I really did not feel like going to the gym this morning, but Martina nagged me until I gave in, promising that the endorphins released by exercise would make me feel better.

They honestly didn't.

Lack of sleep didn't help either, since I was on the phone with Martina replaying my conversation with Max after I'd had dinner, spent time with my grandparents pretending everything was normal, and finally was able to excuse myself and go up to my room. The last thing I needed was my grandmother questioning whether "Laura" wasn't feeling well, or my grandfather cornering me to ask why I left the office for a meeting before lunchtime and never came back.

Max had driven back to the gallery, stopping on the way to pick up some deli sandwiches for lunch despite the fact that I had no appetite, and we'd gone into his office to review the final contracts for both the purchase and sale agreements transferring the remaining stock from his former partners to Max, and then reselling it to the overseas "investor."

Max actually let his old partners retain 1% so he can still technically list them as not only Board members but shareholders, given the advantage to the gallery of their reputation in the art world. Since it's a private transaction, no one outside the parties themselves will actually know the extent of their interest.

After we finished, he'd driven me back to the office parking garage and dropped me at my car, waiting until I was safely inside and drove away.

There was no mention of ever seeing each other again.

It's pathetic how much I hope some issue will come up where Gino wants more of my advice about his club in New York, since Max is supposed to be the intermediary who would reach out to me.

Martina and I are in our usual spots in the row of exercise bikes, with no one on either side of us at the moment to overhear our conversation. I wouldn't say the gym is empty at 5:30 in the morning, but it's certainly not nearly as crowded as it is when the after-work people show up.

I find I like the partial solitude.

"Hey," Martina says. "Isn't that the guy who was checking you out last time we were here?"

I glance over and yeah, it's the guy in the red t-shirt. Well, actually today it's a black t-shirt, but it's the same guy.

"Yes," I say, "that's him."

"So, you should talk to him. I think he's shy."

"Why, because he's not bothering us?"

"No, because last time he went into the juice bar around the same time we did and I was sure he was going to come up with some excuse to come over and talk to you, but he didn't."

"I don't know."

I'm thinking about the first time I met Max. On the plane from Philadelphia. He certainly wasn't shy. I remember how he leaned closer, put his mouth on mine.

Just the thought of that kiss makes my lips tingle.

"Look," Martina persists, "I understand you're still hung up on Max and that it turns out he wasn't having sex with that woman after all, but Hadley, you broke up with him for good reasons, and then he broke up with you for the same reasons - twice. Maybe the best way to get through this is to see someone else."

"I can't even think about getting involved with someone else right now."

"I'm not saying marry the guy. I'm not even saying sleep with him. But it wouldn't kill you to go on, like, a coffee date. To just open the possibility of moving on with someone else."

"I guess."

"Good for you," she says, reaching over to punch me lightly on the shoulder.

After our workout we head to the juice bar as usual. The red shirt guy is already there sitting at a stool at the counter. Martina walks right over and maneuvers me onto the stool next to him, with her sitting on the other side of me. I order a smoothie and she does the same, but asks for hers to go. I give her a questioning look.

"I have an errand to run before work and I don't want to be late."

"Really," I say. "I guess your boss must be hardcore if you're worried about being a few minutes late."

"Oh, she is," Martina says, smiling sweetly.

Then she leans around me and introduces herself. "I'm Martina. Pretty sure I've seen you here before."

Red Shirt Guy turns in his seat. "I'm Brad. Brad Thompson," he says. "I've been coming here for awhile, but just got back into town recently. I travel a lot for my work."

"Hadley Jones," I say, extending a hand. He hesitates a moment, then takes my hand in his and shakes. His grip is firmer than I expected. His eyes are interesting. I guess what you'd call hazel. They seem to change color slightly, somewhere between green and brown. He's actually kind of cute, in a shy nerdy sort of way.

The juice barista - I'm guessing that's what you'd call her - slides Martina's smoothie in a Styrofoam cup with a straw across the counter, and Martina reaches for her wallet.

"Don't worry," I tell her, "I've got it.

"Thanks, -boss," she says, then winks at me. "Nice meeting you Brad."

She heads for the door.

"You, too." His voice trails after her, then he turns back to me and smiles. "So, you're her boss?"

Okay, he is even cuter when he smiles. Serious upgrade.

"Yep. I guess that makes me hardcore."

"I guess that makes her Captain Obvious," he says, and I laugh, start to relax a little. I turn toward him slightly on my stool as my smoothie arrives.

"You travel a lot for your work, Brad. What do you do?"

"Mostly I'm a travel writer. Tour guides, reviews, budgeting tips, that kind of thing."

"Anything I might have read?"

"Well, A TEN DAY GUIDE TO ITALY'S WINE REGIONS has a bit of a following. Hasn't made any bestseller lists yet, though."

He has a sense of humor. I like that. And so far, no signs that he's a criminal.

"What do you do?" Brad asks.

"I'm a lawyer, mostly criminal defense."

"Well that sounds intriguing. I bet you meet some . . . interesting people."

"Some," I say, "but a larger percentage than I like to admit are spoiled rich kids who want to avoid the consequences of their actions." I take a drink of my smoothie.

"You must have to deal with some serious criminals though," Brad says.

Of course, my mind goes immediately to Max, but I push those thoughts away.

"Well, I did have a case recently where I was defending a guy who beat up his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend now."

"How do you take on cases like that? When you know the person you're representing has done some really bad things?"

Good question, I think to myself, and, at the moment, hitting a little too close to home.

"You have to go into it," I say, "realizing that most of your clients are going to be guilty. Your job usually isn't to get them found not guilty. It's to make sure the police and the prosecutors don't cut any corners, that the client gets fair treatment and due process and, hopefully, a good plea deal."

"Even if you know they're guilty?"

I look sideways at him. "That's a lot of questions. Are you writing a book?"

He laughs. "Maybe someday. The inside story on the criminal justice system," he says in a news anchor style voice. "But no. I'm just curious."

"I'm curious about what you do. So, if I go into a bookstore, will I find a whole shelf in the travel section with your name on it?"

"I wish. But with travel guides, I usually don't get credit as the author. It's a work for hire sort of thing, and it's just the publisher's name on the book. Unless I'm ghostwriting for a celebrity traveler. Then it's their name."

"Do you do that a lot? Ghostwriting for someone famous?"

His face kind of lights up. "I actually just landed a new job lately ghostwriting a tell-all memoir for a well-known rock star. I wish I could tell you who," he raises his hands in a helpless gesture, "but the whole point of being a ghostwriter for a celebrity is that they get the credit. I do get a nice paycheck though."

"Now that really does sound interesting."

"It can be fun. But people with egos that big are sometimes a little difficult to work with." He takes the last drink of what looks like a healthier version of a latte and sets his glass down, then glances at his watch.

"I have to get going, but it was nice chatting with you." Now he looks a little sheepish. "I noticed you before, and was kind of working up my nerve to talk to you." He glances down at my hand and I realize he's checking to see if I'm wearing a ring.

"Well, I am kind of intimidating. The hardcore boss and all that," I say with a smile.

"It we make a date sometime, I promise not to be tardy," he says, and I think, that was pretty smooth. He's got a few moves after all.

"I'll hold you to that," I say.

"Maybe we can meet up here at the juice bar again next time we're both in the gym. Or go someplace else for coffee."

"Yeah," I say. "We could do that."

"Great, see you later, Hadley."

"You too, Brad."

I swear there's a little swagger to his walk when he heads back out.

He's completely different from Max.

But maybe that's what I need right now to help me get over him.