Oh my God, shut up, Solange.

His smile widens (hopefully not because he’s picturing me in Pampers). “If it’s any consolation, Lina thinks you’re brilliant.”

I try not to fidget; brilliance is a lot to live up to. “I’d prefer to think of myself as resourceful and good-hearted.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t be brilliant too, does it?”

I tap my chin, pretending to consider his question. “Now that you mention it, you’re absolutely right. I’m fucking brilliant too.”

He nods in encouragement, the laugh lines around his eyes appearing just to spite me. “That’s the fucking spirit.”

We grin at each other—until images of the encounter in the stairwell flash in my mind and force me to remember that this man’s heading to his wedding ceremony.

Honestly, I’ve never lamented the notion that all of the good ones are taken—lots of bad ones are taken too—but it seems especially unfortunate that I’m meeting this guy today. Just in case you were wondering, Fate: You. Are. Trash. Because if this man were free, he would definitely rise to the top of my to-do list. Well, I’ll just console myself by assuming he’s bad in bed. Cutie in the streets, troll in the sheets. C’mon, it’s only fair.

Dean’s gaze travels over my face, then he scrunches his brow and jerks his head as though his brain needs a reset. “Well, anyway, thanks for helping out today.”

“My pleasure.”

I’m all smiles and pleasantries on the outside, but inside my chest is deflating like a tire with a slow leak. Truth is, the narrow hallway isn’t big enough to contain the secret I’m keeping, and my lips aren’t sufficiently disciplined to remain shut. It’s right there on the tip of my tongue: Your bride’s in love with someone else. Run!

But then Dean’s phone rings, and he answers without hesitation, a shrill voice entering our bubble of conversation. The call’s a timely reminder that I know very little about this man’s life and shouldn’t wreak havoc on it unless I’m certain it’s the right thing to do.

“Dean, sweetie, that bastard posted an eviction notice on my door,” the irate person on the other line says loud enough for me to hear. “The judge said he couldn’t do that, right? What now?”

“Hang on, Mrs. Budros.”

He presses the phone against his chest so Mrs. Budros can’t hear him.

“It’s my client,” he explains to me. “I need to take this.”

“Let me guess: You’re a lawyer.”

“Guilty as charged,” he says with a grin. “Excuse me a minute.”

Pressing a finger against his free ear, he pivots away from me and strolls down the hall. “I’m back,” he says to his client.