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The stupid sensation won’t go away even when I roll over. I can still feel it through the mattress. With my eyes closed, I rub my hand under the covers until I find the annoyance—my phone.

It does this most mornings like I don’t have anything better to do than sleep. Beauty doesn’t happen naturally. Stupid alarm. Sure, I’m to blame for setting it, but a good eight to ten hours is necessary, especially after a night of drinking.

My heart thumps in my chest as memories of last night come to mind. A certain man not standing where I left him causes a pang right after. I open my eyes and tap on my screen, shutting off the alarm.

Staring up into the darkness, I lie in my king-sized bed fit for a queen. Pillows, a fluffy down comforter, and the best sheets money can buy surround me. This is a life of luxury, one that usually makes me smile.

So why do I feel sad?

Reaching over, I hit the button built into the nightstand. The blackout shades start a slow ascent, and the sun invades my bedroom, the bright light burning my eyes. Grabbing a pillow, I pull it over my face and groan.

I can call in sick or just tell Natalie I want the day off. She’d understand. She always does. She’s never been one to put on pressure or demand more than she feels she can.

Spoiler alert: She can. As the boss, she can demand that her employees show up for work.

With enough time to get ready and one other activity, I have to decide between coffee at a café, a workout, or a nap. Sighing, I throw the covers off and get to my feet.Workout it is.

I grab my workout clothes, thinking it’s the best weapon against fighting this bad mood I can’t seem to shake.

Thirty minutes later, I’m looking around the gym, wondering why it’s so packed. Don’t people have work to do or something else at 8:30 in the morning? I’ve had to wait to use every machine this morning. Wrapping up on the treadmill, I hit my stride on the third mile—my pace faster than usual and on a decent incline. The endorphins were good for my attitude because I’m feeling much better now.

“Tatum?”

I glance to my right at the man staring straight at me. His face is familiar, but I can’t quite place him. At least he’s cute. I pull my earbud out on the side where he is and slow the treadmill to a walking pace. With my hands on my hips, I try to steady my breath. “Hi?”

He picks up on the question without me having to ask, and replies, “Elijah. Elijah Morris. You helped me with?—”

“Your proposal.” Snapping, I point. “I remember. Your father connected us.”

“Yes, he loves to spoil my mom.”

“As he should.” I punch stop on the treadmill. “Your proposal, that must have been, what? Two years ago? I guess you’re married and living the life these days.”

Still walking next to me, he looks through the window ahead of him and shakes his head. “Actually, the wedding never happened.” He ends his treadmill session and slows to a stop on the belt. Gripping the sides, he looks at me. “She cheated on me with my cousin the night before the wedding.” Wow, that’s a bitch.More accurately, she is.

Cheating is the lowest. It’s happened to the best of us, though—me and Natalie included. Elijah always seemed like a good guy, so offense fills me on his behalf. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“My mom had a sense about her the moment they met, not a good one. If you know what I mean.”

“I do.” My answer makes me cringe right after. I mean, someone telling you they got screwed over on their wedding day probably doesn’t want to hear those two magical words . . . wait.What? Magical?I shake my head and inwardly roll my eyes at myself.

He continues, not noticing my crazy or maybe just polite enough not to point it out, “But sometimes we get caught in the moment more than the reality of what’s right in front of us.” Shifting to face me, he adds, “I was thinking we could go out sometime.”

“Me?” I ask, not seeing that coming. “Ah. I get it. I’m right in front of you. You took that as a sign.”

Shrugging, he says, “It couldn’t hurt to find out.”

Hurt.I don’t get hurt too much, but disappointment finds me easily when it comes to men. “I appreciate the words of wisdom and self-realization, but it’s not wise for me to date clients.”

“I’m not one, not anymore.”

Laughing, I waggle my finger. “I see what you did there, but I think we should keep things professional.” Turning back to my machine, I punch it up a level to start walking again. “You’re attractive, and I’m sure you can date whoever you want. You should play the field, recover from the breakup, and then find your co-signer for a property out in the Hamptons.”

“That’s a very specific dream, but I’m more interested in this weekend and spending time with you.”Ah. He’s still playing the field and trying to play me.Although I didn’t need the confirmation to see through the situation, he has me thinking about my own goals. I hit the next level on the treadmill.

Working with my best friend has been amazing, and making her dreams come true has been rewarding. But am I settling when I’m actually workingforher and more focused on her dreams than my own?

Here I thought being twenty-six, being able to do whatever I want and living on my own in New York City was a dream come true. A lot of my friends still live at home.