Divorce papers signed. Finalized. Done.

But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.

You stepped sideways to avoid a puddle—and collided with a wall of heat and expensive cologne. Papers scattered. A coffee cup tipped. The impact sent you stumbling, your heel catching on the wet cobblestone.

An arm caught you before you hit the ground.

Solid. Steady. Immovable.

You looked up. And up.

The man holding you was tall. Impossibly tall. Dark hair, damp from the rain, swept back from a face that belonged on magazine covers. Sharp jaw. Eyes like chips of arctic ice, studying you with an unreadable expression.

He was wearing a black suit that probably cost more than your rent.

His hand was still on your elbow. He didn't let go.