Several days went by. I didn’t run into Dillon, despite my best efforts—my best efforts being walking by his door on the way to work and on the way home each day. Considering we lived on completely different floors, this was no easy feat. Still, I didn’t see stunning hide nor flaming hair of him. When I pressed my ear to his door—desperate, sure, but I think we’ve covered that—I didn’t manage to hear even the faintest trace of his lilting voice.
Clearly, I was in a funk.
Which is why I decided to try and forget about it and go work on my tan instead. And when you’re Irish, working on your tan means slathering on the strongest sunblock they make, donning your widest hat and darkest sunglasses, and praying not to get burned while you read your k****e, slip in your earbuds and crank up the
