I looked up and fumbled to switch off the camera, afraid he’d see what I was looking at. “Yes, I think so,” I said, and smiled, sweeping my hair out of my face because, as usual, I hadn’t bothered to get it done, and I was overdue for a cut.

“Hal Olson,” he said, offering his hand, and I took it. A perfect handshake.

“Ruth,” I said, momentarily forgetting my last name. “Ruth . . . Martin.”

“And you’re a . . . photographer?” He pointed to the camera hanging around my neck.

“Sort of.” I laughed. “I’m a journalist. Judith was my politics professor in college.”

“Lucky you,” he said in a smooth baritone. “She’s impressive. And has done so much for women’s rights.”

“Yeah, she’s a . . . hero,” I stuttered, thinking that he should be on the radio with a voice like that. Then there was this awkward pause while I looked around the room hoping someone would read my mind and hand me a glass of cabernet, but no one did. “I liked your speech,” I said, finally thinking of something to say.

“Oh, that old thing.” Hal waved his hand. “My wife told me it was—what was her word—‘tired.’”

His wife? Of course. Where was she? I scanned the room again, as if she might be glowing orange or wearing a crown or something else that would make her easy to locate. With a man this good-looking, she should be attached to him at all times.

“Okay, well . . . I’d better get back to work,” I said, because, tick-tock, I couldn’t waste my time on unavailable men.

“May I have your card?” he asked.

“Uh . . .” I tried to think about all the reasons why it would be wrong to give him my card versus all the perfectly okay reasons to professionally network with a local lawyer who volunteers with disadvantaged members of the community who need legal advocacy from a really handsome tall married man.

“You could interview me,” he said, as though he’d heard my thoughts. “For your story. I assume you’re writing a story?”

“Uh . . . yeah,” I said, digging in my camera bag and finding a crumpled old card. “Here ya go. The address isn’t right, but the main number is.”

Hal flipped his business card out of his hand like a magic trick. “Call me,” he said.

I took the card and shook my head, exhaling. This guy had a lot of nerve. Vibrant and confident, he had an energy about him, and his blue eyes were intense. He looked like a model in an Eddie Bauer catalog: red-blooded but kind. He looked great in a suit, but I bet he’d also be great on a hike. And funny. Like George Clooney, he had a troublemaking grin. A killer combination.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.