My brain clicks and whirs, and for a nanosecond, I think—or hope—I mixed up the names. Sabrina is the reporter interviewing me, but Sabrina can’t possibly be . . .

Or can she?

Those lips, that hair, those hazel eyes . . .

The universe has just dropped an anvil on me, Acme-style, flattening my excitement. This is the whoopee cushion, the hand buzzer, the “kick me” sign on my back. That would be fitting, after all, in this gin joint. Perhaps the toy storefront was more of a promise of what’s to come for me—a game where I don’t win.

This can’t fucking be.

“You’re the reporter?” I ask heavily, still hoping against hope I’ve gotten it wrong somehow.

She nods. “I’m Sabrina Granger.”

All at once, awareness seems to dawn on her, and she gasps, “Oh, hell. You’re . . .” She points at me, like I have the plague. “You’re . . .” She gulps and doesn’t finish.

I laugh incredulously, sketching air quotes. “Yes, I’m just someone.”

Her eyes widen to moon pies. “I can’t believe,” she begins, her words coming out staccato. “I thought. My brain. Cognitive dissonance,” she says. She knew I was Flynn, but she also figured I couldn’t possibly be her mystery guy. Newsflash—I’m both the winner and the loser of the masquerade contest. “I thought you were . . . but I didn’t think you could be.”

I sigh so damn heavily it’s going to require its own weight class. “I didn’t think you’d be the reporter, Angel.”

She flaps her hands around. “I assumed I had the times wrong for my interview, rather than you were my . . .” She lets her voice trail off like she can’t bring herself to say what we are.

I pick up the dropped words. “Your duke? Your dirty Prince Charming? The guy who made you forget where you were?” I toss out, repeating her request from last night. One I followed to the O.

She drops her face in her hands, moaning in frustration. “I can’t believe this,” she mutters, shaking her head. Her shoulders rise and fall. She raises her face like a cat poking its ears out from beneath a blanket. “Say you’re kidding.”

“I wish I were. But nope, I’m Flynn Parker, the guy from last night. The guy from tomorrow. The guy who texted you. The guy who has your panties. And, evidently, the guy you’re interviewing.”

She shushes me then leans her head back and sighs, raising her eyes to the ceiling, talking to the roof. “I came here to meet the guy from the party—the guy I had this crazy-amazing connection with—and it turns out he’s the man I’m interviewing for my first big break at a magazine I’m dying to work for. The universe seriously loves to laugh at me.”

I nod, signaling the bartender for a drink. “And I can’t believe the first woman I had a crazy-amazing connection with is now off-limits since she’s writing a critical piece on my company during an important time in our market rollout.”