I’m frantically scrolling through comments, trying to figure out how to fix this, when a notification pops up.
Someone has tagged a person in my photo.
The tag appears over the mystery man’s face:@MasonGrey
My heart stops.
No. No, no, no.
If someone tagged him, that means he’s going to get a notification. Which means he’s going to see this post. Which means he’s going to see that I accidentally made him go viral.
I lift my head, scanning the café, praying he’s already left.
He hasn’t.
He’s sitting in a corner window spot with another crazy-handsome man, both of them with coffee cups. The friend has longer brown hair pulled into a half ponytail, tattoos visible on his neck, and the same kind of built, muscular frame. They’re talking, relaxed, completely unaware of the chaos happening on my phone.
Until Mason’s phone buzzes.
I watch in horror as he picks it up, glances at the screen, and goes very still.
His thumb moves, scrolling. His expression shifts from confused to surprised to amused.
Then his head snaps up, and he scans the café.
I drop my gaze immediately, staring very hard at my mocha like it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen.
Maybe he won’t figure out where the photo was taken from. Maybe?—
Our eyes meet.
Fuck.
He’s looking right at me. And based on the angle of the photo, it’s obvious I’m the one who took it.
I stare back down at my phone, face burning, and try to figure out how to remove a tag from Instagram. There has to be a way. There has to?—
The sound of a chair scraping against the floor makes me glance up.
Mason is standing. He’s even taller standing up, easily over six feet. His friend says something I can’t hear, and Mason grins, shaking his head.
Then he starts walking toward me.
Oh God.
“Get over there, Certified Snack!” his friend calls out, loud enough for half the café to hear.
Several people laugh. Mason flips him off without looking back.
And then he’s at my table.
Up close, he’s even more unfairly attractive. Strong jaw. Straight nose. Eyes that are a warm amber color, like honey in sunlight. And when he smiles down at me, it’s the kind of smile that probably gets him anything he wants.
“Hi,” he says, his voice deep and smooth. “I think you made me famous.”
I open my mouth to respond. To apologize. To say literally anything.
Instead, I inhale sharply through my nose.
