It all started with a bagel.
More specifically, a burnt bagel, dropped cream cheese-side down onto the floor of Bean & Briefs Café, where I worked six days a week, five if I begged my boss hard enough. The smell of charred carbs still lingered in the air like a personal insult.
I stared at the ruined thing on the tile. My shift had started twenty minutes ago, and I had already messed up a triple-shot iced mocha, spilled milk on my pants, and now lost the one breakfast item I looked forward to.
"Awesome," I muttered, crouching to clean it. "Just the gods of romance reminding me that carbs are the closest thing I have to a love life."
"You talking to bagels again?" Zoe's voice piped up behind me.
I turned to see my best friend—paint-streaked overalls, red curls in a frizzy ponytail, sketchbook under one arm, blueberry muffin in the other. She always looked like a chaotic muse had sneezed art onto her.
"I prefer to think of it as a one-sided support group," I said, grabbing paper towels.
"You should marry that bagel. At least it won't ghost you."
"Ha-ha." I tossed the bagel in the trash and tried not to think of how painfully accurate that was.
Zoe flopped onto the stool near the register, took a bite of her muffin, and pulled out her phone.
"You check Twitter lately?" she asked, mouth full. "You're blowing up."
"Blowing up how?"
"Like... thousands of likes kind of blowing up."
I frowned. "I haven't even tweeted today."
She turned her screen to face me.
There it was. A screenshot of something I wrote last night on my blog—Avoiding Cupid: A Guide for the Romantically Doomed. I thought three people read it. One of them being my mom.
"Rule #3: If someone says they're 'not looking for anything serious,' believe them. Then run. Preferably in the opposite direction."
Underneath:
24.8k likes • 5.1k shares • Trending under "#ModernLoveGuru"
I blinked. "What the hell."
"You're viral, Eliot. People think you're some heartbreak prophet."
"I wrote that at 2 a.m. after getting ghosted by a girl named Kayla who made me watch three hours of true crime and then disappeared like she was the killer all along."
"Well," Zoe grinned, "the internet says you're wise. So congratulations. You're now the poster boy for failed dating."
Great. Exactly the legacy I wanted.
The café door jingled behind me, but I barely noticed until I heard a sharp voice cut through the morning hum.
"Excuse me. Are you Eliot Ryker?"
I turned—and my entire sense of reality wobbled a little.
Standing there, perfectly poised in a pencil skirt and blazer that probably cost more than my rent, was Ava Lin. Senior associate at one of the top firms in the city. I'd seen her before—she came in sometimes, always ordered black coffee, no sugar, no nonsense.
"I read your blog," she said, stepping closer. Her heels clicked like punctuation. "You're smarter than you look."
"Um... thanks?"
"I'd like your opinion on something." She pulled out her phone, showed me a message. "Guy I've been seeing just sent this. Tell me if I'm overreacting."
I skimmed the message.
"You're amazing. I'm just not ready for anything serious. Hope we can still be friends."
"Oh, you're not overreacting," I said, handing it back. "He's already dating someone else. Guaranteed."
She blinked. "That's... what I thought."
Zoe was watching, eyes wide like a raccoon finding gossip.
Ava gave a small smile. "You're good. I might need your help again."
And just like that, she turned and walked out, leaving behind a scent of expensive perfume and confusion.
I stood frozen for a beat, then looked at Zoe.
"What just happened?"
She grinned like the gremlin of fate. "Congratulations, Eliot. You just accidentally became a love coach."
"I'm not a love coach."
"You're a barista who writes sad blogs. You are now professionally qualified."
I groaned and looked at the ceiling. "This is going to backfire."
It did. Hard.
But not before four more women walked into my life—each one thinking I had the answers. Each one convinced I was something I wasn't.
And somehow?
That was when everything started to change.