A lot can happen in a week. For example, you can get caught in the elevator at work making out with that cute guy from accounting. (By Olivia, from human resources, no less, but she swore she wouldn’t tell a soul.). You can accidentally agree to spend a weekend at Aunt Dorothea’s house next month taking care of her two angst-ridden Pekingese while she’s snow-shoeing around one of the Great Lakes (what’s so great about it, anyway?) And you can spend one of the most romantic evenings ever dining at a private table in a candlelit wine-cellar, drinking champagne and nibbling amuse bouche with a totally gorgeous chef (I mean, they should give this guy his own cooking show already), only to discover, after the last bit of bittersweet chocolate sauce has been spooned away, that afore mentioned hot chef is not the man of your dreams, love at first sight gift from the New Year’s Eve gods that you’d imagined—he’s just a really good kisser.

To be honest, when I suddenly realized that Steven was about as dull as he was good-looking, it was almost a relief. Because at least now I didn’t have to worry about making up my mind any more. I was never really the Marcia type anyway. I went home feeling all aflutter. Excited about now being able to begin a real relationship—possibly—with Colby. About working up the nerve to ask HIM out for Valentine’s Day. And about the possibility that maybe I’d be able to wrangle myself some company for my weekend with the Pekingese (no sense wasting my Cote d’Azur PJ on a couple of squashed-faced pooches, after all). I don’t think I’d ever looked so forward to a Monday morning before!