This was what happened.

I was thirty. He was twenty-one. Now, a nine-year age difference may not be a big deal in the grand scheme of life. However, the early twenties are prime growing years, emotionally speaking. They are the years where you explore, experiment, and begin to find yourself—at least, from what I have found.

I had thought I had found myself a long time ago—back when I was eighteen or so—but I had just gotten dumped on my ass after five years of togetherness and was feeling wild and reckless, much as I had when I was twenty-one myself.

You know, nine years ago.

We worked together at a trendy clothing store in the local mall, part time of course, because I had a full time job as an accountant. He…gulp…was about to start university, having traveled the world after graduating.

We had been flirting for the better part of a year, but since I was in a serious relationship until a month before, I hadn’t made a move, though he’d let me know he was more than willing.

He may have been only twenty-one, but he had “Bad Boy” written all over him. Nearly every time we worked together, some little college girl or other wandered in. She’d be surrounded by a gaggle of her girlfriends and would either bat her eyelashes up at him or stare wistfully in his direction across the racks of young, hip clothing that crowded our store. Sometimes these girls looked so lovesick that I felt for them. I really did.

I didn’t blame them. He was one sexy piece of meat.

He was tall, almost too tall, standing a full foot above my modest five foot four. He was lanky with it, but on him, it just made it easier to see the well-defined muscles lining his arms. I’m not sure where he came across those muscles since he didn’t seem to have time for sports or the gym, what with all of the smoking and drinking and partying he did. But there they were, regardless.