Page 88 of Romeo

Me: Blue eyes.

Jasper: Very promising.

I pressed my lips together. I could have stopped there. It was vague enough that it could mean anyone. I should’ve stopped but my fingers kept moving.

Me: Too much confidence.

Jasper: Perfection requires flaws.

I laughed, then clapped a hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t wake Granny.

Me: Charming when he shouldn’t be.

Jasper: I like him already.

I stared at the screen before adding one detail that would make it impossible for either of us to pretend I was describing some random imaginary man.

Me: Carries a knife much too large for polite society.

That pause felt longer—as I watched the three little dots flicker—than every other one combined as I chewed on my lip, waiting for a reply that would either confirm this was real, or end it completely.

Jasper: Cher, I think you’ve met the man of your dreams.

My whole body went still.

The man of your dreams.

Him. He meant himself. There was no possible way he didn’t.

Unless this was more Jasper flirting. Unless he was laughing in Nebraska because he knew exactly how flustered I was and thought it was cute.

But he’d described me first.

My hair.

My eyes.

My height.

Things he’d said about my personality.

Me: I’m still deciding.

Jasper: Take your time. He isn’t going anywhere.

I lowered the phone to my chest.

He isn’t going anywhere.

My heart beat hard beneath the phone. Was that a promise? Was he telling me he’d wait while I figured this out? While I figured myself out?

I stared at the ceiling again, but now the shadows didn’t matter.

Jasper Francis Alexander DuBois had just described a woman with chestnut hair, pale striking eyes, long legs, and a personality that sounded suspiciously like mine. Then he’d asked me to describe my type, and I’d given him dark hair, blue eyes, too much confidence, charm, and that ridiculous knife he carried.

There wasn’t another man on the planet I could’ve been talking about.

He knew it.