subject depressed her even more.

By her junior year at Northwestern she’d grown sick of waiting for her Great Love Story to come along, so she’d decided to forget about soul-deep love and settle for soul-deep caring with a boy she’d been dating for a month. But losing her virginity had been a mistake. The affair had left her depressed, and she knew that Phoebe had been right. She wasn’t made for casual sex.