One girl. One bunch of arugula. And one painfully good-looking tenant who ruined everything.

It was noon — peak heat, peak visibility, and peak vulnerability. I was in our kitchen, pretending to be busy with dishes but really just soaking up chismis and suds. 

Word on the island was—a new tenant had arrived, but probably not for long. Thanks to my cousin’s prior booking.

My sister, who successfully lured him into renting our house already met him, and I—in true emotionally unavailable fashion—was hiding.

I caught a glimpse of him. Gorgeous. The kind of face that makes you want to write poetry…badly. 

From the kitchen window, I saw only his back as he was staring at the beach, shirtless, sun hitting in all the right places.

Nice body.

Nice booty.

And then the most dangerous thought — Is there depth? 

That was my cue. I turned off the faucet, shrugged off my feelings, and told myself — No. Absolutely, not. No ‘soft-launch heartbreak.’ We’re not doing this. No crushes. No feelings. I am just a girl in a kitchen, with dishpan hands and a fragile grip on reality.

Hours passed. It was peaceful.  Quiet.  He was probably still sleeping like some Greek demigod who just washed ashore. And I thought—genius move incoming—Now’s the time to harvest arugula. No eye contact. No tension. Just leafy greens and peace.

So I tiptoed out to the back garden, picked arugula like I was auditioning for a Lifetime rom-com farm-girl reboot, and strutted back in the house feeling victorious.

Then… my jaw dropped.

Right in front of me—an angel, standing next to his motorcycle.

Alive. Glorious.

Like someone hit “ULTRA 4K” in real life.

“Hi,” he said. He smiled—not a regular smile, but a midday angelic rent-paying smile.

He pulled out some cash like he was sent by heaven but also owed utilities.

“Here’s my pay…”

Before he could finish his sentence, my response crashed… 

“Oh hey! Let me go get my sister, hang on a sec!”

Translation: I need to scream into a pillow and file a crush emergency with God.

I bolted to my room, shut the door, clutched the arugula like it was an emotional support vegetable, and whispered to myself—I’m in trouble.