“Tyler,” I say, walking into his apartment. “Thanks for letting me come over.”

His hair is all scruffy and his eyes are barely open. He rubs them like a tired little kid. It’s adorable.

“Sure,” he says. His eyes are more open now, and he’s looking at me with concern. “Is everything okay?”

I glance down at my mauve-brown floor-length bridesmaid’s dress. “Everything is actually great.”

“Were you at a costume party?” he asks slowly.

“This is my most favorite dress,” I say playfully. “What are you implying?”

Tyler laughs. “You’re a surprising one,” he says. “That’s what I’ve always thought, anyways.”

“I’m trying to become more spontaneous,” I say. “I normally don’t call men at three a.m. In fact, I don’t even call men at all. I wait for them to call me. And you’re surprising too,” I continue. “I like to peg people—it’s part of my job, but you’re hard to nail down. I can’t quite figure you out, but the thing is that I keep trying.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Tyler says and sits on the couch. “For the record, I don’t mind being called.” He looks at his watch. “But it’s not three a.m. It’s three fifteen.”

“Details,” I say with a wave of a hand. I look back down at my dress. “Uh, can I borrow some sweats?”

“I guess that means you’ll be staying a while,” he says with a big grin. Then he jumps up, goes into his bedroom, and returns with a well-worn pair of navy sweats and a T-shirt.

“You know where the bathroom is,” he says. “Hell, knowing you, you probably could draw the floor plan blindfolded.”

“I never forget a layout,” I say. “Clients, yes. A place, never.”

Tyler touches my arm. “Hey, did you just call me forgettable?”

I watch the goosebumps infect my arm. “Tyler, you’re not my client anymore,” I say. I point at him. “You said it once yourself.”

A crimson red spreads across his cheeks, and he nods boyishly.

When I’m in the bathroom, I change into Tyler’s clothes and look at myself in the mirror. “This is the beginning,” I say to myself before going back out to the living room.

I sit near him on the couch—only one cushion separates us.

Tyler shrugs. “I’ve got all night.” He looks around. “Unless there’s somewhere else you’d rather be. Or someone else you would rather be with.”

“Well, I recently got out of a relationship,” I say. “Less than a week ago, actually.”

“So the plus-one is gone?”

“Yesterday’s news,” I say.

“Are you sad?” he asks. He doesn’t look at me.

“Not at all,” I say, shaking my head. Tyler scooches closer to me on the couch. Now, we’re basically sitting on the same cushion.

He sits up straight, takes a deep breath, and blows it out like cigarette smoke. Tyler rotates his body on the couch toward me and gently turns me to face him. His eyes go all kaleidoscope-like again, and I feel like I’m being hypnotized “I still have a crush on you,” he says. “I’ve had one since the day we met.”

This is exactly what I’ve been waiting to hear, even when I tried to convince myself it wasn’t.

Our shoulders brush. I’m still not brave enough to meet his eyes, though. I face forward, my eyes glued to the blank TV screen.

Tyler continues: “I’ve been hoping against hope that you were thinking us all over, and that you would come around like I did with my apartment. That’s the real reason I invited you to the open house.”

“Really?” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “I hoped if we kept bumping into each other, maybe one time you’d finally start to see me differently.”

“How so?”

Tyler reaches out and gently holds my chin in his hand. With his other hand, he brushes the side of my cheek with his finger.

“I wanted you to see me as someone you wanted to be with.”

I mentally calculate how many rules I’m breaking.

Tyler has a beard.

He’s an artist.

He lives in Brooklyn.

He’s possibly against marriage.

I’ve Googled him.

He was a client.

I lied to him about being engaged.

I went inside his apartment without going on a date first.

At 3:15 a.m. . . . semi-drunk.

I’m wearing his clothes.

“Well, you’re not exactly like other guys I’ve dated.”

“You mean I’m not a washing machine?” he says, referring to our conversation the day I showed him the town house. I can’t believe he remembered that.

“Exactly,” I say. “You’re definitely not a washing machine. I’m used to washing machines.”

“I think I could make you feel better than any washing machine ever could.”

I nod. “You already do.”

Tyler raises his eyebrows. “So you’re crushing on me too?”

I look around. “Major duh. I’ve liked you longer than even I realized.”

Tyler leans in and kisses me. His beard tickles, but in a good way. I always imagined it would be rough like a Brillo pad, but it’s soft like a down pillow. I find my hands reaching out and smoothing it down. I can definitely get used to this beard thing.

Tyler pulls away and reluctantly our lips unlock.

I feel a rush of adrenaline. It reminds me of certain moments from childhood:

the sound of the final bell ringing on the last day of school before summer; the feeling of being at the top of the Herby Derby, the tallest rollercoaster in our town, and looking down right before the big drop.

The sensation when you’re bodysurfing and the wave takes you and feels like you’ve entered a secret ocean portal.

This is, undoubtedly, one of the best feelings I’ve ever had.

Tyler pulls me in for another kiss, but I gently press him back. “Let’s go back to that in one second, but first, can I ask you about a ring?”

He puts his hands over his face then spreads his fingers and peeks out with one eye. “Now, I’m embarrassed,” he says.

“So it is named after me?”

“Of course,” he says. “I couldn’t get it out of my mind that I could find a better home for that diamond.”

“You did,” I say, pulling him in close.