This kind of thing just doesn’t happen to me. I mean, sure, I’ve been attracted to men other than Trevor in my lifetime. But does drooling over Derek Jeter and Aragorn really count? The fact that Ryan—Mr. New York Times himself!—is holding my hand, even if he’s preparing to strangle me, is stunningly wonderful. Aside from the helpless, discouraging love I feel for Trevor, I can easily say that I’ve never before been so drawn to a man.

“Great, Chastity,” Ryan murmurs. He places his hands on my neck—gently, even reverently, it seems—and then tenderly pushes some of my hair out of the way. Is it my imagination, or are Ryan’s beautiful green Jeter-esque eyes filled with that magical combination of wonder and attraction? My face grows warm, my chest expands almost painfully. Whatever we’re about to do, I want to do perfectly. I want Ryan Darling to be proud of me. To be in awe of me. To fall in love with me, marry me, have babies with me or, at the very minimum, to ask for my phone number.

“Okay,” Ryan says, turning to address the class. My God! Those cheekbones! I stare at the beautiful angles he’s presented me and register the length and heft of his eyelashes. Unbelievable. “Obviously, if you’re being choked, you have to act immediately. If your airway is compromised, you’re going to lose the fight. Chastity, you’re young,” he continues, looking down (yes, down from the lofty two and a quarter inches he’s got on me), “you’re in great shape”—Suppress exclamation of joy and triumph—“and you’re obviously strong.”

I smile again. Young, great shape, strong. I love these words! More than that, I love these hands on my shoulders, the thumbs resting just on my collarbones as he lectures the class about walking strong, looking strong, etcetera. I can barely hear. All I feel is the heat from those hands pouring into me, filling me with a kind of languid slowness, as if warm honey is flowing into me from this man—my future husband—and I imagine more: imagine him sliding those hands down my arms and back up again, warm against my bare skin, him pulling me against his golden chest, his mouth lowering to mine—

Suddenly, my throat is being squeezed—not hard, but squeezed, mind you—and before my brain catches on, my knee goes up. Goes up hard.

And Ryan goes down like a bull in the stockyards. My throat is free, but the man I plan on marrying writhes on the floor, clawing at the mat, because it seems I’ve just seriously compromised his ability to father our children.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“MY DAUGHTER KICKED a black belt’s ass!” Dad announces at Emo’s the next night. It’s happy hour, two and a half platoons are here, three of my four brothers, a cousin or two, and Trevor, who is talking to Lindsey the Kitten Waitress.

“It was his groin,” I mutter into my Scorpion Bowl. Yes, Scorpy and I are back together, which gives you an idea of how good the past twenty-four hours have been.

When Ryan collapsed, the entire class rushed to him, and I was pushed aside in the stampede to administer first aid. Except for calling out mortified apologies as he baby-stepped to his car, I didn’t actually speak to him. Furthermore, I didn’t get the story and had to throw together an article on James Fennimore Cooper’s influence on current fiction. I’m guessing an entire four people will read that one.

I take another slurp of Scorpy and stare at the bar, carving my initials into a solidified puddle of margarita, ignoring the noise of happy hour. My empty social calendar yawns in front of me. Tomorrow night, I’ll be editing next week’s features from home, since I must cover the Daffodil Festival during the day. The radiator in the kitchen needs to be scraped. Buttercup could use a bath. And on Friday, I head for Lucky and Tara’s house to be abused by their children while my brother and his wife head to Saratoga, where they will hold hands and gaze into each other’s eyes. It seems about as close to a romantic weekend as I’m going to get.

I sigh with gusto and stuff a handful of pretzels into my mouth. Mr. New York Times—that is, Ryan Darling, M.D.—was my great hope. For a moment, however brief, I knew that he was attracted to me. I felt it. He checked me out. He was interested. Until, of course, I’d squashed his testicles into pancakes.

Was it so unexpected, honestly? I mean, there he was, choking me. I’d just flipped Angela and acknowledged four older brothers. Ryan had already commented on my strength, my “great job” at throwing friends through the air. According to my mother and Angela (who have bonded greatly over this incident, by the way), I was supposed to bring my arms down—or up (we all know I wasn’t listening)—and break the choke hold. My knee was supposed to stay out of it. But come on! It was a self-defense class for women! What’s the first thing they teach? Go for the groin, girls. Kick him in the balls. I probably have it on a T-shirt somewhere.

“Tell us again,” my brother Jack prompts, materializing at my side.

“Shut it,” I mutter. Paul whistles the theme to The Nutcracker.

“Come on,” Santo wheedles. “It’s the stuff of legend.”

“Do you want to be next, Santo?” I ask.

“It’s her way of standing out in a crowd,” Mark states, closer to the truth than he realizes. “Knock ’em down and drag ’em off to her cave.”

The guys howl with laughter. Only Trevor doesn’t join in, but I’m feeling too bleak to feel grateful.

“Oh, and you’re such an expert on the opposite sex, right, Mark?” I say. “You’re still mad that I beat you at the race.”

“So you’re a jock, Chas. A lonely, spinster jock,” he returns spitefully.

“Mark, would you like me to share the fact that you once told me you thought Patrick Swayze was much hotter than Luke Perry?” I ask. “No? Then shut up.”

The men’s tenuous attention is successfully diverted. Granted, Mark will have to deal with g*y jokes for the next several decades, but I find I don’t care a bit. He showed up at Elaina’s yesterday to pick a fight about something in the proposed divorce settlement, yelled at Elaina, snapped at Dylan, slammed the door so hard on the way out that a windowpane cracked. Shithead.

“Your mother had three dates last week,” my father whispers fiercely in my ear. “She has to stop this. It’s ridiculous, not to mention—”

“Shut it, Dad! Haven’t you heard of keeping the kids out of your ugly divorce? Okay? Can we talk about something other than Mom’s amazing social life and me kicking guys in the nuts? Can we? Huh, Dad?”

Dad starts to say something, wisely reconsiders and slides away to a more amiable product of his loins. Can’t say that I blame him. Screw it. I’d feel more cheerful if I were home alone watching Tony Soprano beat someone to death. At least I’d have Buttercup…and one of the king-sized Snickers bars I bought at CostCo last week. Make that three Snickers bars. Maybe I’ll go home, get the bag of Snickers and my dog, and go over to Elaina’s, where we can both be cheered by the sight of Tony Soprano beating the shit out of someone.

I drain Scorpy—I’ve learned that one is my limit—and swivel around on my stool, ready to leave. Trevor is standing right in front of me. “Hey, Chas,” he says.

“What do you want?” I grunt, in no mood to deal with anyone, let alone The Man I Love.

“I just wanted to say sorry about your, um, incident.” He smiles a little.

My heart leaps, which causes fresh irritation to flood my veins. “What for? I felled a black belt. I’m so proud.” I glance over his shoulder. Dad is playing darts with Jack, Lucky is shooting pool with Santo and Jake, Mark is ordering another Jameson’s. There are no other women in our group. Just good old Chastity, one of the guys.

“Here’s your beer, Trevor,” Lindsey the Kitten sighs, squishing her boobs against Trevor’s chest as she sets his glass down on the bar. “Do you need anything else?”

I can’t help rolling my eyes. “No thanks, Linds,” Trevor says. “See you later.” Sex Kitty wiggles away, practically purring. And yes, Trevor is watching her go.

Since my night is pure, unadulterated, grade-A, made in America crap and not looking to get better, I decide to make it a clean sweep. “Trevor, are you getting back with Hayden?”

His mouth drops open. “Uh…no. No. I just ran into her at the race, that’s all. But, well, she did move back to the area. She’s in Albany.”

Shit. “But you’re not seeing each other?”

He shakes his head.

“Well, here’s the thing. I know this woman from work. Very nice, very attractive. Want her number?”

Trevor’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Do you want to date Angela, the food editor? She thinks you’re cute.”

Trev pauses. “You okay, Chas?”

I roll my eyes. “For God’s sake, Trevor, yes or no?” He’s so close that I can smell his soap, can see that he needs a shave, and if I leaned forward just a little, I could rub my own cheek against his, then lower my head to the crook of his warm neck and kiss the skin there. Bastard. “So?” I snap.

“Sure, I guess so, Chastity,” he answers slowly, frowning.

“Great! I’ll e-mail you her name and number and whatever. Look, I have to run. Buttercup needs me.” I slide off the bar stool and shove past Trevor, who hasn’t moved an inch.

“Chastity?” a new voice asks.

My head jerks around. “Shit!” I exclaim.

It’s Ryan “the Groin” Darling. The blood drains from my face, then floods back. “Uh, um, hi,” I stammer. “Um, how are you?”

“A little swollen,” he admits. I can’t suppress a grimace.

Trevor is watching us. “Hi. I’m Trevor Meade.”

“Ryan Darling. Nice to meet you.”

“You work at the hospital, don’t you?” Trevor asks.

“Yes,” Ryan answers. “I’m a trauma surgeon.”

“Okay. I’m on the paramedic unit of Eaton Falls Fire,” Trevor says.

“Right,” Ryan says. “Hello.” He offers nothing else, and I can tell he doesn’t remember Trevor. Well, I guess a surgeon would be concentrating on the patient—one would hope so, at any rate. But still. Not remembering Trevor is something I can’t imagine.

“Chas, I’ll see you around.” Trevor looks assessingly at Ryan. “Nice to see you.” He joins the rest of his platoon in the O’Neill booth.

I turn back to face Ryan. “Again, I’m so, so sorry.” Closing my eyes, I shake my head. “I guess instinct just took over.”

“It’s…well, it’s a good example of what I try to teach, I suppose.” He attempts a smile, and another wave a dismay washes over me. Why is he here? A lawsuit? Am I being arrested for assault and battery? The burning attraction I felt for him yesterday seems like a thing of the distant past.

“So…well, would you like to have a seat?” I ask, gesturing to the stool next to me.

“Sure.” He slides gingerly onto the stool.

“Oh, crap, I’m sorry. Would a booth be more comfortable?” I blurt. “Or some ice? Would you like some ice?”

He grins. “No, no, that’s fine. I’m here. May as well stay.”

My father is eying me suspiciously. He murmurs something to Jack, who looks over, gives me a reassuring chin jerk, then turns Dad back to the dartboard. I make a mental note to babysit Jack and Sarah’s kids soon.

“So, um, Ryan, right?” As if his name wasn’t burned into the shame section of my soul already. “What can I do for you?”

“You never did the interview. I was here with a colleague, saw you, thought I’d come over.”

“The inter—oh, right!” I exclaim. “Of course. Well, sure, I’d still love to do it.” Not that I thought we’d be speaking again, ever, but crap!