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She unlocks it and motions for me to follow. The apartment smells like cinnamon, dryer sheets, and a hint of Chanel No. 5. Every surface is covered in photos, knick-knacks, and those books with gold-edged pages that old ladies collect for show. I set her groceries on the kitchen counter and glance around, trying to figure out how to turn down her offer.

Then a photograph in a fancy frame catches my eye. Holy fucking shit. It's her.

My dream girl. My mystery brunette. In a photo right on Mrs. Winslet’s bookshelf, front and center. And her blinding smile isn’t shy or hesitant. It’s radiant, lit up from the inside out. Her golden brown eyes are bright, and her dimples flash from each cheek.

She’s in a dress that hugs her curves, hugging Mrs. Winslet’s side. Graduation cap slightly crooked, cheeks pink, looking right at the camera like she owns the world. My jaw actually drops. My pulse goes nuts. I reach for the photo before I can stop myself.

My mystery woman must be Mrs. Winslet’s granddaughter. The one she’s always talking about. The one she’s been trying to set me up with.

Holy shit. The universe is having a great time screwing with me.

“That’s Hazel, my granddaughter.” I actually make a noise, like I’ve been gut-punched by fate and also hit with a taser. My brain goes blank, then straight into overdrive.

Hazel like the eyes I can’t get out of my damn head. Like the voice that’s been haunting me for days. Somehow, the name fits so perfectly, it’s like the universe planned it that way.

Mrs. Winslet is watching me, a sly little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Like she knows exactly what’s short-circuiting my brain right now.

“That’s a great photo,” I manage, but my voice sounds like a machine version. “I think I actually ran into her in the lobby last week.”

“Oh.” That gets her attention. “Well, she comes by several times a week to have dinner with me.”

My heart does a triple backflip, and my brain completely short-circuits. I have to grip the granite countertop to keep from embarrassing myself. “That’s nice.” Damn. I sound like an idiot, but that’s all my fuzzy mind could come up with. “It sounds like you have a wonderful granddaughter.”

Nonnie just beams at me, lady-smug and full of grandmotherly matchmaking menace. “She is. She’s smart as a whip, too. Works at the library, but she really ought to be running the place.” I file that information away. I nod, but my pulse is pounding at this point. Now that I know her name and where she works, I can actually do something about this crazy obsession. “Would you like to come over on Sunday for lunch?” Mrs. Winslet repeats her invitation, handing me the perfect opportunity. “Hazel will be here.”

“I’d love to,” I say, maybe a little too quickly. She beams, then reaches over and pats my hand.

“Sunday at one, then.”

I follow her to the door, already plotting my next move. “I’ll see you Sunday,” I say, pulling the door open. As I step into the hallway, I realize the world seems a little brighter. Fuck. Yes. I almost fist-bump the air, but I manage to hold back.

CHAPTER THREE

HAZEL

At ten minutes to one, I juggle a still-warm pie dish and my messenger bag as I make my way down the long hallway leading to Nonnie’s apartment. Without knocking, I nudge open the door with my elbow, fully expecting Nonnie to be hunched over the dining table, reading glasses on, reading the Sunday paper.

What I do not expect is for the hallway to be filled with the sounds of a man’s laugh. Or for that laugh to belong to a six-foot-something man who’s been starring in my dreams lately. My heart kicks into overdrive when I see him sitting at Nonnie’s table looking way too comfortable.

I freeze and stare, wondering if I just stepped into the Twilight Zone. The first thing I notice is his shirt. It’s not a suit, or even a collared shirt, but a blue crew neck that hugs his arms and his, um, everything. He’s even more devastatingly attractive out of business clothes. His hair is slightly messy, and his jaw is dusted with stubble, which shouldn’t make a difference but, for some reason, does. It’s all I can do not to melt into a puddle of goo right here in Nonnie’s entry.

Nonnie looks up from pouring tea and waves the mug like she’s directing traffic. “Hazel, darling! You’re just in time. Come meet my new friend.”

He stands, pushing back from the table with more grace than a man his size should have. His eyes, blue and sharp, lock right onto mine. The exact same eyes that looked through my soul in the lobby. The smirk returns, smug and knowing, and I realize he definitely recognizes me.

I try to remember how to walk. “Uh, hi?” is what my mouth settles on.

Nonnie beams. “Hazel, this is Preston Voss. He’s new to the building, and he rescued me and my groceries a few days ago.” There’s an extra sparkle in her eye, like she’s plotting something. “He’s an architect. Isn’t that neat?”

Preston’s gaze slides over me in a slow, clinical assessment. “Nice to finally meet you, Hazel,” he says, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s still picturing our previous collision.

I try to set the pie on the counter, but my hands are unsteady, so it lands a little harder than planned. I wince as the ceramic pie dish creaks. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you, too.”

There is no earthly way Nonnie does not know about our run-in last week. She’s being way too casual, which means she’s plotting. Grandmothers are genetically engineered for this.

I glare at Nonnie, but she just beams even harder, like she’s already picturing grandbabies. Preston doesn’t take his eyes off me—not even for a second. The air between us crackles. It’s not fair. He’s not even pretending to play it cool.

I take a deep breath, trying to get my thundering heart beat under control. No luck. Not with him standing this freaking close to me. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since the day I crashed into him in the lobby. Not exaggerating—not a blessed minute where he isn’t there, haunting my dreams.