“Of course,” I find myself saying, and I think it’s because he’s holding my hand and it’s so nice that I’d probably agree to about anything at this point. Besides, I can’t allow his mother to think poorly of her amazing son.

“Excellent.” He flashes two dimples at me and my knees weaken. “Let’s go deal with your driver.” With those words, he walks us quickly to the driver holding my name on his iPad. He speaks in rapid Korean and, before I can say anything, takes out his wallet and gives the driver some bills. The driver smiles and bows to him, obviously thanking him profusely. With a quick grin at me, Choi Yujun turns back toward the exit doors. “Now, we’ll make plans in the car.”

It all happens so fast that I almost miss the last part. “What do you mean ‘plans’?”

CHAPTER SIX

I’m a meme now. Specifically that *record scratch* *freeze frame* one where I look at the camera and say you’re probably wondering how I got myself in this situation. The situation being me in the back of an expensive black car with a delectable stranger in a foreign city. The problem is I can’t precisely recreate my decision-making process. It’s a blur. One minute I was trying to catch up to long-legged Yujun, and the next moment, my luggage was disappearing inside the trunk of a black sedan so glossy I could see my reflection in its finish. I recall hesitating, but both men waiting beside the open car door and a stream of curious onlookers drove me into the back seat. Yujun flashed his dimples, and we were off.

It takes more than an hour to drive from the airport, which is situated on an island connected to mainland Seoul by two long bridges. I don’t even get a moment to text Boyoung because Choi Yujun, who insists I call him Yujun, has all sorts of questions: What do I do in Iowa? Copy editor for a home-and-garden magazine and web portal. Is this my first trip to Korea? Yes. Do I have any definitive plans? Yes, but none that I’m sharing. Those I keep to myself. I’ve already panic blurted out too many details.

In between the questions, he reveals that he was on his way to a dinner, but it was with his mother and she will understand why he’s late. Based on the irritated looks the driver keeps sending my way in the rearview mirror, I have some doubts.

Yujun either ignores his driver, Park Minho, as he stiffly introduced himself, or doesn’t notice the other man’s irritation. Yujun is busy pointing out landmarks—the tall needle-pointed building to the south is Lotte Tower, the tallest building in South Korea. To the north is Namsan, one of the five mountains—or guardians, he calls them. He tells me both are can’t-miss tourist destinations and I file that information away. I do want to see things while I’m here—museums, historical sites, the markets. Maybe I’ll do some of that with my dad. Lee Jonghyung. I wonder where he lives. South by the Lotte Tower or north by the mountains? Does he live in one of the thousands of mid-rise concrete-block apartment buildings or in one of the houses with the clay-tiled roofs? Will he cry when he sees me? Will I cry?