"Leah Price," exclaims Aya from the living room, "I wish I were half as brave as you are."

"Uh huh. Totally," I respond, leaning into the bathroom counter. I peer at myself in the mirror, frowning as I inspect my shoddy, clumpy mascara job. "Says the girl working for a tech startup in Manhattan."

"Girl, I'm just getting a paycheck like every other asshole in this city. You're the one brave enough to quit your job to pursue your dream."

"I guess," I say, shrugging to myself.

I pull my eyelid down and poke at it with a mascara applicator, trying to salvage the mess. "Brave, stupid… Same thing, right?"

Aya giggles. I let my eyelid pop back into place and give up on trying to look any prettier. It's like putting lipstick on a pig.

I eye my wild, staticky brunette hair and too-large curves in the mirror. I stick out my tongue at myself, then flip off the light switch and dip around the corner into the living room of our tiny Queens basement apartment.

Aya is lying down on our only sofa, her bare feet kicked up onto one armrest. On the other armrest is her pretty little head, with all those effortless, beautiful curls that captivate men everywhere she goes. Her MacBook air sits balanced on her chest, displaying lines and lines of computer code that are all Greek to me.

She shoots a glance at me. "You look hot."

"Like a hot mess, maybe."

Aya rolls her eyes and continues tap-tap-tapping away on her laptop's chiclet keyboard. "Where are you headed to, Miss Fancy Pants Romance Author?"

I can't help grinning to myself at the sound of that. After years of rejection and working minimum-wage waitressing jobs to finance my romance writing addiction, I finally got a manuscript accepted for publication.

Not just one, either. The publisher wants a series of five books total, and I'm even getting an advance. They're going to be sold in bookstores and grocery stores. So, I officially quit my job last week to become a full-time romance author.

Honestly, it's a dream come true and it still doesn't seem real. Now, I just have to not mess it all up. I don't think I could stand going back to waitressing.

"I'm headed to Brooklyn," I say, snapping back to reality.

"Ooh," says Aya, "So many killer beards in Brooklyn. Don't even get me started on the undercuts and tattoos. It's like a flood in my panties every time I go—."

I roll my eyes. "Aya. It's ten in the morning, and you're talking about your panties flooding."

"So what? Sue me."

"Remind me again how many guys you brought home last week?" I say.

Aya attracts rich, sophisticated Ivy League-types everywhere she goes. Me, I'm just so plain. I feel invisible half the time, and I always have to approach men when I go out because they never approach me.

As if that weren't bad enough, whenever I actually go on a date with a guy and start to get my hopes up, he turns out to be a complete dog.

Every time.

Aya swivels to a sitting position and puts her MacBook on the coffee table. "Listen, Brent doesn't count because I already hooked up with him twice, and Steve—"

"You need to lighten up," I say, forcing a grin.

"You just need to get laid, virgin."

I cough and wince at the sound of that.

Yeah, it's true. At 25, I'm still a virgin. And I'm probably the world's only virgin romance author.

But I'm not giving up my v-card until I find the right guy, no matter how much Aya peer-pressures me.

Sure, I wouldn't be a virgin anymore if I attracted the kind of handsome guys that she does. But I don't. So, I'll keep waiting for Mr. Right.

After all, I'm a romantic. That's why I've always loved romance novels. I have to believe that someday, a worthwhile guy will sweep me off my feet and make me actually want to give it up.

"Anyway, moving on," I say, "I'm going to Brooklyn for a lunch meeting with my editor. She wants some edits on this first manuscript before I start on the next one."

"Well, good luck," says Aya. She scratches her head. "Remind me, what day is it again?"

I roll my eyes. "Friday."

Her face lights up. "Drinks tonight?"

'Drinks' is her not-so-subtle code word for taking me out to bars and trying to get me to meet guys. She really has a one-track mind.

"We'll see," I say. "My priority right now is writing these books. No human can compare to a book boyfriend, anyway."

"Whatever," she says, grabbing her computer again. "Loosen up."

"Tighten up," I say. "You ho." A moment of silence passes and then we both bust out laughing.

* * *

A perfect New York summer breeze flutters over my bare shoulders and legs. It's one of the first days this year that it's been warm enough to go outside in a tank top and shorts.

Maybe the best part about being a writer is that I don't have to wear a uniform to work anymore.

I cross the street toward the subway station where I can catch the F train. It's a real pain in the butt to get to my editor's office using public transportation, but I don't really mind. I'm just happy to be living here in New York City. After spending my childhood growing up across the water in the dirty Jerz, I'm thrilled to be here in the city at all.

Sure, by "being in the city" I mean I'm splitting a Queens basement apartment with Aya, but I'm willing to make sacrifices for my dream. And I don't need a lot of material things.

I'm not too stressed out about money either, even though I don't have a lot of it. With my advance plus my savings, I've got enough to last me more than a year. With any luck, the royalties from my first book will start flowing in no time.

No, life should be great right now. But there's one thing that's really stressing me out.

My dad. He was diagnosed with cancer just over a year ago, and it's been tough keeping my spirits and his spirits up. Especially since the chemo isn't working as well as the doctors expected.

I try to clear my mind as I weave through the crowd of people standing in front of the subway station entrance. It won't be long until the sun starts pounding down each day and the humidity rises to unbearable levels. Better enjoy it while it—

A hand slaps against my ass, stinging my skin through my short shorts.

I whirl around and come face-to-face with a man wearing a dirty t-shirt and ripped jeans. His blond hair is slicked back. His face has a mean expression on it that looks like it's permanently etched on there.

I smell liquor on his breath even though it can't be later than 10:30 or 10:45 in the morning.

"Great ass, darling."

"I—"

"Have a boyfriend?" He leans in closer and I practically choke on the putrid smell of his breath. He slurs his words. "Funny. That's what they all say, but I don't see anyone standing here with you."

I recoil from the disgusting man, taking a step back and nearly toppling right off the high sidewalk curb into the street where yellow taxis whiz by.

People pass around us. A few eyebrows go up, but nobody stops to help me.

That's how it is in New York, I guess. Craziness everywhere, and not a lot of people willing to get involved.

"I—"

"You really got a fat ass, doll, and you look like you know how to—"

"What is this?" bellows a man's rich, deep voice.

The instant I hear it, a tingle zips up my spine. The other man's voice booms with strength and power, not something I'm used to with all the tech-geek bros that Aya constantly tries to introduce to me. It's gravelly and rough, and sexy and full of confidence.

A man comes out of a deli entrance halfway down the block, holding a plastic bag with a sandwich inside it. He wears a jet-black suit, which he fills out effortlessly.

His full, dark hair blows in the wind, his face angry but absolutely panty-melting at the same time. Even from fifteen or twenty feet away I can see his eyes are a piercing shade of green, and when they lock onto mine, I have to break eye contact and stare at the sidewalk because otherwise I think I'll literally combust on the spot.

The man takes fast, long strides toward me and the man harassing me. He must be at least 6'5" on a short day, and everyone—men and women alike—step out of his way as he strides down the sidewalk.

"What in the fuck are you doing?" growls the handsome man. He brushes right past me and puts his body in between me and my assailant like a shield, towering over him. I immediately feel safe and protected.

The last thing I should be thinking about right now is a handsome guy. But this man's shoulders are so broad and thick, and they fill out his suit jacket so well….

And damn if he doesn't have the finest butt of any man I've ever seen in my life. It's so obviously tight and fit even through the tail of his jacket. On top of it all, he's so well-dressed and looks so put together.

Wow.

The jerk tries to feint around the man who's protecting me, peeking at me over his shoulder. But my protector pivots his body to block the man from reaching me.

"How low can you get?" he growls. "Preying on girls in the street?"

"Come on," says the drunk blond man in a whiny, supplicating voice. "I was just having a little bit of—"

"Fun?"

"That's right."

"How's this for fun?"

My protector grabs the man by his coat lapels and whirls him around so his tiptoes barely hang onto the street curb, above a deep, dangerous-looking storm drain. "Maybe it'd be fun if I drop your sorry ass right down the sewer like the trash you are."

"Come on, it was just—"

"Shut the hell up. Just shut up."

"Okay, you don't have to hurt me," the man whines.

My protector glares at the blond-haired man, then sets him back down on the sidewalk like a child. "That's my girlfriend you're messing with. Get out of my sight."

When I hear the word "girlfriend," my jaw almost drops, but then I realize what my protector is trying to do for me. I can't help noticing a beautiful twenty-something blonde passerby shoot me a dirty look when she hears the word "girlfriend."

I'm not sure what's wrong with me, but I kind of like that everyone on the street thinks this man is my boyfriend. Even if it's a total lie and it's only for a minute. I'm totally skeeved out by the blond guy, but handsome guys don't rush to my rescue every day.

I tell myself it's just the adrenaline, but I'm feeling really excited.

"Okay." The blond man, who seemed so intimidating just a few minutes ago, slinks away on the sidewalk like a rat. Then my protector turns to face me, and I get a good clear look at his face for the first time.

He's handsome as hell. Perfect cheekbones, thick, luscious hair, and an intense gaze that could melt the polar ice caps in a hot minute. He looks as put-together as a magazine cover model, even with his hair disheveled from the little incident just now.

But instead of looking out of place, it looks like a stylist took twenty minutes getting it to flip over his forehead just right. It looks almost too effortless, and his good looks make me feel even more self-conscious than usual about my big curves, sloppy outfit, and frizzy hair.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and electricity shoots all through my body. My heart instantly starts pounding.

"Are you hurt?" He looks me up and down like I imagine a connoisseur of fine art would look at a prized, treasured painting.

I shake my head and squeak out a reply. "N-no."

I notice the bag he was holding now lays on the ground. The sandwich inside it has been completely squashed, the transparent cellophane bag blackened by a huge, dirty footprint.

"Your sandwich," I say, pointing at the bag and blushing. "I'm so sorry that happened because of me." I dip around him and pick it up off the sidewalk. It hangs in my hand like a limp, wilted piece of garbage. "I, uh…"

My protector looks down at the big footprint on the bag, and busts out laughing.

"I'll buy you a new one," I blurt out quickly. I feel my cheeks redden.

"No, no, it's fine," he says, shaking his head. "The sandwich doesn't matter at all."

We make eye contact again, but I can't keep my eyes from wandering all over his face.

"You know," I say, feeling breathless, "I really owe you for that."

He brushes his hair out of his eyes and I think my panties are going to melt. "It's fine. Truly."

"But," I say, suddenly feeling playful, "that was a little arrogant, you know."

"What was?"

"Announcing to the whole street that I'm your girlfriend."

He smirks. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Um, what if I was with my actual boyfriend?" I say. "You'd make him look terrible."

He glances from side to side. "I don't see any boyfriend here."

"Hypothetically."

"Then hypothetically, you would need to find a boyfriend who's actually capable of protecting you."

"Uh huh." I'm not sure if he's flirting back, or if I'm just sounding like an idiot. But I can't lie, I really liked the way he just protected me, and I can't help thinking about what it would be like to have a boyfriend… and not just any boyfriend, but one willing to stand up for me.

He looks me up and down again and I can't help noticing that his gaze lingers on my cleavage longer than it should. Then he checks his watch. "Damn. Late for a meeting. Got to go."

"Are you sure about the sandwich?"

He glances at the limp, smashed bag still dangling from my hand. "Tell you what," he says, "My name is Luke. You see me around here again, I'll let you buy me one."

"Okay," I say. I'm kind of bummed out that he didn't give me his number, and I almost think about asking for his, but I choke at the last minute. "Well… deal."

Embarrassed, I turn and watch my feet pound the pavement as I walk away from Luke, the handsome mystery man who just saved me.

I wonder if I'll see him again.