A few years ago, the brunette would have been just my type. But I’d found out over the last year that my type was now Isabeau Astor. Not just blonde. Not just brown eyes. Not only quick wits and an infectious laugh. Not just a tendency to talk about fourteen subjects at once through lips softer than silk. Only the complete package of Izzy seemed to do it for me. No one else. I’d fallen for her a little harder with every letter, every secret she shared, every time she made me laugh. And it wasn’t that I hadn’t had offers while we were in the sandbox, or that I’d deluded myself into thinking she
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