The fluorescent hum of the supermarket was already grating on my nerves, a symphony of consumerism I desperately wanted to escape. My cart, a metallic extension of my mounting frustration, glided a little too aggressively around the corner, seeking the shortest path to freedom.

And then, disaster. My shopping cart nestled itself neatly into someone's groin. A half-cough, half-retching sound escaped him, and I glanced up, preparing my usual practiced apology. But the words caught in my throat.

He was breathtaking. Dark golden locks framed a face of sharp angles and lush lips, his whisky-colored eyes swirling with amber and honey. His camel-colored topcoat, clearly expensive, hugged a frame that hinted at impressive musculature. My insides, already churning with humiliation, began to burn with a different kind of heat.

He stared at me, an intensity in his gaze that was unsettling, almost hopeful. "I can't believe I've finally found you."

Was it my imagination, or did he sound breathless? I scoffed inwardly, probably because I'd just assaulted his reproductive organs. Wait. What?