There’s a tall, dark, handsome-type guy sitting across from me, waiting for the same flight and reading a paperback of The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova. By the pace at which he flips the pages—barely every minute or so—I know he’s focused on me from the corner of his eye.

I slip one foot out of my pump and wiggle my hot pink toenails, popping the mint gum between my lips and eyeing him brazenly.

He looks up, a polite smile on his face. “May I help you?” he asks.

“No, but I can help you.” I flash him a grin.

His brow rises. “You can? Please enlighten me as to how.”

“I can move somewhere else, so you won’t be distracted and can finish your book. It’s a wonderful novel, you know? Vlad the Impaler was the real MVP.”

God bless my weird obsession with Eastern European folklore.

Tall, Dark, and Handsome closes the book and rests it on his crossed legs, sitting back and giving me his full attention.

“Do you have a name?”

“What am I, Arya Stark? Of course, I have a name.”

He bursts out in laughter, which instantly makes me smile. My heart is pounding all over my chest. I steal a glance at his left hand. No ring. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t involved.

I will never repeat my Callum mistake.

It appears TDAH is also a mind reader.

“Single, in case you’re wondering. Which, let’s admit it, you are.”

“And Irish,” I point out after hearing the accent.

I don’t want this to be a fling. I don’t want a fling. I want a Pretty Woman moment (sans the part where I sell my body, obviously). I want my Richard Gere. I want to know if Tall, Dark, Handsome, and Irish slept with someone else the night of Rory’s Christmas party. If he is the one. If I should be irrationally furious at him about bedding that ho on Christmas. Somehow, I can’t bring myself to be mad at him, though. Because he’s so here now, so alive in front of me, and it feels like the entire world—the sky, the earth, everything between—is ours to explore if we wish to.

“And Irish.” He nods. “But I live in New York.”

“You do?”

He nods again.

“What do you do?” That’s my quota of dos for the rest of the week.

“I own a shop.”

“What kind of shop?”

“One that sells sex toys and other high-end toys of the variety you won’t be buying your godchildren,” he says flatly.

I stare at him, unblinking, waiting for him to tell me he’s joking. When I realize he isn’t, I smile. “Just my type.”

He grins. He has a glorious grin, not to be confused with a smile. No, his looks are cunning and mischievous and drugging.

“I’m Kirby.”

“Summer.”