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one thing, Ty Gallagher wasn’t her speed. She liked her men a bit more cerebral. For another, she knew she wouldn’t stand a chance with him. She wasn’t six feet tall, she’d never been on the cover of a magazine, she didn’t subsist on air and water, and her boobs—what boobs she had to speak of—were entirely her own. Ty Gallagher would never look at her in a million years.
    Theresa, meanwhile, was staring dreamily into space. “What about that new Russian guy?”
    â€œAlexei Lubov? Met him today.”
    â€œAnd . . . ?”
    â€œ And he’s very young and can barely speak English.”
    â€œSo? He’s gorgeous.”
    Janna eyed Theresa suspiciously. “How do you know?”
    Theresa drew herself up, insulted. “I don’t live under a rock, you know. There was a huge article on him in the Sentinel today. They called him ‘the Russian Rocket.’ ” The faraway look returned to her eyes. “I bet his accent makes him sound like one of those sexy spies in an old James Bond film.”
    â€œActually, he sounds more like Boris Badenov.”
    â€œYou’re from hell, you know that?” Dreaminess gave way to mild desperation. “Help me out here, Janna! I haven’t been on a date in three months.”
    â€œThat’s not true. You just had lunch with that producer from Good Morning America .”
    â€œThat doesn’t count. All he did was talk about how his ex-girlfriend left him for another woman. By the time lunch was done I was ready to turn into a lesbian, okay? He was a nightmare. Look, I’m tired of spending Saturday nights curled up alone watching The Movie Channel. Or playing third wheel to you and Robert.”
    Janna slumped on the couch. “Robert! Shoot. I was supposed to call him at lunch today.”
    â€œRelax, he probably wasn’t even home,” Theresa muttered, examining her nails. “He was probably out reciting his bad poetry to some poor slob who had no means of escape.”
    Janna was not amused. “Are you done yet?”
    â€œNo. Why don’t you just dump him, Janna? You know you want to. He’s a pretentious mooch! You could do so much better than someone who smokes stinky French cigarettes and thinks that entitles him to the French pronunciation of his name! ‘Call me Ro-bear.’ Puh-lease!”
    â€œBut how do you really feel?” Janna deadpanned.
    â€œThe guy crashed here for six weeks before he found his own apartment and never once offered to pay for anything!” Theresa fumed. “Not only that, but he had the nerve to say that the only Italian woman on earth worthy of adoration is Sophia Lauren! Was that supposed to endear him to me?”
    â€œIt could have been worse. He could have said Madonna. He was being poetic.”
    â€œHe was being an ass.”
    â€œCut him some slack, Theresa. He’s had a tough time. His father bailed on the family when he was ten and his mother’s not wrapped too tightly, okay?”
    â€œI agree, that’s sad,” Theresa admitted. “But I still think you could do better.”
    Janna rolled her eyes. They’d had this conversation so many times. Theresa just didn’t get it. Janna didn’t want to do better than Robert, at least not now. After three years, “the relationship” was comfortable and casual, something they could both maintain on automatic pilot. A ready-made date for the weekend if nothing more exciting was on the slate, a warm body in bed on those nights when one or both of them craved affection. It wasn’t going anywhere, which was just the way they wanted to keep it. That’s what Theresa didn’t understand. For her, every guy was potentially “the one,” a concept that Janna refused to buy into.
    â€œDon’t you worry about me. When the time is right, I will ditch Ro-bear and throw myself into the arms of my one true love.”
    Theresa