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“Sure.” “My buddy,” I begin, nodding my chin toward Harper’s empty stool, “What does he look like?” Tapping my cane where it’s folded up on the bar, in case she hasn’t figured out the obvious, I elaborate, “Can you describe him for me?” “Hm.” She hums. “About six-foot, nice skin, fair complexion, dark-brown hair, dreamy, soulful brown eyes like melted chocolate, a good nose.” “A good nose? What does that mean?” “Okay, how about this. He’s a cross between Zac Efron and Josh Hutcherson.”