T.L. Swan

“I’m Jim,” he says as he holds his hand out to shake mine.

Oh God, now I have to be polite. I shake his hand. “Hi, Jim. I’m Emily.”

He frowns as if bracing himself to lie. “Emily . . . all men are repulsed by Backseat Barbies.”

“Because I’d break that drought of yours and initiate you into the Miles-High Club.”