My hands are on the blender, which is whirring my breakfast into a palatable smoothie, but my mind’s in the Wilmots’ third-story closet. Snagged on the moment when I realized how close I was holding her, when the world became the glow of her skin in faint light, the curves of her shoulders and hips.

I still can’t believe I almost kissed her.

Shutting my eyes as the blender whirrs louder, I remember breathing her in—a wisp of mint on her breath, the sensual spell of sugar-sharp fig and earthy sandalwood that clung to her hair.

Jean-Claude shuts the front door behind him, snapping me out of my thoughts. He winces at the sound.

“Feeling all right?” I ask.

He gives me a sour look and drops onto a stool at our breakfast bar. “Too much wine last night. Coffee?”

I pour a cup and slide it his way. “Drink up.”

He chugs half of it in one gulp, then sets it down and gives me an assessing glance. “You should have come last night,” he says. His phone buzzes, and he pulls it out, frowning as he reads, then types a response. “Juliet insisted on friends joining us, and some of them were of the attractive female variety.”

“I had a patient emergency.” It’s my default lie. No one questions a physician when they say they’re answering the call of duty.

“Bullshit,” he says before another sip of coffee. “You weren’t on call. You were being avoidant.”

I pour my blender’s contents into a tall glass tumbler. “If I was, I’d say I’m justified, considering the last time I was in a group social situation thanks to you, I ended up stuck in a closet with the same woman who’d already doused me in liquor. Twice. I had an entire wardrobe change because of her.”

And you nearly kissed her, my mind whispers, without overanalyzing, without worrying or second-guessing yourself.

Which is nonsense. I only almost kissed Beatrice because I was . . . turned around. Holding her close, feeling her lean into the comfort of my arms as she broke down, it was disorienting. Like navigating an unfamiliar town in the dark and taking a wrong turn down a one-way street. Just because holding her wasn’t entirely unpleasant doesn’t mean that it was wise or that we’d make any kind of sense.

“West, listen. You won’t get over Lauren if you bolt whenever you come close to liking a woman.”

“I haven’t done that. There’s been no one to bolt from.”

He pockets his phone. “Then this is long overdue.”

“What is?”

“Dating again.”

I groan. “Jean-Claude, no.”

“West, yes. You need to date again. Have a fresh start.”

“With whom, exactly?”

“Someone who’s right for you. Come on.” He holds out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

“For what?” I ask warily.