I don’t know why I’m so apprehensive. I know I’m good. And I believe in my ideas. Plus . . . hell, I am paying for those student loans; might as well apply the interior design degree to something. And what’s the worst Andrea could do? I ask to show her what I have and she says no? Or she checks them out and doesn’t like them?

Or what if she looks at them and does want to use them? A thrill skitters between my shoulder blades at the thought. I push it away and pull a blank shot. But as the espresso machine hisses and steams, the possibility pops up again: a fresh start in design.

“Ah, Liz!” says Toby from behind me.

I raise the tiny espresso cup in my hand, my back still toward him. “Single or double?”

“I might have gotten coffee out.” His voice is heavy with playful chagrin.

I wheel around, prepared to scold him for cheating on his Italian trophy wife, but he’s not alone. A good-looking, sandy-haired guy stands beside him, assessing me with a mild smile.

I focus on Toby, stepping up the sass for his associate’s benefit. “Ignorance is no excuse for outsourcing.” The smile on his companion spreads. It’s a good smile.

Toby laughs. “I’m sorry. Wickham here might be in need of a second round?”

Another grin from this Wickham fellow. “If it isn’t any trouble.”

“Not at all.”

“Toby! You have a minute?” one of the interns calls from the hall.

“Sorry, I’ll be back. Liz, thank you . . .” Toby directs Wickham my way, then darts out.

Wickham shrugs. As he approaches, I perform a quick scan like I might to a guest at Meryton. Gray chinos, cuffs just grazing his ankles; nice loafers; and an oxford with an oversized gingham print, sleeves rolled up in a way I’ve only seen in the window of the J.Crew Men’s Shop. He has one more button undone than would be natural, a pair of aviators dangling from the neckline. The overall effect is a little try-hard, but his inviting expression is making up for it.

He arches a brow. “Liz, I presume?”

I nod. “Apparently, you’re Wickham. And a bad influence?”

“George Wickham, at your service.” He holds a hand to his chest. “And the coffee was one hundred percent me. I took the red-eye in from LAX.”

“Another Californian,” I muse. “What’s going on out there? You’re the third Golden State guy I’ve encountered recently.”

“Hm.” He bends to rest an elbow on the counter, propping his chin on his knuckles. “Should I be worried about the other two?”

I laugh at the blatant flirtation. “Confident. But no. One is currently seeing my roommate and”—I tip my head, considering—“jury’s still out on the other one. By all means, bring your A-game.”