Boyoung has one and she doesn’t like it, which I understand. There’s always some dumbass back home ready to mock you for your Engrish. If I had a dollar for every time I heard I love you long time at a bar, my bank account would rival Bill Gates’s.

“I studied in the States,” he admits.

“Oh, really?” I’m about to ask where when it strikes me that the conversation we’re having is an odd one for a driver and a passenger. He probably doesn’t want to field personal questions about his educational history from some random American he’s ferrying to a rental. I drag my attention away from his perfect face and his delicious body to the task at hand. “So Kim Boyoung arranged for you to take me to my rental. Do you have the address?”

He shakes his head. “I do not, but if you provide it, I will be glad to assist.”

This surprises me, because Boyoung’s the type of person who calls ahead to see if the pizza place is serving fresh and not canned pineapple, but maybe this is the way it’s done here in Korea. I don’t want to look stupid so I pull up the address on my notes app.

The man angles his head toward mine and I get a whiff of something warm and citrusy. If I sniff his neck, will he call a customs agent to deport me back to America? I better not risk it.

“Do you know how to get there?”

“I’m familiar with the general area,” he concedes.

“Great. Great.” I’m so very awkward. “Um, this is all I have.” I point to the large red case at my side along with my wheeled carry-on.

The handle of the big case is in his grasp and he’s moving before I process what’s happening. “Wait.” I trot to catch up with him. Does he not realize his legs are twice as long as mine? “I can push my own luggage.”

“Yes, I’m sure you can,” he replies but doesn’t return the case. “My car is this way.”

Unless I want to wrestle him, I don’t think he’s going to let me handle my own luggage.

“I lived in America for a few years when I was young,” he says when I catch up. “California, to be precise. What part are you from?”

“The Midwest. Iowa.” I’m not surprised at his blank face. My state’s not called a flyover state for nothing. “Near Chicago.”

That he knows. “I visited once. The water is lovely.” This time the smile is deeper and I make a devastating discovery. He has dimples. I can tell by the way the shadow hits that should he really smile, the divot would be caverns deep.

“Yes, lovely,” I echo. Oh no. There’s a song that Boyoung shared with me about dimples, and one of the lyrics was about whether the crease was an angel’s kiss. This is a sign that God plays favorites. No man has the right to be beautiful and have a dimpled smile.