“So don’t go back to work. Spend the day how you want to. Go shopping. Go home and nap. Go for a long drive to nowhere. Sit here with me and people-watch.”

How awesome any of that would be. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll probably get fired. That’s why.”

“Would that really be so bad?”

I frown. “Of course it would. I can’t not work. I’d be broke in a month. I’d lose my car. I wouldn’t be able to buy clothes or pay rent….”

I want to eat my words immediately. I may have just insulted the only guy I’ve actually felt any sort of connection with or had any real conversation with in months. “I’m so sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

He shrugs casually. “Don’t apologize. I’m okay with what I am and what I do. I chose to live this way.”

I narrow my eyes at him, thinking that I must have heard him incorrectly. “You chose to be homeless?”

“Yup. One day I grabbed my guitar and a bag of clothes and started walking. And I kept on walking.” His eyes meet mine, all blue and serene with a splash of wild. “I still haven’t stopped.”

My imagination soars with visions of Evan walking non-stop, from one town to the next with Acorn. Sleeping under bushes and huddling under freeway bridges during downpours while cars race past them. I’m fascinated and also a little skeeved out over the concept of choosing to live on the streets. Just thinking about how he must live—not having a clean bed to sleep in—makes me feel itchy.

“Don’t you worry about being able to eat… or where you’re going to sleep…? Or—I don’t know—where you’re going to shower and all that?”

He shakes his head, the feather earring swinging against his mane of hair. “Nah. It all just works out. Like it did today. The girl I’ve had my eye on for days bought me and my dog the best lunch I’ve had in a long time, and now she’s talking to me.”

A blush heats my face, and now I wish I could blow off work and sit here and talk to him. But I really do have to get back to the office, so I stand and brush off the back of my pants.

Before I walk away, he grabs my hand and pulls it closer to inspect my tiny wrist tattoo.

“Ladybugs are supposed to mean good luck,” he says.

“I know.” That’s why I got it, actually. Because ladybugs are cute and dainty and lucky. Everything I’d like to be. But instead, I’m awkward and clumsy and not very lucky.

“Did you also know in Norway, there’s a myth that if a man and a woman see a ladybug at the same time, they’ll fall in love and are destined to be together forever?”

The warmth of his rough fingertips gliding along mine is comforting, like slipping into a pair of favorite sweatpants on a chilly day. I slowly pull my hand away from his.

“No, I didn’t know that.” How does he even know about the myths of bugs in Norway? Is he some kind of guitar-playing bug studier?

“We just looked at yours at the same time.”

“That doesn’t count,” I throw back with a smile. “It’s a tattoo. It’s not a real ladybug. And we’re not in Norway.”

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” He grins as he picks up his belongings and walks away with his dog. After a few steps, he looks back and flashes me a smirk that’s a jarring mix of boyishness and sex appeal. I shake my head as he heads back toward the park.

I tear my eyes away from the way his jeans hug his butt in the most perfect way and how his hair flows down his back, and walk in the opposite direction. I’ll have to work an extra half hour tonight to make up for being late, but that’s okay. I did my good deed for the day and bought a homeless guy lunch. Even if he claims he’s homeless and jobless by choice, I don’t really believe him. No sane person would do that to himself.

“Honey, if you’re going to be late for dinner, you should call. I was starting to worry.” My mother peers into the oven at whatever she’s got baking in there.

“I’m sorry. I had to work late, and then I got stuck in some traffic.” I wish for the millionth time the tiny apartment-like space I rent in my parents’ basement had a kitchen, instead of the tiny refrigerator, single countertop burner, and microwave I have in a small nook down there. If I could cook real food in my own space, I’d decline having dinner with my parents and my sister every night so I could feel more independent.

Mom pushes her short black hair behind her ear. “Please don’t let them take advantage of you in that office, Piper. First it’s a half hour. Then it’s an hour. I know how managers take advantage of their more submissive employees.”