It’s not so much to ask.

Curious by nature, however, I can’t resist a peek at my fellow passengers via the window reflection and…oh.

Okay, wow.

My roommate would refer to these men as contenders.

They’re all appealing in different ways, but they are indisputably appealing. And stumbling across three attractive men on the Roosevelt Island tram is the dead last item on my list of things I expected to happen this evening, right after Zendaya showing up and informing me she’s my fairy godmother. Or a promotion to staff writer at the Gotham Times.

Now that would be far-fetched.

But hopefully not for long.

Because I definitely saw Deputy Mayor Alexander meeting with the union boss who is currently in a very publicized feud with the actual mayor. By all accounts, they should be enemies. Deputy Mayor Alexander is the mayor’s right-hand man. Why is he having clandestine meetings with Crouch, the union boss who smears the mayor every chance he gets?

“You’re staring, love,” taunts the British man.

He’s right. I’ve been staring at him in the glass reflection. Because there is something familiar about him. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. Did he bartend at that hotel where I trained as a concierge three years ago before getting bored and throwing myself into the natural deodorant space? No, that’s not it. Where do I know him from?

“Porn,” he says from his elegant lean against the interior wall of the tram. “You know me from pornography, darling,” he drawls, his mouth spreading into a grin. “The good shit.”

I’m turning around before I can stop myself, because holy hell. He’s right.

That dark blond hair, the incredible bone structure, that bedroom rasp.

I don’t remember his name—I’m not a porn junkie, although I like a visual aid as much as the next twenty-six-year old girl—but I used to have more than a few of his videos bookmarked on my phone. And right now, I’m staring at him with clear recognition, so I snap my gaping mouth shut, turning to gauge the reaction of the other two men.

They’re both frowning at British.

“That’s enough,” says a guy who has the best posture I’ve ever seen. His back is perfectly straight, his arms crossed over his impressive chest. For a moment, I think I recognize him from somewhere, as well, but no. He just bears a striking resemblance to the Duke from season one of Bridgerton. As in, he’s a perfect ten, emphasis on perfect. There is not a stitch of his impeccable overcoat and pleated slacks out of place. I could eat the second half of my pizza slice off his shiny wingtips. This man is exacting and apparently in the habit of coming to the defense of women he doesn’t know. Very Duke-like, indeed.

“That’s enough of what?” inquires British, amusement twinkling in his eyes as he turns his attention to the second man. “Charisma? It cannot be turned off, unfortunately. Women upon women have performed very thorough searches of my person looking for the switch.”