Somewhere in the past five days, I started liking this Not-Really-Ben guy. NRB is a smart, funny, slightly-proper-sounding cutie who I’m almost skipping to meet. I’m even a few minutes on the early side. This is partly because I want to covertly-but-not-creepily scope him out from a distance. Also, because something about the way he articulates himself and how quickly he responds to our messages gives me an I am severely prompt vibe. I don’t want to disappoint him by being late.

It’s no hardship, the long walk from my place to the bench across from Boulangerie, soaking up the glorious morning, fall in her splendor. The world is a gemstone mosaic. Emerald grass. Amber leaves swaying in the breeze against a sapphire sky laced with diamond-white clouds. It’s one of those days that I could sit down just about anywhere with my colored pens and paper and draw for hours.

But I don’t have hours, I have minutes. So I keep on walking.

As I get closer, my gaze snags on a man seated on the bench where I’ll meet NRB, a book splayed in his lap. A zing of awareness dances down my spine. He has a strong profile. Long nose, angular jaw, pronounced cheekbones. Lips that he tugs gently between his teeth as he reads the book cradled in his bent legs. He’s really freaking hot.

Then again, he’s reading a book, and that’s always revved my engine. There are entire handles on Instagram devoted to candid shots of hotties reading in public. Humanity has spoken: reading a book makes a sexy someone even sexier.

I watch him as my walk slows, as I come closer to the bench. His posture is excellent, his clothing pristine—

Ohhhh no. It can’t be.

But it is. He is.

Hottie with a Book is none other than Jamie Westenberg, parked on the very bench where, in five minutes, I’m supposed to meet NRB. My luck. My fucking luck. Of course, right before my nerve-racking date, I would bump into Jamie McJudgerpants.

I stop in my tracks just beyond the bench. Noticing someone staring at him, Jamie glances up, one finger holding his place in the text. His eyes drag up my body, widening as they meet my face.

“Beatrice?” he says hoarsely.

“James.” I curtsy. Because I’m weird, and sometimes I do things like that.

He snaps the book shut and, without breaking eye contact, slides it into his messenger bag beside him. And then he does something I really don’t think I’ll ever forget.

He stands. Like I’m someone you stand for. I stare at him, so tall and straight, standing for me as my heart spins like a top. Trying to ignore that inconveniently swoony feeling, I hike my bag higher on my shoulder, but my eyes ignore the mental mandate and wander his body. Unfortunately, the great outdoors suits Jamie.