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Something warm unfurls in my stomach. He's funny, thoughtful, and his voice... God, his voice does things to me. Which is dangerous. Very dangerous.

"You're probably perfect," I blurt out.

"What?"

"Handsome, successful, from some important family. That's why your mother's trying to set you up with Hortensia."

He laughs, but it sounds different now. Darker. "Trust me, I'm far from perfect."

"That's exactly what perfect people say."

"What if I told you I was hideously ugly?" he asks, amusement threading through his voice.

"Are you?"

"I could be. Maybe that's why I'm hiding. Protecting delicate wedding guests from my troll-like features."

I snort. "Now who's being ridiculous?"

"Hey, you started it with the 'perfect' theory."

"Well, you're either gorgeous and I shouldn't trust you, or you're ugly and safe. Those are the only logical options."

"That's some interesting logic."

"It's flawless drunk-girl-in-a-bathroom logic." I pause. "I should probably stop talking."

"Please don't. This is the most entertaining conversation I've had all night. Way better than Hortensia's sonnet about offshore accounts."

I laugh, then catch myself. I shouldn't be laughing. Shouldn't be flirting–because that's what this is, isn't it? Flirting with a stranger through a bathroom stall door.

"You know what?" I say, feeling reckless. "I'm going with ugly."

"Ouch."

"No, it's better this way. You're probably covered in warts. Maybe a hunchback. Definitely a unibrow."

"Don't forget my third eye."

"See? Perfect. Now I can enjoy talking to you without worrying."

"Worrying about what?"

"About doing something stupid." The whiskey makes me bold. "Like falling for another guy who's too good to be true."

His voice drops lower. "What if I'm exactly as good as I seem?"

"Then I'm in trouble." I lean my head against the door. "But you're not. You're definitely hideous. I've decided."

"If that helps you sleep at night."

"It will, actually." I close my eyes, smiling. "My very own bathroom troll, keeping me safe from reality."

"Bathroom troll? I've been called many things, but that's a new one."

Something about his tone makes my skin tingle. "Many things like what?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I would, actually."

"Then come out here and find out."

My heart stops. Then starts again, too fast.

"I can't," I say, but my hand's already on the latch.

"Why not?"

"Because..." Because I'm a mess? Because if you're actually gorgeous I might do something stupid? Because talking to you through this door is the safest I've felt all night?”

"Because you're comfortable with your troll theory?"

"Exactly."

"Scared I might prove you wrong?"

Yes. "No."

"Liar." His voice carries a smile. "Come on. Live dangerously."

"I don't do dangerous." Even as I say it, I'm standing, smoothing my dress. "Dangerous gets you hurt."

"Sometimes safe gets you hurt too."

That hits closer to home than he probably realizes. My ex was safe. Reliable. Boring, even. Look how that turned out.

"Tell you what," he says when I don't respond. "I'll make you a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"You come out here, and if I'm as hideous as you hope, you owe me a dance."

"And if you're not?"

"Then I owe you one."

I laugh. "That makes no sense. Either way, we end up dancing."

"Exactly. I'm very strategic like that."

My hand's still on the latch. My heart's still racing. "What if I don't want to dance?"

"Then we'll sit at the bar and make up tragic backstories for all the guests. Or steal Hortensia's poetry journal and dramatically recite it. Or find that waiter and teach him some new Italian curses."

"You're very good at this."

"At what?"

"Making bad ideas sound tempting."

His chuckle is low, dangerous. "Sweetheart, you have no idea."

That voice. That laugh. The way he makes me want to do reckless things just to see what happens next.

I check my makeup in my compact mirror. Not great, but not as disastrous as it could be. My eyes are a little red, but my mascara held up through the crying. Small mercies.

"Last chance to maintain your troll mystique," I warn, unlatching the door.

"I'll try to contain my hideous beauty."

I push the door open.

And oh.

Oh.

He's shirtless. All broad shoulders and sculpted muscle, leaning against the sink like some kind of Greek god who got lost on his way to Olympus. Dark hair slightly messed up, just begging for fingers to run through it. And his face...

Damn it. He's gorgeous.

He looks at me, and something electric passes between us. His eyes are blue – the kind of blue that makes you forget what you were going to say. What I was going to say. What anyone has ever said in the history of saying something.

"Well," he says, voice rough. "Looks like you owe me a dance."

I should say something witty. Something cool and collected. Instead, what comes out is: "You're not hideous."

"Disappointed?" His smile widens, and I notice a small dimple in his left cheek. Unfair. Everything about him is unfair.

"This was not part of the plan."

"No?" He pushes off from the sink, and suddenly the bathroom feels very small. "What was the plan?"

"You were supposed to be safe." I take a step back, but there's nowhere to go. "Ugly. Married. Something."

"Sorry to disappoint." He moves closer, and I catch his scent – something expensive and masculine that makes my pulse skip. "Though I'm curious why you think being attractive makes men dangerous."

"Because—" I swallow hard as he takes another step. "Because I might do something stupid."

"Like what?"

Like kiss him. Like run my hands over those shoulders. Like forget every reason this is a terrible idea.

"I should go," I whisper, but I don't move.

"Should you?" He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Because I'm thinking we should explore this stupid idea of yours."

"Which one?"

His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my bottom lip. "All of them."

The touch sends electricity down my spine. "This is a mistake."

"Probably." His other hand slides to my waist, and heat blooms everywhere he touches. "Want to make it anyway?"

I should say no. Should walk away. Should remember how these things end.

Instead, I grab his shoulders and pull him down to me.

The kiss is nothing like I expected. Not gentle. Not tentative. His mouth claims mine like he's been waiting hours to do this, and maybe he has. I gasp, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I'm dizzy with it.

His hands tighten on my waist, lifting me onto the counter. I wrap my legs around him instinctively, drawing him closer, needing to feel more. His skin is hot under my palms as I explore his chest, his shoulders, his back.

"God," he groans against my mouth. "You feel—"

A door slams somewhere in the hallway, voices passing by. We freeze, breathing hard.

"We shouldn't," I whisper, but my legs are still locked around him.

"Give me one good reason."

I can't think of any. Not with his mouth trailing down my neck, his hands sliding under my dress.

"Someone could walk in."

"Don't care." He nips at my pulse point, and I bite back a moan. "Been wanting to touch you since I heard your voice."

"You don't even know me."

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "Then let me learn you."

His words hit me like whiskey – smooth, potent, dangerous. Everything about this is dangerous. The way he looks at me like I'm something precious and breakable. The way his hands span my waist, thumbs tracing patterns that make me shiver. The way I want to say yes to anything he asks.

"Someone's going to come looking for me," I manage.

"Let them look." His mouth finds that spot behind my ear that makes my toes curl. "They won't find you."

"Why not?"

"Because I locked the door."

I pull back. "When did you—"

"Right after you laughed the first time." He grins against my neck. "I liked your laugh. Wanted to hear more of it."

"That's... surprisingly sweet for a bathroom hookup."

"Is that what this is?" His hands slide higher under my dress, and rational thought becomes difficult. "Just a hookup?"

"What else could it be?"