Page 16 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

“Ah, just a minute.” He strides over to meet the new arrival. The second man, shorter and stockier, shoves his sleeve back and taps his watch. Mr. Dimple replies with a shake of his head and turns back toward me. The second man follows, still speaking.

A tickle of apprehension itches at the back of my neck. What car service has two drivers? Is this a scam where they pick up unsuspecting travelers and then steal their luggage? That would explain why he doesn’t know Boyoung and why my destination was a mystery. It also explains why he’s so attractive. He’s a lure. Who wouldn’t choose to ride in a car with him, even knowing you were going to be kidnapped and fleeced of all your belongings? He’s that attractive.

What a disappointment. I guess that’s how it works in life. You don’t get to be super-good-looking and have a decent personality. It’s not fair to the rest of the world. The existence of a dimple that deep, that cute, requires some kind of sacrifice.

“Actually, I’ll get my own ride.” I reach over and tug at my suitcase, but he doesn’t release it.

“Please. A moment.” He holds up a hand as if to stop me from moving and, surprise, it does. I’m curious, against my better judgment.

The other man speaks again and my mother’s admonition repeats itself. Coming to a country where I don’t speak the language is looking dumber by the minute.

“Yes, I know the car is at the entrance,” the would-be body snatcher says, and this time I understand because he is speaking English. “But Hara-nim needs a ride.”

“The meeting for dinner is in an hour and the traffic is not good,” replies the second man, also in English, but with a very heavy accent.

“My new friend needs a ride,” Mr. Dimple repeats, and this time his voice carries with it a certain firmness that signals that’s the end of the discussion.

Maybe for him and the second man it is, but not for me, because while he might play a very large role in my pre-bedtime fantasy, I am not going to be a statistic. “I’m going to catch the train.”

“With that?”

Both of them gaze dubiously at the large piece of luggage and my smaller carry-on. It does seem unwieldy, but I’m sure I can manage. I reach for the case again but Mr. Dimple rolls it out of the way and starts walking.

“Hey, wait. Give that back.”

“I’m your driver, remember?”

“No. No, you’re a complete stranger.”

He stops abruptly and I nearly run into his back. “I introduced myself, didn’t I? We’re at least acquaintances now.”

Oh, that was nicely done. He’s criminally attractive and charming. Get a grip, Hara, before someone stuffs you in the trunk and sells you for parts. “You could be an organ seller for all I know.”

“Choi Yujun is no criminal,” the second man bursts out with so much indignation that I almost start to feel bad.

A dimple on the other side of Choi Yujun’s face appears as his hand returns to his pocket. There’s a gasp behind me and then the sound of something crashing into something else. I don’t need to look to see what happened. Obviously, another traveler caught a glimpse of this man’s smile and lost her mind—completely relatable because here I am contemplating getting into his car.

“I’m not,” he says. “But to be honest, I’m also not a driver as you assumed. I’m an ordinary citizen who got off his flight from Hong Kong and was waiting for my car to arrive.”

My brows crash together. “Then why didn’t you correct my assumption?”

His dimples deepen. “Because you’re adorable and you apparently needed a ride.”

Adorable. He called me adorable! He’s lethal. I take a step back.

“But what about the car Boyoung ordered for me?” I look back toward the terminal and look around for another blue-suited man and find not one, but several dotted all over. Many of them are holding signs. In fact . . . I squint. I think I see my name on someone’s iPad. “Oh no.” My purse slides to the ground as my stupidity finally sinks in.

“It’s okay. Anyone would’ve made the same mistake.”

It’s a lie, but a nice one. With burning cheeks, I bend over to grab my purse and to hide that I’m completely humiliated. I give myself an internal slap. It’s time to stop being a foreign fool and start acting like a person with manners and sense.

Straightening, I gather my composure. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and obviously mistook you for the driver my friend had arranged, but he’s over there.” I laid eyes on Choi Yujun and decided, irrationally, that he was my ride, and I didn’t even bother to look for someone holding a sign with my name because in my lust-induced myopia, it couldn’t be anyone else.

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