“Well, yes. If something happens to me, after all, who will cook his dinner?”

“It’s not your cooking he wants to protect, Mom,” I say.

“Chastity’s father and I are divorced, dear,” Mom explains to Angela. “He’s very bitter. Chastity, sweetheart, I had a lovely date with a nice man named Harry the other night. We might be serious.”

Angela cocks an eyebrow at me and then busies herself retying her sneaker.

“Wow, that’s great, Mom,” I lie flatly.

The martial-arts room is packed with young women, all of whom, I note, are rather astonishingly attractive. I feel a little grotty in my aging sweats and ragged high-tops when everyone else seems to have these irritating track suits…cute little ensembles with cute little stripes down the side, hoodies cropped short to reveal cute little tummies. There’s a lot of lip gloss in this room, a lot of highlights.

The door opens, the teacher enters and my mouth falls open in shock.

It’s Mr. New York Times.

His presence erases all thought from my mind. He’s here. Mr. New York Times is here. The man I’ve been dying to meet for weeks is teaching this class!

My brain distantly registers a mass sigh of feminine appreciation that practically causes his hair to flutter. And such hair! Dirty-blond, long enough to curl at the ends, just enough to make him look careless and casual without drifting into unkempt. He’s wearing a black karate uniform that wraps in the front, showing a deep V of golden, glowing skin, and my hand twitches at my side, wanting to Touch. That. Chest.

“Wow,” Angela whispers. Her face is pink.

“Holy crap,” I breathe.

“Good evening, ladies,” he says, smiling, and I stop feeling my legs. His hands go to his belt, and for a brief second, I think he’s going to untie the knot and take off his shirt—Yes! Yes, please!—and a giddy roll of lust rushes through me. But no, no, of course not, he’s just tightening his belt. Just as well. I’d probably jump him. “My name is Ryan Darling, and I’m a fourth degree black belt in kempo karate. I’m also a trauma surgeon”—Good God!—“and I’m sorry to say that I’ve seen firsthand some of the injuries that occur when a woman is attacked.”

My mother tsks next to me. I ignore her, too caught in Ryan’s spell to do anything other than close my mouth and swallow. Look at me, I will him. He doesn’t, continuing on with his spiel. I should be listening more carefully, as I am doing a story on him, but my hearing seems to be obscured by lust, which is actually causing my ears to buzz. No matter. I know from experience that I’ll recall his words later…trick of the trade. He moves with catlike grace, pacing in front of the class as he discusses the need for every woman to be able to fight the good fight.

Ryan claps his hand, snapping me out of my daze. “Okay, let’s get started. Everyone, grab a partner. We’ll start with some basic stances, blocks and punches.”

Blocking and punching is something I learned my first week of life. We form lines and imitate our Adonis-like teacher. It is immediately apparent that I am clearly the best student here. Yes, I acknowledge proudly as I help the woman on my left set her feet the proper way, I am a natural at fighting off men. Perhaps this explains some of my dating history, but there it is. I correct Angela’s weak little fist—her thumb wasn’t even across her knuckles, poor lamb—and demonstrate the block with great vigor.

I might not be the prettiest one here, or the tiniest or the one with the cutest ass showcased in designer sweats, but clearly, I am awesome at fighting. Ryan is at the back of the room, helping my mother and a couple of other women back there. His voice carries to me. “That’s right, good, Betty. Great. Legs a little farther apart.” God, if he said that to me, I’d throw him to the floor and have my way with him, the rest of the class be damned. My insides quiver with lust.

We move on to strategic strike zones, and I’m horrified to learn that some women try to pummel their attackers on the chest and shoulders, rather than going for the pathetically vulnerable groin or oh-so-delicate Adam’s apple. Angela holds up a pad for me to hammer-fist. Please. I could have aced this class when I was eight. Still, I imitate Ryan’s punches with sharp efficiency, smacking the pad with quite a few more pounds of force than anyone else manages, causing Angela to stagger back. Surely Dr. Ryan Darling, black belt and surgeon, will note my supremacy at beating the shit out of the punching bag.

Unfortunately, my strategy isn’t working. Ryan sees those who are struggling and moves through the lines to correct a fist here, demonstrate a block there. Because I am so proficient at man-fighting, his glance flickers right over me.

“Okay,” Ryan says about a half hour later. Some of the poor lambs, Angela included, are sweating up a storm. “You’re a great class, so I think we’ll move on to something a little harder. Brittany, would you give me a hand on this one?” Brittany, who looks about nineteen, sways to the front of the room, her long, straight blond hair a curtain of perfection, lip gloss thick as an Exxon spill. She cements her bimbo persona with a light and fluttering giggle.

“Great. Thanks,” Ryan says. “This next move would be useful if someone was rushing you. You grab the arm of the person, pull them toward you, using his own energy against him. Then you just pull the arm down…boom. Your attacker would flip right over.” He pantomimes the move in slow motion. “You grab…you pull…you flip. See how easy it is?” Then he grabs Brittany’s hand and does it again, though of course he doesn’t actually flip her. Her face is glowing, and she’s clinging to Ryan’s hand like he’s pulling her out of a pit of molten lava. “Grab…pull…flip. Okay, let’s give it a try. Get with your partners, decide who’s going to go first…”

Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I turn to Angela. “Don’t hurt me, Chastity,” she whispers, blinking rapidly.

“I won’t!” I exclaim. “Come on, attack me.”

Other women are already rushing at their partners, including my mom, who makes an adorable attacker, I note. No one is actually flipping, although one teenager stumbles. This is my chance to shine, but Angela wrings her hands, shifting her weight nervously.

“Come on!” I bark. “You’ll be fine.”

She, grimaces, closes her eyes and rushes. I grab. I pull. I flip.

Angela tumbles neatly through the air and lands with a smack on her back. Her breath comes out in a wheeze.

“Shit! Are you okay? Oh, Ange, I’m so sorry.” Honestly, I didn’t think she’d be quite so light. Guilt and remorse stain my face with pink. I cover my mouth with one hand. She’s just lying there. “Ange, I’m sorry!”

Angela adjusts her eyeglasses, which were jarred askew, and blinks up at me.

“Great job!” Ryan appears at my side, reaches down and helps Angela to her feet. She rubs the small of her back and stares reproachfully at me.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks Angela.

She nods and smiles ruefully. “My friend here doesn’t know her own strength,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say yet again.

Ryan Darling turns to me. “What’s your name?” he asks, cocking his head. “You’re really good at this.”

“I have four older brothers,” I murmur demurely, then smile. “Hi. I’m Chastity O’Neill.” About freaking time he noticed me, I think, then immediately forgive him. His bone structure alone could send the Greeks to war…and his eyes! A pure, clear, Derek Jeter green. Man, oh, man. Nice work, God.

He’s returning my look just as intently. My knees nearly buckle. “From the paper?” he asks softly. Nice voice, quiet and deep and gentle, and I can just imagine him saying, Chastity, I’ve been looking for a woman like you all my life.

“Mm-hm,” I squeak, unable to form actual words at the moment.

“Great.” He smiles, my girl parts clench, and he turns to the class. “Chastity here did a perfect job!” Ryan announces. “In fact,” he continues, “Chastity, why don’t you come up here with me? We can demonstrate how to break a choke hold.”

He takes my hand—Pause for a moment, Chas, let it sink in—yes, he takes my hand in his own warm, strong, brilliant surgeon’s hand and leads me to the front of the class. There are many sour faces looking back at me, and I smile modestly (I hope. Frankly, I feel as triumphant as Attila the Hun conquering Europe. Take that, you size zeroes!).

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.”