As the man I loved approached my office, the image of a deer being hit by a truck came to mind. I was the deer, metaphorically speaking, and Mark Rousseau was the pickup truck of doom.

But here’s the thing. The deer always freezes, as we all know, hence the expression like a deer caught in the headlights. The deer and I (Callie Grey, age thirty as of 9:34 this very morning) are well aware that the pickup truck is going to hit us. But we just stand there, waiting for the inevitable, whether it’s a pickup truck or a man walking athletically toward me, perpetual smile in place, his brown hair carelessly curling, those gorgeous, dancing dark eyes. I waited, doe-eyed. It was all really too bad, because outside of Mark’s influence, I was not at all a deer about to be run down. I was much more of an adorable, perky hedgehog or something.

“Hey,” Mark grinned.

Bam! We have impact. The sunlight streamed through the windows of the old brick office building in which Mark and I worked, illuminating him so that he looked like something painted by Michelangelo. To make him even more appealing, he was wearing an old sweater vest his mom knitted for him years ago, shapeless and faded but something he just couldn’t part with. A good son and a sex god.

It was as if there were two Callies…the smarter, more sensible self (I pictured her as Michelle Obama), and the dopey, in love part…Betty Boop. Would that Michelle could detach right about now and administer Betty Boop a brisk slap, followed by some vigorous shaking. Alas, Betty just sat there, enthralled, as the First Lady, not usually prone to violence, snorted in disgust.

“Hi,” I said, feeling my face warm. You’d think that four years of seeing him almost daily would have built up some tolerance in me, but no. My chest prickled with longing and love, my throat turned Saharan, my feet and fingers tingled. My expression was probably somewhere around Pathetic Adoration, though I was trying hard for Intelligent Coworker.

Mark leaned against my desk, which meant his crotch was, oh, let’s see, about a foot and a half from my face, since I was seated. Not that I noticed, of course. “Happy birthday,” he said, making it sound like the most intimate, most suggestive phrase in the world.

Face: nuclear. Heart: racing. Callie: half inch from orgasm. “Thanks.”

“I got you a present, of course,” he murmured in that voice… God, that voice. Low and soft and velvety…the same voice he used in the bedroom, as I well knew Yes, Mark and I had been together. For five weeks. Five wonderful weeks. Almost five and a half, if you really analyzed it. Which I had.

From his back pocket, he withdrew a small, rectangular package. My heart flopped as my brain raced with contradictory thoughts. Jewelry?Betty squealed. That means something. That’s romantic. So romantic! Oh! My! God! On the other hand, Michelle advised caution. Calm down, Callie. Let’s just see how this plays out.

“Oh, Mark! Thank you! You didn’t have to,” I said, my voice breathy.

On the other side of the glass-bricked wall that separated our offices, Fleur Eames slammed a drawer. The wall only went up ten feet; the ceilings were twelve, perfect for eavesdropping, and I guessed she was trying to snap me out of my daze. Fleur, a copywriter here at the firm, knew about my crush. I guess everyone did.

Clearing my throat, I reached for the package in Mark’s hand. He held onto it for a minute, grinning before he let go. It was wrapped in cheerful yellow paper. Yellow is my favorite color. Did I tell him that once? Had he filed away that little fact the same way I filed away everything he ever told me? I mean, really, it could hardly be coincidence, right? He smiled down at me, and my racing heart stuttered, stalled, then revved into overdrive. Oh, God. Could it be? Did he finally want to get back together?

I’d worked at Mark’s firm for the past four years. We were the only advertising and public relations agency in northeastern Vermont. Our staff was small — just Mark and me, Fleur, the office manager, Karen, and the two pale computer geeks in the art department, Pete and Leila. Oh, and Damien, Mark’s personal assistant/receptionist/willing slave.

I loved my job. Excelled at my job, as proven by the large poster on my wall, which had very nearly won a Clio, the Oscar of advertising. Said Clio ceremony took place eleven months ago out in Santa Fe. And in that beautiful, romantic city, Mark and I had finally hooked up. But the timing wasn’t right for a serious relationship. Well, that’s what Mark said. Honestly, has a woman ever said that? Not a lot of twenty-nine-year-old women truly have timing issues when it comes to being with the man they love. No. It was Mark’s timing that wasn’t right.

But now…now a gift. Could it finally be that the time was right? Maybe now, on the very day my thirties began and I entered into that decade where a woman is more likely to be mauled by a grizzly bear than get married…maybe today really was the start of a new age.

“Open it, Callie,” he said, and I obeyed, hoping he didn’t notice my shaking fingers. Inside was a black velvet box. Squee! I bit my lip and glanced up at Mark, who shrugged and gave me that heart-stopping grin once more. “It’s not every day my best girl turns thirty,” he added.

“Oh, gack,” sniped Damien, Mark’s assistant, who appeared in the doorway. Mark glanced at him briefly, then turned his eyes back to me.

“Hi, Damien,” I said.

“Hi.” He stretched the word into three syllables of contempt…Damien had once again broken up with his boyfriend and currently hated love in all its forms. “Boss, Muriel’s on line two.”

Something flickered across Mark’s face. Irritation, maybe. Muriel was the daughter of our newest client, Charles deVeers, the owner and founder of Bags to Riches. The company made outdoor wear from a combination of grocery bags and natural fiber. It was our biggest account yet, a huge deal for Green Mountain, most of whose clients were in New England. I’d only met Muriel once, and then only briefly, but Mark had been flying back and forth to San Diego, where the Bags to Riches was based. As part of the package, Charles had asked that Muriel come to Vermont and work as the account exec, so he could have someone close to him keeping tabs on things. And, as Charles was paying us gobs of money, Mark had said yes.

Mark didn’t answer Damien, who was quivering with the joy of running Mark’s day. “Boss?” Damien said, a bit more sharply. “Muriel? Remember her? She’s waiting.”

“So let her wait some more,” Mark answered, tossing me a wink. “This is important. Open the damn box, Callie.” Damien sighed with the heavy drama that only a gay man can pull off and hustled down the hall.

Cheeks burning, I opened the velvet box. It was a bracelet, delicate silver strands that twisted and turned like ivy. “Oh, Mark, I love it,” I whispered, running my finger over the intricate lines. I bit my lip, my eyes already misting with happy tears. “Thank you.”

His expression was soft. “You’re welcome. You mean a lot to me. You know that, Callie.” He bent down and kissed my cheek, and every detail was immediately seared into my brain — his smooth, warm lips, the smell of his Hugo Boss cologne, the heat of his skin.

Hope, which had been lying in ashes for the past ten months, twitched hard.

“Think you’ll make it to my party later on?” I asked, striving for perky and fun, not lustful and ruttish. My parents were throwing me a little bash at Elements, the nicest restaurant around, and I’d invited all my coworkers. No use in pretending; I was turning thirty, might as well get some presents.

Mark straightened, then moved a pile of papers from the small couch in my office and sat down. “Um…Listen, I need to tell you something. You met Muriel, right?”

“Well, just that once. She seems…very…” Hm. She’d worn a killer black suit, had great shoes…kind of intense. “Very focused.”

“Yeah. She is. Callie…” Mark hesitated. “Muriel and I are seeing each other.”

It took a few seconds for that to register. Once again, I was that stupid deer, watching mutely as the pickup truck hurtled down the road. My heart slammed to a halt. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Michelle Obama stood by, shaking her head sadly, her fabulous arms crossed in regret. I realized my mouth was open. Closed it. “Oh,” I heard myself say.

Mark looked at the floor. “I hope that doesn’t cause you any…discomfort. Given our past involvement.”

There was a white, rushing sound, like a river engorged with snowmelt and hidden debris. He was seeing someone? How could that be? If the timing was okay for Muriel…why not… Oh, crap.

“Callie?” he said.

Here’s the thing about being hit by a truck. Sometimes those deer keep running. They just bound into the woods, sort of like they’re saying, Whoo-hoo! That was close! Good thing I’m okay. Um…I am okay, right? Actually, you know what? I’m feeling a little strange. Think I’ll lie down for a bit. And then they wake up dead.