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I’m usually not this dedicated to figuring out the backstory of everyone I meet, but Ian is just interesting.
No. He’s fascinating.
He chuckles. The sound is low, warm, maybe even shiver-inducing. I need a second to regroup.
He is fully smiling now. He has a heart-stopping dimple on his left cheek, and . . . Okay, fine: he’s aggressively hot. Despite the red hair, or because of it.
This time his smile is a tad more defined. I’m winning him over, which is good, very good, because I’m rapidly developing a thing for the contrast between his eyelashes (red!) and his deep-set eyes (blue!).
His forearm is dusted with freckles and pale-red hair. I want to grab his wrist, hold it in front of my eyes, study it at my leisure. Trace, smell, touch.
The left corner of his mouth curves upward, a small hint of amusement that’s not quite fully there yet. I have an odd stray thought: I bet his smile is lopsided. Beautiful, too.
I have no idea how tall Ian is, but he’s much closer to eight feet than to three. And I find it very interesting that Mara claims to barely know him, considering that they look like they could be siblings, not just because of the aggressively red hair, but also the dark-blue eyes, and the dusting of freckles over pale skin, and . . .
I blink. Then I blink again. If three seconds ago someone had asked me whether I’m the type to multiple blink at the sight of some guy, I’d have laughed in their face. This guy, though . . .
I guess I stand corrected.
He’s wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt, which would suggest: Ian. The problem . . .
His hair is the problem. Because, despite what Mara said, it’s most definitely not brown. Maybe a fraction of a shade darker than her bright, carroty orange, but . . . really not brown. I’m ready to dial her number and demand to know what ridiculous ginger scale the Floyds operate on when the man slowly stands and asks, “Hannah?”
“Hannah.”
Close. Is this really Ian Floyd? Sounding close?
Impossible. My brain has frozen into stupidity. It must really be all over for me. My time has come, the end is nigh, and—
“Hannah. I’m coming for you.”
My eyes spring open. I’m not dreaming anymore.
He’s still staring at me. Like he’s found his long-missing house keys and is afraid he’ll lose them again if he looks away.