She laughs. “This explains the mud on your jeans.” She leans toward me and peers at the side of my head. “And on your ear. Come here.”

I tip my head toward her, and she plucks a glob of gunk off my right earlobe.

“You just . . . sit there, drink your tea, and calm down. I’m going to go wash my hands,” she says. “Be right back.”

I take a long, cold drink and feel the sugary sweetness slide down my throat. The tea helps settle the tornado roaring inside me. But that’s what life always feels like these days—a giant natural disaster.

There’s beauty in the storm. I know that and I appreciate it. I even start my day off by listing things that I’m grateful for out loud. It’s supposed to help build a pattern of positive thinking—at least that’s what the TikTok influencers say while I’m scrolling in the middle of the night.

But it’s still a damn storm.

I’m lifting my glass to take another sip of sugar when a shoulder brushes against mine. I’m two seconds from turning and giving someone a warning . . . but stop.

My body stills as a set of large, calloused hands presses against the laminate countertop next to me.

Thick, muscled wrists attach to forearms the size of my biceps. The space around me is impregnated with a very heady, very masculine vibe.

A bubble of curiosity blooms in my stomach. The intrigue grows as a rich, balmy scent licks at my senses. It’s the kind of cologne I love—the type that makes the person smelling it feel better, more confident, more attractive by proxy.

That is not a harbinger of good things, though. I know from experience.

I ignore the warning bells dinging in my head like the seasoned expert I am and twist to the side . . . and nearly fall off my stool.

Holy. Man. Candy.

His hair—thick and wild, lying to the side in an errant wave—is the color of tobacco. It’s a stark juxtaposition to the chips of sapphire sparkling in his eyes. A sharp jaw is dusted with more than a day’s worth of stubble, finishing the glorious package with a sinful edge.

“Hey,” he says, his voice smooth and inviting.

“I’m sorry,” I say, finding my voice. “Do I know you?”

He grins. “Not yet.”

Damn it. My insides tighten, and I squirm in my seat.

“That’s actually why I sat down,” he says. “I was hoping that you’d give me your number.”

What?

He laughs at the look on my face. The sound is warm and effortless—the audible version of his cologne.

“And why would I give you my number?” Because you’re gorgeous. “I don’t even know your name.”

“That’s an easy fix.”

His smile blurs the chaos of the restaurant bustling around us. It’s as if it’s just us in the room, and he doesn’t notice anything but me.

“Knowing your name is not a good enough reason to give you my number,” I say, lifting a brow.