e dress, the most conservative thing she owned. It was a statement of compliance, not enthusiasm. She applied a thin layer

high and excited, on the phone with one of her friend

her purse, a worn leather bag she'd had

hanging up the phone. "Just perfect. Now r

ending to read the newspaper, and out the front door. The cool

eaming in her own head. The Daily Grind Café was exactly what she expected: a generic, so

f The New York Times. She saw him immediately. Or rather, she saw his back

ked toward the table, each ste

er voice barely a wh

ng jaw, and eyes so dark and deep they seemed to pull her in. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine, not in a

of inadequacy. What would a man li

, quiet rumble that sent a strange shiver down

s together under the table. She searched for something to say, anything

ent, his dark eyes unbli

was sure she had mish

," he repeated, his e

anker, not a lawyer, not the "very successful" young man her pare

he had to be sure this whole thing was the cruel joke it appeared

so, but she had to ask. This was t

Two thousand, eight hun

,8

rely enough to survive. It wasn't enough to live. It certain

ikely, they had lied, latching onto some

keep it from escaping. It was a mixture of fury at her parents and a profound, overwhelming

t the fabric looked high-quality, and he carried himself with a quiet confi

to end t

egan, her voice low. "I think there's been a misunderstanding. A big one

painful and exposing. She felt like a piece of m

as no judgment in his eyes, no disgust. He

ng smaller, "your situation... you can't help

o slide out of the booth, eager to

own, A

it cut through the café's

oked at him. His eyes were dark

said slowly,