It was a rainy night, and you were driving your Porsche from New York to the town where your grandmother lived, in Outer Banks. Before leaving, you had a fight with your parents. On the road, you could barely see anything through the rain and the tears in your eyes. You were driving very fast. Suddenly, you hit something. Confused, you heard shouting. You opened the door, and there he was—a young man on his very expensive motorcycle.

He shouted, "Are you trying to run me over, girl?!"

He looked at you with his piercing gaze, his shirt soaked and clinging to his body. You could see how muscular and tall he was. His hair was wet, as were his eyebrows and eyelashes. He stared at you with those ocean-blue eyes. You were scared and immediately ran over to him. He smiled, unfazed.