Bedroom eyes, that’s the name my mom gave them. Before I travelled to the UK, she issued me plenty of warnings: don’t look the wrong way when crossing the road, the first floor was the second floor, and no one would know what I meant if I asked for ranch dressing at a restaurant.

But the perils of shy, beautiful men like Tristan Carter? Men with walking canes and hearing aids and those damned bedroom eyes, hidden behind a curtain of silky blond hair?

She forgot to tell me anything about those. And I messed up badly. Monumentally. The kind of misjudgement that had me waking in a cold sweat, wanting to catch the next flight back to my pampered college life in the US. Except I couldn’t, seeing as I’d messed up there too.

So I stayed. I got a job, grew up, and learned some harsh life lessons. Worked out what I wanted to do with my future. Drank warm beer, chilled with my big brother. Ferried Tristan Carter across London. Helped him in and out of the car. Goofed around with him. Tumbled headlong in love with him.

Bedroom eyes. I’m an absolute sucker for those.