The man looks from my face to my hand and back again. That feeling of home is leaking away and a familiar sensation of otherness creeps over me, turning my cheeks red. Suddenly, I realize that when Boyoung was telling me that everyone dressed up here in Seoul, it wasn’t a commentary on Seoulites, but a gentle piece of advice that my preference for sweatpants was going to make me stick out like a red crayon in a box of neutrals. I didn’t get the message and now I’m regretting my choice of joggers, an old Puma T-shirt, and sneakers. The heat spreads to my ears.

I’m about to turn away when he reaches out and clasps my hand. He has long, piano-playing fingers and a firm, dry grip. The contact snakes a line of electricity from his palm to the back of my neck and other places farther south.

“Choi Yujun,” he says in perfect, hardly accented English. “You’re American.” It’s not a question.

What was left of my “I’m a local” bubble deflates, as does the surge of energy from his handshake. I pull away and wrap my fingers around my purse strap. “How did you know?”

“The accent or, rather, the lack of one.” The left corner of his mouth quirks up slightly.

“You don’t have much of an accent either,” I point out. This driver speaks English like my coworker Jeff but for a faint hint of an accent that I can’t place.

Boyoung has one and she doesn’t like it, which I understand. There’s always some dumbass back home ready to mock you for your Engrish. If I had a dollar for every time I heard I love you long time at a bar, my bank account would rival Bill Gates’s.

“I studied in the States,” he admits.

“Oh, really?” I’m about to ask where when it strikes me that the conversation we’re having is an odd one for a driver and a passenger. He probably doesn’t want to field personal questions about his educational history from some random American he’s ferrying to a rental. I drag my attention away from his perfect face and his delicious body to the task at hand. “So Kim Boyoung arranged for you to take me to my rental. Do you have the address?”

He shakes his head. “I do not, but if you provide it, I will be glad to assist.”

This surprises me, because Boyoung’s the type of person who calls ahead to see if the pizza place is serving fresh and not canned pineapple, but maybe this is the way it’s done here in Korea. I don’t want to look stupid so I pull up the address on my notes app.

The man angles his head toward mine and I get a whiff of something warm and citrusy. If I sniff his neck, will he call a customs agent to deport me back to America? I better not risk it.

“Do you know how to get there?”

“I’m familiar with the general area,” he concedes.

“Great. Great.” I’m so very awkward. “Um, this is all I have.” I point to the large red case at my side along with my wheeled carry-on.

The handle of the big case is in his grasp and he’s moving before I process what’s happening. “Wait.” I trot to catch up with him. Does he not realize his legs are twice as long as mine? “I can push my own luggage.”

“Yes, I’m sure you can,” he replies but doesn’t return the case. “My car is this way.”

Unless I want to wrestle him, I don’t think he’s going to let me handle my own luggage.

“I lived in America for a few years when I was young,” he says when I catch up. “California, to be precise. What part are you from?”

“The Midwest. Iowa.” I’m not surprised at his blank face. My state’s not called a flyover state for nothing. “Near Chicago.”

That he knows. “I visited once. The water is lovely.” This time the smile is deeper and I make a devastating discovery. He has dimples. I can tell by the way the shadow hits that should he really smile, the divot would be caverns deep.

“Yes, lovely,” I echo. Oh no. There’s a song that Boyoung shared with me about dimples, and one of the lyrics was about whether the crease was an angel’s kiss. This is a sign that God plays favorites. No man has the right to be beautiful and have a dimpled smile.

“Your family is okay with you staying at a rental?” he asks, gesturing his elegant hand in the direction of my phone.

“I, ah, don’t have family here. At least, not that I know of. I’m adopted,” I blurt out. Then I bite my tongue in regret. Why did I tell him that? What a dumb thing—

“That’s interesting,” he muses. “My mother—”

“Sir. Sir!”

Mr. Dimple stops walking and we both swing around to see a man, also wearing a dark blue suit, running toward us. He says something in Korean and the man beside me replies, sliding me a swift glance. These two know each other.