Sydney Sawyer lowered her head, looking at her phone for a while. As her eyes wandered, she caught sight of a pair of limited-edition sneakers.
And the owner of those shoes seemed to be walking toward her.
Sitting in her chair, she had to tilt her head up slightly to get a clear look at the person before her.
From the bottom up, he had a slim build. He was wearing a red tracksuit—pants and a short-sleeved shirt—revealing a pale neck where his Adam's apple, delicate and slightly prominent, held a certain refined sexiness.
Further up was a well-defined jawline.
Thin lips, an upturned nose, light brown irises, and a pair of charming, upturned eyes. His hair was soft and fine, not quite pure black. The overall impression he gave was one of sunshine and cleanliness.
Like a glass of sweet and sour lime-mint sparkling water on a summer day—the very essence of refreshing.
When he smiled at her, a sudden thought popped into Sydney Sawyer's head:
'I want to pat his head.'
