He’s the perfect guy. There's just one problem... Jessie knows that love at first sight doesn’t exist. But, one sunny Saturday in London, a fire alarm in Whole Foods throws her into a stranger's arms. Cal is charming and funny: their chemistry is instant. Quick-fire flirting turns into the most enchanting day of Jessie’s life. But that evening they're forced apart before swapping numbers. Jessie is devastated - what if she’s just lost the one ? After weeks of searching, imagine her surprise when Jessie opens the door at her nannying job to Cal holding two dozen red roses. The only thing is, they’re not for her… Known as the queen of the meet-cute, Laura Jane Williams (she/her) is the author of 12 books. Her romantic comedies for adults include Lovestruck , Our Stop and The Lucky Escape , and she has written several non-fiction titles. She is also the author of the Taylor Blake series for teens. Laura's work has been translated into languages all over the world. 1 Sunday. I've forced myself to get up at a reasonable hour, even though I haven't got anything to be up for. I can hear the couple upstairs listening to Radio 2's Sunday Love Songs, shuffling about their kitchen laughing, and, depressingly, at one point, even indulging in a quickie. I miss that. I miss slobbing about and suddenly ending up on the living room floor. I find myself looking forward to tomorrow, which is pathetic. Wishing away the weekend because I feel lonely? I don't think I could admit that even to India, and she knows everything about me. Stoke Newington is a hive of couple activity at weekends, so I don't want to go to Clissold Park to see everyone holding hands and sipping takeaway coffees. Nor do I fancy brunch for one surrounded by loved-up pairs with sex hair reading the Sunday supplements. After showering and getting ready, I look at myself in the mirror: my messy bronde bob and dark eyes could do with a little TLC-it wouldn't kill me to get the GHDs out and pop on some mascara-but instead I flop down on my bed and stare at the ceiling. What have I got to get ready for? Holding hands with myself? It's a bright, sunny morning, so I positively force myself to lace up my trainers and walk. Earbuds in, podcast on, I'll go and practice some gratitude. Acknowledge being able to pick and choose what I want to do, bask in the sun, give thanks for my friends, and family, and my job, and the gym, and . . . Oh, who am I kidding? This all sucks. The most I can muster enthusiasm for is buying the ingredients for a lemon and orzo chicken dish I’ve seen on Pinterest. I like Pinterest. I like how you can curate a magazine for yourself of all these calming, organized images so that a sleek wardrobe and sunny holiday destination feels within reach. Sometimes it’s almost like watching a video of a girl with nice hair and sensational eyebrows making an adrenal-soothing smoothie or evening meal for less than five hundred calories but with thirty-eight grams of protein is the same as doing it yourself. But on this occasion I won’t just think about making something tasty and then order Uber Eats. I’ll actually do it. I need to accomplish something today. I make my grocery list, take a nice long walk in the sun, and then meander around to Whole Foods, and try to enjoy the experience of selecting the best organic poultry and largest citrus fruit possible. It becomes meditative, taking my time and looking at the elderflower cordials and weird face creams. By the time I get to the checkout I've almost forgotten to be miserable. But then the fire alarm sounds. It's a deafening screech that I hear over my podcast and feel in my bones. I pull out my AirPods. "Dear shoppers," somebody announces over the intercom. "Please be advised that this is not a drill. Exit the building at your nearest opportunity, and meet at the fire assembly point. I repeat, this is not a drill; please leave your shopping where it is and meet at the fire assembly point." I'm next in line to pay, but the person serving closes out the till and steps away from the checkout. "Can I just grab these?" I say to their back, even though I know they won't help me. It's not like flames are licking at our toes; the oven in the bakery probably just got too hot, something like that. But there'll be a "procedure" in place, no doubt, and "rules." My dinner plans are ruined without this chicken breast. "I feel the same way," a low, smooth-as-silk voice behind me says. "All I want is some apples and this quinoa." I go to answer, to say something glib and self-effacing to this stranger about my happiness resting on what I eat for supper. But as I turn around and make eye contact, I'm stunned into silence, swallowing my words. I don't know what to say at all. The comment has come from a dark-haired, stubbled man, with these kind, crinkle-at-the-corners, somebody-just-told-him-a-joke eyes. He's in gym shorts and Nikes, socks pulled up to his calves. His shoulders make suggestive