He’s wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt, which would suggest: Ian. The problem . . .

His hair is the problem. Because, despite what Mara said, it’s most definitely not brown. Maybe a fraction of a shade darker than her bright, carroty orange, but . . . really not brown. I’m ready to dial her number and demand to know what ridiculous ginger scale the Floyds operate on when the man slowly stands and asks, “Hannah?”

I have no idea how tall Ian is, but he’s much closer to eight feet than to three. And I find it very interesting that Mara claims to barely know him, considering that they look like they could be siblings, not just because of the aggressively red hair, but also because of the dark-blue eyes, and the dusting of freckles over pale skin, and . . .

I blink. Then I blink again. If three seconds ago someone had asked me whether I’m the type to multiple blink at the sight of some guy, I’d have laughed in their face. This guy, though . . .

I guess I stand corrected.

“Ian?” I smile, recovering from the surprise. “Mara’s cousin?”

He frowns, as if momentarily blanking on Mara’s name. “Ah, yes.” He nods. Only once. “Apparently,” he adds, which makes me laugh. He waits for me to take a seat across from him before folding back into his chair. I notice that he doesn’t hold out his hand, nor does he smile. Interesting. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“No problem.” His voice is low-pitched but clear. Deep timbre. Confident; polite but not too friendly. I’m usually fairly good at reading people, and my guess for him is that he’s not quite enthused to be here. He’d probably rather be doing whatever it is that he came to California to do, but he’s a nice guy, and he’s planning to make a valiant effort to avoid letting me know.

He just doesn’t seem to be particularly good at faking it, which is . . . kinda cute.

“I hope I didn’t mess up your day.”

He shakes his head—an obvious lie—and I take the opportunity to study him. He seems . . . quiet. The silent type, aloof, a little stiff. Big, more lumberjack than engineer. I briefly wonder if he’s military personnel, but the day-old stubble on his face tells me it’s unlikely.

And such an intriguing, handsome face it is. His nose looks like it was broken at some point, maybe in a fight or a sports injury, and never bothered to heal back quite perfectly. His hair—red—is short and a little mussed, more I’ve been up working since six a.m. than artful styling. I watch him scratch his—big—neck, then cross his—wide—biceps on his—broad—chest. He gives me a patient, expectant look, like he’s fully committed to answering all my questions.

He is, physically, the opposite of me. Of my small bones and tanned complexion. My hair, eyes, sometimes even my soul, are black-hole dark. And here he is, Martian red and ocean blue.