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“There’s been an issue with one of the eyeshadows, and I have to go to Jersey to sort things out. But you can do this! I believe in you. I’m sending a text to you and Agustín so you guys will have each other’s numbers, just in case.”

What? No! That’s even worse. I don’t want him to have my number.

But before I can say anything, I lose the signal. When I reach the lobby, my phone buzzes.

Rachel: Hi Eloise and Agustín! Now you have each other’s numbers

I walk stiffly past Hector, who gives me a jovial wave. I try to smile back, but my mouth feels like it’s made of glass, so brittle it could crack.

I try to come up with excuses to bail on this date the entire walk to the wine bar. Food poisoning. Sprained ankle. Unexpected relative popping into town for a visit. Abducted by aliens. But I know, deep down, that I can’t cancel. I have to try.

The Worry Wheel starts clicking as I push open the glass front door. About half the tables are full, people sipping Bordeaux and snacking on cheese plates. A man sits at the bar with his back to me. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt and dark jeans; he turns just as I enter.

I feel a weird stutter in my chest, like my heart tripped on itself.

Then everything stops.

The man’s face is broad and warm. His eyes are the color of dark brewed coffee, and his thick black hair is shaggy, falling to his jawline and curling at the ends in every direction. His olive skin almost seems to glow against his white shirt.

“Eloise?” he says.

Some part of my brain acknowledges that is Agustín Martinez.

Then he smiles, and his dimples make an appearance, dancing in his cheeks like they’re winking at me. He has the widest smile I’ve ever seen. It reminds me of Rachel’s, in a way. But where her smile is a lemon drop, Agustín’s feels more like a mug of hot chocolate—rich and deliciously inviting, a smile you can sink into. It pulls up a little higher on the left side than the right.

He’s not as short as I was expecting—maybe five foot eight or nine. He’s not sculpted like Luis or wiry like José Miguel. He’s somewhere in between.

His warm smile starts to fade, and I realize I’m just staring at him. My heartbeat, which a moment ago had felt suspended in time, kicks in at a frantic pace. The Wheel spins and spins and spins but doesn’t land on anything. I feel a clenching in my throat and a tightness in my stomach, and it takes me a second to sort out what these sensations mean.

Oh shit. I’m attracted to this man.

No, no, no. This is worse than whiskey-neat-gold-watch.

Agustín is now looking concerned. “You are Eloise, yes?”

His accent is lilting, his voice as rich and warm as his smile. I don’t know what to do. It’s been years—feels like decades—since I’ve been attracted to someone. In real life. I mean, obviously Pedro Pascal can get it. But that’s imaginary. This is a flesh and blood human, and oh no, I do not like this at all. Sweat gathers at the nape of my neck. My knees have become puffs of air.

I am so grateful Rachel isn’t here.

That snaps me out of it. No, I need Rachel here even more now. How do I get out of this situation? This is so much worse than I imagined.

Eloise, speak.

“Hi,” I say in one breathless rush. “Yes. Eloise. Yes.”

The hot chocolate smile is back. Ohmygodthosedimples.

“Agustín,” he says, taking a few steps toward me and offering his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

I glance down at his hand and know that I cannot touch him. Absolutely not. That would not be good. Shivers erupt in my belly just thinking about it. My brain flashes Danger, Danger, Danger.

Instead, I do the totally normal thing and ignore it, walking past him to sit on the bar stool. The Wheel has wedged itself between Abject Humiliation and a pie slice simply labeled AHHHHHHH!

It’s been a while since AHHHHHHH! has registered on the Wheel.

But Agustín slides onto the next stool casually, like it doesn’t matter that I was rude. I can feel the heat of his body, and I clench my hands into fists.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks.