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Judging by the dildo in my backpack, letting Missy—my roommate turned cat-sitter—help me pack last night had clearly been a bad decision. One that was worse than wearing the loafers I’d chosen that morning which soaked up the New York rain like dry sponges. Hell, it was even worse than waiting until I'd left the office before telling Brendon, my immediate supervisor and ex-boyfriend (another bad decision), that I had scheduled time off. Which, of course, subsequently left me having a panic attack on the subway home.

I hadn’t actually forgotten.

It was on my calendar.

Which was sacred.

I’d consulted both our boss and HR to get approval for the dates I’d be gone. All my bases were covered, so to speak.

Brendon had, predictably, blown up my phone the entire ride, but I’d ignored every buzz in my pocket. Despite his fury, a sick wave of relief had flooded through me at the realization that I wouldn’t have to see him for eight blissful days.

Truthfully, I’d known that if I gave Brendon notice, he’d find a way to keep me in New York. And even though going back to small-town Ohio for my other ex, Roderick’s, wedding was not exactly the homecoming I was dying for, I couldn’t stomach the thought of causing my mother to make that face.

Her disappointed face.

The same face she’d made for the last eight years every time I’d cancelled a trip home.

She always loved it when her “big city son” came to visit. She’d gossip with her friends, ask me thousands of questions, and parade me around town with her head held high and a smile on her round face.

But those visits had grown sparser and sparser as the years had dragged on.

Which had created a rift between us, leaving me both apprehensive and eager to heal the damage.

Life wasn’t fair.

At thirty-three, with soggy rain-soaked socks, I knew that better than anyone. Which was why there was a dildo in my backpack. Or, more accurately, there had been a dildo in my backpack—before I’d accidentally knocked it out.

I immediately knew who the culprit was.

“ Missy ,” I gasped in horror as the veiny silicone soared through the air, right over the edge of the conveyor belt, and down to the floor.

A sane person would not bring a sex toy to their ex-boyfriend’s wedding. A fact that everyone—and I mean everyone —in the entire world knew except Drunk-Missy-From-Last-Night, apparently.

There was no telling if she’d done this to fuck with me on purpose, or if she’d thought she was “helping”. This , as in, packing my fucking dildo— nicknamed Nine-Inch-Neil for his length and girth—in my back-up backpack. The same backpack I took with me every time I traveled, full of a variety of clothing options on the off-chance fate fucked me in the ass and lost my checked bag.

It was a just-in-case bag.

A precaution .

Which was why I hadn’t thought anything of it when Missy had offered to shove the clothing I’d laundered earlier that day inside it. I should’ve known she’d been up to no good.

Missy had been a wild card the entire decade we’d been friends.

At fifteen years my senior, with gray hair, a wardrobe full of pastels, and an unrepentant taste for chaos —she, for some odd reason, thought she knew better than I did. Maybe because, even though she tended to opt for the most wildly unhinged choice available in any given situation, things always seemed to work out for her.

Some of us—and by that, I mean me —were not that lucky.

Once, Missy had stolen a shopping cart straight out of a drugstore. Walked out the front door with it and down the street with no interjection from the staff or police at all. She’d spent the weekend weaving ribbon through the metal till it resembled a satin basket on wheels. And then she’d returned it the following Monday—directly to the store manager, might I add—with a note that read “Merry Christmas.”

In July.

He’d offered her a job.

Knowing her, she’d probably thought the dildo would be a good omen.

But it wasn’t.

How could it be?

As it rolled across the floor and my stomach dropped along with it.

The Kindle I’d been digging for inside my backpack fell into the plastic bin with a clatter. On the move already, the tray scooted down the conveyor belt toward the X-ray machine.

I hardly noticed .

Because my soul was too busy evacuating my body.

I bent over fast enough my spine cracked. When I lunged forward, my fingers whistled through open air, missing Neil by a scant few inches. The dildo continued to roll. And because life wasn’t fair, the damn thing rolled straight into the very expensive-looking Italian leather loafer of the man standing in line behind me—before I could catch it.

He made a sound. Half laugh, half cough. His foot moved, blocking the dildo from view of the row of people at the conveyor belt to our right.

And I wanted. To. Die.

Slowly, I looked up, cheeks burning, and what I saw only made everything worse. Way way worse. Because the expensive shoes were connected to muscular calves and thick thighs.

Oh Jesus .

And the man himself? Yes. Fuck my life.

He was objectively hot as hell.

Broad shoulders. A square jaw. Full lips. An air about him that screamed mischief—and an almost overwhelming confidence—even with a dildo currently pressed to his foot—as though this were his world and the rest of us were borrowing space within it.

Like mine, his hair had been affected by the rain. Lightly curled, a single ebony-colored lock fell across his forehead, escaping what I was sure had previously been an artful style. Everything about him looked like carefully manufactured effortlessness. Dressed in a charcoal gray Armani suit, but with the collar undone, like he was too cool to make proper use of the buttons provided.

His pale blue eyes were ringed by lashes so dark they smudged like eyeliner. They flickered with wicked understanding, making it obvious that he knew exactly whose dildo had tapped his toe. He’d probably observed the whole goddamn thing, spine-snapping and all. His almost domineering vibe was softened only by the smirk on his lips and the dimples that framed said smirk, twin companions to his chaos .

Deliberately, he met my gaze as he squatted, thick thighs flexing, tanned fingers reaching for?—

Oh Jesus.

No, no, no, no.

Why was he touching it?!

When he stood, I stood too, heart pounding, hands clenched into fists at my sides.

“You dropped this.” His voice was slightly higher than my own and buttery warm. His obvious mirth at my expense made my hair stand on end.

What sort of asshole witnesses the apocalypse and smirks?

Did he think this was funny ?

This was the antithesis of funny.

I was so offended by his blasé attitude, it took me a second to realize that my Neil —my nine-inch Neil—was still in his hand. Snatching the dildo right out of Armani-man’s grip, I wasted no time shoving it into my backpack, germs and all. It wasn’t until the sex toy was zipped back up and out of sight that I could breathe.

I triple-checked the zipper was shut. Shakily, I shoved the plastic tray that the backpack sat inside onto the conveyor belt. My Kindle had already rattled down to the end, passing through the airport security’s X-ray machine with zero problem.

Relax, George.

It’s over.

Just get through security.

You never have to see this man again.

You’re fine.

For the first time since Mom had sent me my plane ticket home, I was ecstatic to go. I couldn’t wait to get as far, far away from this whole situation as I possibly could.

I hadn’t said a single word to Mr. Armani, and I didn’t intend to .

No.

He’d seen too much.

For a brief, unhinged moment, I debated whether or not I needed to kill him.

But…that felt extreme.

Even given the circumstances.

Besides, the only pointy item I had on me was a ballpoint pen—which would be an ineffective murder weapon, even in a pinch.

It was better for everyone if I pretended he didn’t exist.

Unfortunately, he was making that very difficult. The weight of his gaze made the hair on my nape stand on end. An electric fizzle of something—fear, maybe?—tempted me to acknowledge him, but I didn’t.

Through sheer force of will, I maintained what I hoped was an air of unbotheredness as I waited for my turn at the body scanner. There was a bit of rustling, no doubt him taking his shoes off.

“Hey,” he tried. I pretended I didn’t hear. If he’d been anything other than an asshole he would’ve let me slowly implode in peace. On a good day, I abhorred the idea of being seen as less than perfect. Today was not a good day.

Therefore, I refused to acknowledge what had happened.

There was a balding man in front of me wearing a Hawaiian shirt and khakis. I studied the shiny spot on the back of his head to distract myself, relieved when he finished his turn inside the body scanner, and I was next. Immediately after he’d passed through to the other side, the TSA attendant waved me over.

Which was excellent.

Wonderful, even.

I’d officially survived a whole thirty seconds without having to speak to the man behind me.

If I were lucky, I might get through security before Armani-guy managed another word. When I stepped forward, so did he—far closer to my back than he needed to be .

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” his voice dropped low, quiet enough only I could hear. There was no denying the mirth that danced in his tone, though. The asshole really did think this was funny.

No need to be embarrassed? Ha!

Don’t respond.

Ignore him, George.

The weight of his gaze remained as I strode away from him and into the machine. The whole time it whirred, my hands held high above my head, my back vulnerable, I willed a hole to open up in the floor and swallow me. But it didn’t. Anxious to escape, I stepped free when directed. It took a lot of effort to waddle-walk in damp-socked feet while attempting an air of nonchalance.

Like I wasn’t running.

When I so clearly was.

Bald-guy was taking forever. As I waited for him to finish putting his shoes on, I glanced over my shoulder. Fuck. Armani-man was nearly through the body scanner.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Nervous sweat beaded at my temple. Just then, the balding man finally stopped blocking my access. He moved out of the way, and as quickly as I could, I jerked my shoes and backpack on.

Move, George. If you speed-walk, he won’t be able to catch up.

Speed-walking was my specialty. I often ran half-marathons to catch the subway, or to avoid Brendon when he tried to terrorize me at work.

I had the legs for it.

A fact I was more than a little grateful for at present, as I hurried away. Paranoia got the better of me right before I turned the corner at the end of the hall. When I glanced back toward security, I was relieved and totally not disappointed to see the sexy stranger was still slipping his watch around his wrist.

He wasn’t paying attention to me anymore.

Instead, he was chatting with an employee in a spiffy blue uniform. His smirk remained, like being smarmy was simply a part of who he was.

Good.

That was good.

He’d already forgotten about me. At least one of us had moved on from the dildo incident.

Maybe my luck was turning around?

Maybe…despite the hell that’d been this morning, the universe had decided I’d suffered enough. I could only pray that I would never see those dimples again. Unluckily for me, fate—like Missy—had a strange sense of humor.