Or, you know, marry a billionaire.

I stifle a laugh as I head downstairs to the busy subway platform. Sure, sign me up. But even though I don’t have any fancy friends or family willing to give me a boost up, I’m determined not to let a few minor, stinky setbacks keep me from my dreams. I’m betting everything on this makeup line, and I know that my big break is just around the corner.

When it arrives, I’ll be ready for it.

“Nine? I’ll be there. Wear that red thing I like.”

I turn. The guy next to me is murmuring into his phone, and I’m guessing from the handsome smirk on his face, he’s not talking to his mom.

“You know, with the strings up the back,” he continues, “I’ll have fun unwrapping you.”

Lucky girl.

I like to think that when it comes to hot guys, I’m a connoisseur. Not because of personal experience, but professional: Every day at work, hundreds of well dressed, well-groomed men wander past my counter. This guy though… He’s a cut above the rest. Thick, tousled blonde hair that’s a touch too long. Full, kissable lips. Sharp cheekbones above a jaw accentuated by just the right amount of scruff. All attached to a body packed with lean muscles and—

Why, hello there, hormones. You picked a great time to wake up from hibernation.

The guy catches me eavesdropping, and sends me a wink, not at all bothered to be caught dirty talking on the L. But I guess, looking like that, he could dirty talk his way through the Vatican, and the nuns would all go trade their habits for something red and stringy, and ready to be unwrapped.

Wait, when was the last time anyone unwrapped me?

I pause a moment, running through the mental math. I’ve been so busy with my makeup line, dating’s taken a backseat. One bad blind date with the crypto bro last month, two beers and a brief grope with the guy I met at the bar… The pickings are way too slim since I broke up with my ex last year. And recently the only spice I’m enjoying is on my Kindle.

It’s official. I may as well have ‘return to sender’ stamped on my ass.

“Hey! Watch it!”

An annoyed cry goes up, as a man suddenly sprints down the platform. He slams into Hot Guy as he passes, who loses his balance and crashes into me. I stumble, dropping my bag, spilling my sample boxes across the platform—and onto the tracks.

“Nooo!” I cry, watching my handiwork tumble out of reach. “Are you kidding me?”

Is fate trying to send a message? Does someone up there think my lipsticks suck?

The Hot Guy regains his balance and helps me to my feet. “Are you okay?”

Under different, less catastrophic circumstances, I might admire how his easy grin crinkles the skin near his eyes and makes him even more delectable. At this exact moment, however, all I’m capable of doing is freaking the hell out.