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Outside of this room? I’m a nightmare.

I don’t talk to my parents anymore—one gave up on me when I was twelve, the other liked the idea of being a parent more than actually being one.

I crashed my second flying car this year last month. Not because I don’t know how to drive one, but because technology seems to hate me, and has an odd habit of failing me. Last month, for example, the engine of my car shut down completely. It shouldn’t have been a problem. Those cars are super safe and have a built-in system that slows down the car until it lands on the closest flat surface.

What were the chances that the closest flat surface was La Seine? Or that I wasn’t high enough when it happened for the shock against the water to trigger the airbags?

Yep, not really “high chances,” but that’s what happened anyway.

At least I’m a damn good swimmer, and the door didn’t lock me in, or I wouldn’t be here getting my classroom ready.

I’m not even talking about my love life. It’s akin to a desert, and it’s not for lack of trying.

So far I haven't found anyone.

I’ve been deemed too smart, too scary, or too outspoken. I’ve been told I’m not demure enough, not soft enough, or not thin enough. Basically, according to the male species, I’m too much.

I’m trying as hard as I can to stay positive. Somewhere, someday, I’ll find someone who will be my perfect match.

In the meantime, I’m lonely, and it’s starting to eat at me.

At thirty-eight, I’ve seen all of my friends get married, start a family, or buy houses in the countryside.

I’m still here in Paris with my cat, thinking that might be all there is for me.

It’s not that I need a man. I’m perfectly capable on my own, if one doesn’t count the fact that I was probably an awful person in my past life if what Karma’s thrown at me in this one is any indication.

It’s that I want a partner. I want to feel loved. I want to belong.

“Is this the French classroom?” a deep and rough voice asks as I align a pile of papers on the table at the back of the room with the pencils next to it.

I freeze.

There shouldn’t be anyone this early. I checked, double-checked, and triple-checked. My class starts at nine, and that’s in more than an hour.

I don’t want to turn.

I already love the sound of whoever is at the door’s voice, and I have a feeling that they’re one of my new students, and that I’m going to hate for the first time ever the fact that this school has a “no fraternizing with students” rule.

“Oui,” I answer without turning away from my task. “Mais la classe ne commence que dans une heure.”

There’s no answer after I speak, but I don’t hear any movement either.

Has the new student already disappeared?

I turn to face the door, wanting to double-check if someone is still observing me or not.

I shouldn’t have done so.

Or maybe it’s a blessing that the male who’s currently leaning against the door frame of my classroom has made an appearance before any other of my students did, because I’m not sure synapses are still firing in my brain when I finally set my eyes upon him.

The male is gorgeous, and he’s definitely not human.

He exudes an aura of danger that’s only highlighted by the fact he’s dressed all in black, and all I can see is the golden color of his eyes under too-long, jet-black hair.

He’s wearing black pants and something I think I’ve only ever seen in books or movies on top of his, also black, shirt—a leather jacket. It looks nice on him, and adds to his aura.

He has an eyebrow raised that makes me think he has no idea what I just told him, but also seems to tell me he knows that I’m currently ogling him.