Because I’m that kind of predictable, and even though he broke my heart, he was the only one who saw me. With him, I wasn’t nothing. I was something.

I guess I just wasn’t enough.

Grateful that Jasper’s gone, I quickly turn to leave.

What I don’t realize is that there’s someone standing directly behind me—that is, not until I collide with the solid mass of another human. The two iced coffees on the front of my tray explode onto a tidy white T-shirt.

“Starflame!” I curse. “I am so sorry! Here, let me get some—”

“Jess?”

I look up and am assaulted by liquid brown eyes and amazingly long eyelashes. The human is tall and angular, like a lot of the J-Pop singers Bran likes, with thick dark hair and black-rimmed glasses and…oh.

Oh no.

He is very very hot. Hot like I-want-to-be-stuck-in-an-elevator-with-you hot, not we-are-now-mortal-enemies-because-I-just-spilled-my-coffee-on-you-while-not-paying-attention hot.

He’s holding a phone in one hand and a wallet in the other, and the front of his once-pristine tee and neat black pants is absolutely drenched.

Worse yet, I recognize him at the exact same moment that he recognizes me.

“Really?” is all I can say to Jessica Stone’s assistant.

A subtle, almost vulnerable look crosses his face before his expression closes like a vault slamming shut. He scowls. “Do you even look where you’re going?”

“You snuck up on me!”

“Snuck up? I was standing here the whole time!”

“Yeah, on your phone.”

“The fact that I can stand and text and you can’t see me isn’t quite my fault,” he snaps, picking his wet shirt off his stomach.

I grab a handful of napkins to mop up the floor. People are beginning to turn and stare. A barista armed with a mop and bucket is heading in our direction.

He crinkles his nose. “Ugh, hazelnut…”

I pause. “What’s wrong with hazelnut?”

“Besides that it’s all over me?”

“Trust me, it adds character.” I stand up, tossing the sopping napkins in the trash.

We glower at each other. What an infuriating—awful—irritating—ARGH! The fury coming off us both is as thick as the Georgia humidity. You could try to cut it with a knife but it’d only cobble itself back together, like some Scooby-Doo slime monster.

And here I thought he was hot?

He opens his mouth to say something but then his phone rings. It’s a generic tone—of course it is. White T-shirt, black glasses, skinny slacks, default ringtone.

Ugh, Muggles.

He’s probably just as horrible as his boss. Like goes with like, as they say.

The barista pulls out the mop, which I take as my cue to escape. I grab my half-intact tray from the counter and beat a hasty retreat.

I don’t stop until I’m back at my hotel, where I discover that, as fate would have it, I’ve lost my keycard.