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CHAPTER ONE

Is this seat taken?"

I'm so caught up in the action on the page that it's an effort to zrag my eyes from my book to the face of the guy in front of me. His hair falls in shaggy, dark gold waves to a defined jawline that hasn't seen a razor in days, but it's his warm, clear, light brown eyes that make my heart trip and stumble. I have no idea what he just read in my expression, but he does a small double take as our gazes collide.

"Go for it," I say, returning my eyes to the novel, though at the edge of my vision I watch him shrug a big army-green rucksack off his broad shoulders and drop it to the ground with a thud.

"Nice view from up here," he comments casually as he folds his tall frame into the seat.

We're on the crowded rooftop of a hostel in Lisbon, Portugal, under the shade of a bamboo canopy that's creating a barcode of light and dark stripes over the table. Across the adjacent terra-cotta-tiled rooftops looms a red suspension bridge carrying a steady hum of traffic from one side of the wide green river to the other, where a towering monument of Jesus Christ stands with his arms outstretched in the hazy late-afternoon sunshine. The bridge has Golden Gate vibes while the monument is directly inspired by Rio de Janeiro's Christ the Redeemer, as my earlier Google search revealed.

"I don't know if I'm in San Francisco or Brazil," I respond, reaching for my peach iced tea and taking a sip.

His small huff of laughter and lovely smile cause my glass to hitch against my bottom lip.

"I'm Ash," he says with the ease of someone who has had no trouble making friends on his travels.

"Ellie," I reply.

"Are you staying here too?" he asks.

"Yep." I give up on finishing the chapter and fold over the corner of my page.

"Sorry, I'm interrupting," he realizes as I close the book.

"It's fine."

"But you're right near the end," he notices.

"Two chapters and one page left," I confirm.

"I can just sit here while you finish."

The thought of this is so ludicrous that I laugh. His corresponding grin makes me feel giddy.

"Actually, I'm gonna grab a beer." He flattens his palms on the table. "Can I get you something? It's happy hour," he adds temptingly.

I hesitate for all of two seconds. "Go on, then, I'll have a rosé. Thanks. I owe you one."

I try to read while I'm waiting, but where minutes ago I was riveted, now I can't seem to digest the words. I glance over to Ash at the bar, standing with his back to me as the barman takes his order. My eyes skate over the breadth of his shoulders and along the length of his arms, lean and golden. He must be six foot three or four.

The irony of it hasn't escaped my notice: the fact that someone is being nice to me right after I decided to quit interrailing. And not just any someone: him.

I grab my phone and tap out a quick text to Stella: I think I might have been thrown a curveball.

Ash returns to the table with our drinks. "Is it hard going?" he asks as I fold over the exact same corner as earlier and close my book.

"No, I'm just trying to stretch it out."

He reads the title aloud: "A Court of Thorns and Roses. What's it about?"

"It's about a girl who basically gets kidnapped by a sexy faerie," I reply with a grin. "My best friend recommended it."

"Sounds like the sort of thing my best friend used to read," he says fondly, taking a sip of his beer.