Maybe Helena finally realized that any hope of me settling down with someone was a lost cause, and decided to channel her efforts into me settling down somewhere. I can almost picture her, cackling like a satisfied hag, and it makes me miss her a million times harder.

Feeling much better, I leave my suitcase just off the porch (no one is going to steal it, not covered as it is in geeky keep calm and recycle on, and good planets are hard to find, and trust me, i’m an environmental engineer stickers). I run a hand through my long curls, hoping they’re not too messy (they probably are). I remind myself that Liam Harding is unlikely to be a threat—just a rich, spoiled man-boy with the depth of a surfboard who cannot intimidate me—and lift my arm to ring the bell. Except that the door swings open before I can get to it, and I find myself standing in front of . . .

A chest.

A broad, well-defined chest under a button-down. And a tie. And a dark suit jacket.

The chest is attached to other body parts, but it’s so wide that for a moment it’s all I can see. Then I manage to shift my gaze and finally notice the rest: Long, well-muscled legs filling what’s left of the suit. Shoulders and arms stretching for miles. A square jaw and full lips. Short dark hair, and a pair of eyes barely a shade darker.

They are, I realize, fixed on me. Studying me with the same avid, confused interest I’m experiencing. The man appears to be unable to look away, as if spellbound at some base, deeply physical level. Which is a relief, because I can’t look away, either. I don’t want to.

It’s like a punch to my solar plexus, how attractive I find him. It addles my brain and makes me forget that I’m standing right in front of a stranger. That I should probably say something. That the heat I’m feeling is probably inappropriate.

He clears his throat, looking as flustered as I feel.

I smile. “Hi,” I say, a little breathless.

“Hi.” He sounds the exact same. He wets his lips, as though his mouth is suddenly dry, and wow. That’s a good look for him. “Can I . . . Can I help you?” His voice is beautiful. Deep. Rich. A little hoarse. I could marry this voice. I could roll around in this voice. I could listen to this voice forever and give up every other sound. But maybe I should first answer the question.

“Do you, um, live here?”

“I think so,” he says, as though too wonderstruck to remember. Which makes me laugh.

“Great. I am here for . . .” What am I here for? Ah. Yes. “I was looking for, um, Liam. Liam Harding. Do you know where I can find him?”

“It’s me. I’m he.” He clears his throat again. Is he flushing? “That is, I am Liam.”