He had that kind of Keanu Reeves–in-the-nineties vibe, except more tan and more Korean. He had hair that was short in the back but somehow too long and constantly falling into his eyes in the front. He had to regularly run his hands through it, pushing his dark locks out of his face. He was forever in motion, too. The only time he ever sat still was to sketch, and even then, his hands were flickering back and forth across a page.

But, anyway, that’s what AJ looked like.

Like a dark-haired Apollo. Like a young god.

Like a boy who ought to have been a model but was instead an artist.

He was perfect.

Rinn sighed. It was hopeless. The only thing AJ talked to Rinn about was work and old murder mysteries. Still, she kept AJ in her line of sight, hopeful that he might come over to the register and chat. It was the first official day of summer, and Rinn had read enough to know that summer was peak romance.

Anything could happen on midsummer. Even AJ Park could fall in love with her.

Rinn knew that she was a modern woman and she ought to go and talk to him on her own. It was just that whenever Rinn thought about talking to AJ about anything other than books, her breathing got all shallow, like when she was filming one of her daily vlogs and she started sweating in places she didn’t know a person could sweat. Rinn had been to therapy. She knew the word for that. Panic. And she knew the cure, too.

Go do it. Go say hi.

Rinn nodded to herself, smoothed down the front of her skirt, and took one step out from behind the register. She could do this. She could definitely go talk to AJ. He’s a person. She’s a person. They could be two people who just said hello and then maybe fell in love forever.

And that was when Imogen Azar came out of the staff room and all hell froze over.

Nobody moved for a solid minute. Not Imogen. Not AJ. Not even Daniella. Rinn could barely breathe. And Imogen, she seemed to be waiting to see what everyone else was going to do, waiting to see how everyone was going to react.

Rinn didn’t mean to stare. Not stare stare. But Imogen had walked into the break room wearing a helmet and—Rinn was pretty sure—all of her hair. Imogen walked out of the break room with a shaved head. Which was no hair whatsoever, save for the tiny quarter inch of stubble that was left. Rinn simply couldn’t compute what to say to that. She’d never seen a person lose all of their hair in five minutes flat.