The Missed Connection

by Tia Williams

Genres: African American Women's Fiction; Women's Fiction; African American Romance

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Tia Williams returns with an intensely romantic, deliciously sexy tale about a woman searching for her handsome seatmate on a European flight—and the unexpected places her hunt for love leads her.

Sasha Cruz knows types. As a booked-and-busy casting agent, she’s always casting -- at happy hour, the post office, the grocery store, everywhere. She’s all about finding the perfect person to slot into the perfect role. What she doesn't do, however, are relationships. Too much energy, not enough time. Men find her intimidating, and she likes it that way. 

But when Sasha’s seated next to a mysterious, broodingly handsome Italian man on the way to a work trip in Paris, sparks fly – but they miss the chance to exchange contact information. Now, convinced that she's lost out on her soulmate, Sasha is on a manhunt to find Seat F.

Sasha enlists her work friend for help in the search, but when she accidentally emails the entire global company, colleagues around the world begin looking for Seat F, too – with some finding love along the way. Meanwhile, Sasha takes matters into her own hands, hiring a smoldering detective who complicates matters in unforeseen ways.

Release date: June 16, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 336

Sample

What nail shape would you like, miss?” asked the manicurist, inspecting Sasha’s left hand. “Square? Round? Almond-shaped?”

Distracted, Sasha glanced up from the phone nestled on her lap. “I’m sorry?”

“Almond?”

“Thank you, no, I can’t eat almonds,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Allergic.”

Physically, Sasha Cruz was getting a manicure. Mentally, she was inside her phone, working. She’d just landed the splashiest commercial in her career as a casting director—and so scrolling through audition clips was top priority. She was so distracted, in fact, that she was about to miss a Pivotal Moment.

To be fair, no one expects a Pivotal Moment to happen at an airport mini spa.

It was odd enough that Sasha was getting her nails done professionally. She was damned good at doing her own nails. And assessing her own stock portfolio. And rewiring her own kitchen. And silk-pressing her own hair. What couldn’t she do? Very few things; namely 1) drive, and 2) confront life without antidepressants. Sasha was raised to be self-sufficient by her single mom, a deadly practical electrician who played no games. “You handle your business! No crying and no suffering!” she’d tell Baby Sasha. Years later, she discovered that her mom hadn’t invented this quote. It was paraphrased from an old Juvenile song. But it stuck.

Sasha had arrived at New York City’s Fiorello Airport with a flawless, bloodred manicure. But sitting at her gate a full three hours early, she noticed a chip on her thumb. This wouldn’t do. She worked hard to cultivate her “minimalist upscale baddie” veneer. Even her casual airport ensemble made a statement. Razor-sharp bob. Winged liner. Impeccable jeans. Tiny tank. Diamond studs (fake). Cashmere throw (real). She looked impenetrable, unrufflable, unfuckwithable. A chip in her nail polish was a kink in her armor. After all, as a casting director, she was known for her eye.

It’s why Seraphina, the international beauty emporium, had hired her to cast their Autumn Kisses commercial. It was a huge departure for Sasha, whose specialty was popcorn rom-coms and thrillers. But after a yearlong sabbatical—where she did little but hole up in her Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, condo, living off DoorDash and YouTube Pilates—she was a tad rusty. The great news? Seraphina was flying her to their international brand summit in Paris so she could get a “feel” for the Seraphina vibe. Just her and over one hundred execs from all over the world.

To be honest, this was an unnecessary trip. Every girl, gay, and they was familiar with Seraphina’s vibe. Where else does one find the world’s most covetable perfumes, eye creams, and hydrating-fluffing-smoothing shampoos? But Sasha welcomed the trip. A weekend in Paris was a gift from the heavens, especially after fighting her way back from hell. And her flight phobia was no match for Xanax.

But first, nails. Luckily for Sasha, once she noticed the chip, she also noticed B-Relaxed Spa across from her gate. Its neon cursive sign beckoned to her. The salon was a tiny, hot-pink space with one nail station and two massage chairs—and it was blessedly empty. When Sasha walked in, a freckled, caramel-skinned twentysomething

wearing thigh-length braids called out, “Heyyy! I’m Maxi.”

Accent via Staten Island, thought Sasha. Slight lisp via Invisalign. Gorgeous girl. I wonder if she’s ever thought about acting?

Sasha was never not casting.

Maxi led her to the nail station, where they sat across from each other. After deciding that almond was, indeed, the shape in question, the manicurist got to work. And Sasha got back to scrolling. Less than a minute had passed before Maxi said, “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

Sasha glanced up from her phone. Her eyes were blurring from studying the self-tape submissions of dozens of models and actors. It was a lipstick commercial, so she was looking for luscious lips. But “luscious” was so subjective. And the only real direction she had received was via the marketing VP, a fiftysomething dude in leather jeans. “Think cute girls, hot boys who’ll agree to wear lipstick, real bodies, all ethnicities. A buffet of diversity. But a fuckable buffet.” In other words, find models who were “inclusive” enough to score culture points, but sexy enough to please investors.

She stole a glance at Maxi. She had a cute, Kewpie doll–shaped mouth. Her energy was like a bouncing beam of sunlight. Perfect for Seraphina.

Hmm, is she about twenty-three? she wondered. Maybe younger? Black-girl freckles, caramel skin . . . Wait. WAIT. Is Paramount still developing that Sade biopic?

“Sure!” Sasha put on a friendly expression. “You can ask me a question.”

“Are you feeling anxious right now?” asked Maxi.

“No, I’m, like, ridiculously relaxed. Why do you ask?”

Sasha couldn’t remember the last time she was relaxed. She was high-strung as hell. In general, she felt like the first kernel primed to explode in a microwave popcorn bag. She usually hid it behind self-deprecating banter and a breezy smile. Though right now, after downing a glass of airport bar rosé, her smile was more boozy than breezy.

“Your hand is warm,” noted the manicurist. “That’s a tension indicator.”

Damn. Maxi was right. Nothing got by nail techs and hairstylists.

“Oh, that’s just me.” She shrugged airily, eyes drifting back down to her phone. “I run hot when I’m in work mode. Like when you have too many apps open and your phone overheats.”

“But you’re not a phone, you’re a person,” Maxi pointed out. “You must unclench.”

Unclench what, exactly? Her brows? Jaw? Butt cheeks? Everything was clenched. Sasha let out a small laugh. “Oh girl, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“How about a hand massage?”

“I’m good, really. But thank you.”

“I have an idea,” persisted Maxi. “Can I do a palm reading?”

Curious, Sasha abandoned her phone for good. She squinted at Maxi, assessing whether she was serious. “I . . . don’t know. Can you? Is it on the menu?”

“I’ve been studying palmistry,” she said proudly. “I’m just an apprentice, but I’m good at it. Come on, you got nothing to lose.”

Sasha thought about this for five seconds. “You know what? My New Year’s resolution was to be more whimsical. Let’s do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Why not?” She shrugged. “The horrors persist. Might as well have a giggle.”

“That’s the spirit, diva.” The manicurist grabbed her right hand, flipping it over so it faced upward. Lightly, she traced Sasha’s palm. “Mmm. Your heart line runs deep. The deeper the line, the richer the love.”

“My palm’s lying to you, Maxi. I’m poor in love.” Not wanting to seem like a sad sack, she flashed a grin. “But rich in vibes.”

“Period.” Maxi giggled.

Sasha wasn’t really joking, though. Dating hadn’t been a priority in years. When asked about her nonexistent love life, she always blamed work. She traveled all the time! She was too ambitious! She was the type of woman who intimidated men. “Types” were her specialty. Her career hinged upon finding the perfect person for the perfect role. She was so good at it, she’d typecasted herself.

“Would you consider yourself a hopeful person? Your soul line is showing that you’re optimistic.”

She couldn’t tell the truth, which was that she was chronically depressed, incurably sleepy—and that, on most days, the only thing holding her together was blush. Instead, she said, “I’m optimistic that I can grow to become an optimistic person.”

“Love that for you. And I love your bracelet,” said Maxi, eyeing the gold cuff on her right wrist. “But I think it’s blocking my reading. Here, I’ll take it off . . .”

“No!” In a flash, Sasha clapped her left hand over the bracelet. Her heartbeat quickened and she began to tremble. Abruptly, the oxygen seemed to disappear in the tiny spa.

“My bad! Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so curt.” The words tumbled out of her mouth, panicked and apologetic. She took a few deep inhales, trying to regulate her breathing. Oh, this was so embarrassing. “Don’t know what happened there.”

“You’re not fine, you’re breathing funny. Here, drink this.” Maxi hopped up and grabbed a small paper cone of fountain water, handing it to Sasha. Eagerly, she gulped it down.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I just . . . I never take it off. It’s a sentimental thing.” Waving her hands in a don’t mind me gesture, she gave Maxi what she hoped was a disarming smile. Maxi smiled back but couldn’t hide her alarm.

The cuff stayed. It was the only thing shielding her scar from the eyes of the world. It was a barely visible, shiny gash—but in Sasha’s mind, it was massive, sprawling, all-encompassing. The scar (and its low ache on rainy days) was a constant reminder of that night in October 2022. That night her life turned into a low-budget thriller. A 20/20 episode. An “it happened to me” Reddit post. After that night, she’d learned that the only way to protect herself was to keep to herself. Mind her business, not let anyone new into her life, and drown herself in work. Outrun the memories. It worked for a long time—until last year, when her psychiatrist threatened to drop her if she didn’t take a work sabbatical.

Your mental health won’t improve if you keep running from your past, her doc had said. Slow down and face it. Feel it.

So Sasha made some big changes. She stopped working for the first time since high school. She moved from her second-floor brownstone apartment (vulnerable to break-ins) to a high-rise, doorman building (as secure as Fort Knox). Without work to focus on, and nowhere to be, her life became a collection of quiet, unwitnessed moments—played out within the walls of her home. She ordered sushi and binged Love Is Blind. She read a captivating book about the history of rats in Manhattan. She installed a claw-foot tub she bought online from Home Depot. And, most significantly, she rarely ventured outside. After a while, friends stopped asking her out. Texts dwindled. But she didn’t mind the solitude. It felt healing somehow.

Things didn’t get weird till the fourth or fifth month, when Sasha had a terrible realization. She really, really didn’t mind the solitude. She saw how shockingly easy it’d be to become a recluse (savings pending). Every day, she got cozier with isolation. And it wasn’t scary. It was a relief. In fact, she craved it. There was no one to hurt her. No one to judge. No one for her to annoy with her constant, creeping blues. She created her own world. No shower, no problem. Weep through breakfast, nap through lunch.

Sometimes she’d climb in her empty tub with pillows, a water bottle, and a bag of kettle corn. For days, she’d lay there in the dark, bingeing niche history podcasts. Any topic would do, from abandoned malls to bizarre defunct professions (“funeral clown” was her favorite). By the second day in the tub, she’d begin to dissociate. She was no longer Sasha Cruz, deceptively glamorous industry player. She was a bodyless blob, floating away into the pitch-black cocoon of the podcasts—where nothing existed but fun facts, trivia, and lore about long-ago places and people. Dead-and-gone things.

This was worrisome behavior. This was shut-in behavior. But it was hers. She’d built a safe haven. No one talks about how self-satisfying depression can feel.

But then, Sasha caught an endless cold that wasn’t a cold, at all. It was aspiration pneumonia, and it landed her in the hospital for five days. Her doc explained that, if left untreated for a few more weeks, it could’ve killed her. She would’ve died alone. Possibly in her new bathtub. And that thought, she found, was not satisfying. In fact, it terrified her into rejoining the world. Sasha suspected that it wasn’t the healthiest choice, allowing fear to motivate another huge life decision. But whatever. There were worse reasons to yank yourself out of a dissociative bed rot.

Step one? Write an elegant, sane-sounding “somebody hire me, please” post on LinkedIn. Before she had time to panic and delete, Seraphina contacted her. And now, the Paris trip would kick off her fresh start. She was thirty-two, back on her feet, and stronger than ever. Was she seeking guidance from a baby nail tech moonlighting as a fortune teller? Sure! But Sasha was a savvy woman. And savvy women know that wisdom sometimes comes in unconventional packages.

“Got it, your bracelet stays on,” said Maxi, as she continued to trace the lines in Sasha’s palm. Abruptly, she stopped. Frowned. And then, she pulled a tiny magnifying glass out of her apron pocket. Closing one eye, she held it above Sasha’s palm.

Sasha was alarmed. “What happened? What do you see?”

“Nothing, I’m just processing your palm map.”

“Is it bad?”

Maxi shook her head, slowly. And then, with a huge smile, she looked up at Sasha. “No, it’s great news. You’re gonna meet a man.”

“A man,” repeated Sasha flatly. “That’s the great news?”

“I get it, most men are flops. But your palm’s saying that the right one awaits you.”

“I’m sorry, Maxi, I just don’t believe in the soulmate industrial complex.”

“Better start believing. You’re gonna experience a chance meeting that’ll set off a chain of events—events that’ll end in happily ever after.” Maxi leaned forward, peering into Sasha’s eyes. “The right connection can bridge hearts through time and space. The right connection can change the world.”

Sasha smiled kindly, but was skeptical of Maxi’s overwrought advice. So she changed the subject. “You have an incredible mouth. I’m casting a Seraphina lipstick commercial, any interest?”

“How’d you know I was an actor? I just landed an audition for the new Sade movie.”

I still got it, she thought, happily.

“Let’s stay in touch.” Sasha slid her a business card from her purse. “I’m a casting director.”

“God gave with both hands today!” exclaimed Maxi. She pocketed the card, and took Sasha’s hand, again. “But back to you. Your palm’s telling me you’re hiding from your life. Is that true?”

“Welll . . . not no.”

“Life’s too short to hide, sis. Aren’t you excited to see what happens next?”

Sasha considered this. Maybe “excited” was too dramatic a word. Excitement required a level of trust in the world that she didn’t quite feel, yet. But she was curious about the future. And, for the first time in a long time, she was curious about people. At the beginning of her sabbatical, she felt relieved not to have to interact with strangers (or anyone, really). People were too unpredictable. But lately, she’d started peering out her bedroom window; spying on the rush hour crowd seventeen floors down on Grand Army Plaza. Behind the safety of her curtains, she’d wonder where everyone was headed, who they were meeting, and what drove them out of bed every morning. Who was out there? Did anyone feel as unmoored as she did? Had anyone else read and loved Rats: Observations on the History & Habitat of the City’s Most Unwanted Inhabitants?

Sasha did want to know people again, and be known, herself. What was the point of living a life, unwitnessed? And when it came to dating—well, ever since that long-ago October, she’d rejected men as a species and a concept. But she was exhausted from the effort. She was tired of clinging to fear like a security blanket. It was time to open herself up to adventure. Enjoy some light wining-and-dining. Yes, she was a self-sufficient queen, but, for once—why not let a man sweep in and handle the bill, trash day, her orgasms? In her quietest moments, she fantasized about someone telling her, Don’t worry, I’ve got it.

Sasha was tired of always gotting it.

“Maybe,” she started quietly, “I’m a little excited to see what happens next.”

“Of course you are, hon,” said Maxi. “And not for nothing? No one wants to die alone.”

No one wants to die alone.

In the end, that’s what made her believe in Maxi’s reading. Somehow, Maxi had read her mind and saw her fears. It was one thing to have the thoughts rattling around in her mind. It was another to hear them spoken aloud by an absolute stranger. Literally, all Maxi knew about Sasha was that she was allergic to almonds.

No one wants to die alone.

That line was still ringing in Sasha’s ears, hours later—when she heard it, again. Spoken by a most unexpected gentleman.

Sasha used to love flying. At the height of her career, she practically lived on the red-eye between New York and LA. It felt jet-setty, cosmopolitan. But today? Flights were a high-maintenance nightmare.

Flying required the following: 1) reading the turbulence forecast on Turbli.com; 2) boarding with a buzz; 3) enthusiastically pantomiming the emergency instructions along with the flight attendant; 4) and risking credit card debt to upgrade to first class. That last one was important, because first class offered a private pod with a sliding door. Given her chances of hyperventilating, privacy was key. Especially since the flight was filled with Seraphina execs she hadn’t yet met.

But, as Sasha settled into seat 1E, she wasn’t thinking about Seraphina or tomorrow’s wine hangover. The only thing on her mind was Maxi’s palm reading.

I have to admit, she made some brilliant points, thought Sasha, as she attempted to close her privacy door. But it wouldn’t budge. Was there a button she wasn’t seeing? Sasha tried again. Nothing. Was it stuck? She rang the “help” buzzer, hoping a flight attendant could work some magic. In the meantime, she noticed that the seat next to her, 1F, was vacant. Amazing luck.

Time to settle in. She slipped off her sneaks, cocooned herself in her throw, and geared up for her antianxiety ritual—featuring a satin sleep mask, noise-canceling headphones, and a podcast about the riveting history of American highways.

Within minutes, she was floating in velvety darkness, scored by the soothing, Southern lilt of the host, a female Duke professor.

On the edges of consciousness, she heard the announcement: FLIGHT ATTENDANTS, PREPARE FOR TAKEOFF. The headphones almost canceled out the whooshing sound of the doors closing. She heard the doors reopen. Even with closed eyes, she could sense the presence of a last-minute passenger rushing in. And then, given the sound of a carry-on being loaded onto the overhead bin to her left, that person sat in seat F. Almost immediately, the subtle scent of leather and jasmine wafted over her.

Tom Ford Tuscan Leather. The cologne most favored by the sluttiest NBA and NFL players. Years ago, she’d cast a Survivor-type reality show starring rookie athletes camping together during the off-season. She was just a few years older than the twenty-two-, twenty-three-year-old guys, and they were a flirty bunch. But once they realized she was too professional to entertain a toxic-but-sexually-satisfying situationship with any of them, they all became friends. She ended up being godmother to a Detroit Piston’s baby! The scent carried sweet memories, transporting her to a younger, freer Sasha. Before she went into hiding.

Hmm. Who was her neighbor? Given how many Seraphina execs were on the flight, he could possibly be one. What if they’d be working together on the commercial? God, traveling with coworkers was so painful. You didn’t want Glenn from sales to see you nap-drooling. Now she urgently needed to close the pod door. Blindly, Sasha started groping around her seat again, searching for the button. No luck. With a sigh, she sank back in her plush seat.

But then, out of nowhere, she felt her door slowly begin to close. On its own. Confused, Sasha slid the mask atop her head. Suddenly, the door changed course, sliding back open. She peered over at the seat next to her. And locked eyes with quite a man.

The guy in seat F nodded hello to her. Then, he held up a small, thin remote. “Yours is by your seat. Left side.”

Sasha checked. Indeed, there was a remote nestled in her console. “How did I miss this?”

“It’s hidden,” he said simply. “Apologies for stepping in. I felt bad seeing you struggle.”

Seat F had a slight accent. Maybe Portuguese? He had full, dark hair. Five-o’clock shadow. Tailored charcoal suit. His face was chaotic—crooked Roman nose, weathered olive skin, eerily pale green eyes, resting scowl. But the overall effect was arresting. He seemed jagged, rough—a man who needed to rub up against something, to sand down his edges.

Back when Sasha used to date, she’d loved odd-looking guys with presence. And this guy had the presence of a Mafia daddy from a dark romance novel.

Too bad Netflix already cast 365 Days.

“You seem . . . thrown off. Should I not have intervened?” he asked.

“No, I’m grateful. I’m just not used to anyone helping me.”

“A shame.” A slight smile broke his scowl. Then, he glanced down, fiddling with the cuff link at his wrist. A lock of hair fell into his face and he raked his fingers through his waves.

It wasn’t until he glanced back at her that she realized she was staring. Quickly, she looked away. Sasha often caught herself gazing at people’s faces—in a casting way, not a creepy way. But just in case she’d given him the wrong idea, she tucked her hair behind her ear, flashing the fake cubic zirconia wedding ring she wore for protection.

He raised his dark brow. “Allora. Understood. You’re a beautiful woman, but I’m gay.”

Mortifying. How did she miss this? To be fair, Italian men were confusing.

“I’m so embarrassed.” She grimaced slightly. “So presumptuous of me.”

“No offense taken,” he told her. Then, he busied himself on his phone.

Relieved, Sasha slipped her sleep mask back on. As the plane took off, they fell into silence. The takeoff was a little bumpy—so, Sasha was focusing superhard on the podcast, trying to calm her heart rate. And then, she thought she heard Seat F lightly chuckle.

Sasha slid off her mask again and glanced in his direction. He was suppressing a grin.

“Hello again. I owe you an apology,” he confessed. “I lied.”

“So soon?” she said wryly.

“I didn’t lie about you being gorgeous. You are, and I suspect you know it. But I’m not gay.” His pale, almost translucent emerald eyes settled on hers. Despite herself, she sat up a tad straighter. “The truth? For a woman, I know it’s uncomfortable being stuck for hours with a man trying to . . . ehh . . . hit with you. No, hit on you. You should feel comfortable.”

She blinked, speechless. How novel, that this strange man cared about her comfort. For a few seconds, she allowed herself to believe it. As a rule, Sasha didn’t trust strange men.

Maybe not anymore, she thought. But once, forever ago, you felt totally safe with a strange man. Instantly and intensely. And it wasn’t a lie, or a line. He meant it. And you felt it. But that was an impossible situation and an impossible man. Doesn’t count.

She dropped the thought as quickly as it arose. It was ancient history.

And then, Sasha got suspicious. How did Seat F know that, for her, safety was paramount? Maybe he was a cult leader. She remembered learning from some podcast that cult leaders were adept mind readers. Subtly, Sasha launched into her stranger-danger checklist, studying him for signs of volatility—e.g., clenched jaw, hands in fists, nervous foot taps, dilated pupils, flinty eyes. Nope, he passed the test. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

“Well, thank you for the thoughtful lie.” The tiniest smile played on Sasha’s lips. Then, she remembered she had no real proof he wasn’t dangerous, and the smile dropped.

“Prego.” A slight smile softened his face. “It means ‘you’re welcome’ in Italian.”

She didn’t want to encourage conversation, she really didn’t. But, for some reason, she couldn’t help herself. “Where are you from in Italy? Your accent’s charming.”

“Southern Italy. A small beach town called Gallipoli. And you?”

Just then, a flight attendant appeared, offering a wineglass on a tray. “Morning, Ms. Cruz. Here’s the rosé you requested on the USFlight website three hours ago,” she trilled, extremely specifically. “Enjoy!”

Sasha had preordered it, in a move that felt efficient at the time—but was now embarrassing.

“Oh, I will. Thank you.” Cheeks aflame, she took a tiny sip. She hoped it looked dainty.

“Lovely surname,” he said. “Is it Cruise like Tom? Or Cruz like Penélope?”

“Like Penélope. My father’s Dominican. My mom’s Black, via Houston.”

“Ahh, Texas.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Howdy.”

His Italian-flavored cowboy accent was charming. She couldn’t help but smile. “Nicely done.”

“So, how do you identify? Um, ethnically?”

The question would’ve been rude if he hadn’t sounded so authentically interested. (And if he’d been an American white guy.)

“Well, Black, of course.” She paused. “At thirty-two, I’m still working out what it means to be Afro-Latina.”

“Thirty-two? I was thinking you have . . . twenty-five years?”

Flattered, she smiled with actual teeth. “Really? Thank you. It’s because Black don’t crack. Ever heard that expression?”

He shook his head, eyes dancing with interest.

“We look young forever,” she whispered. “Look at Angela Bassett. My future’s bright.”

“Sì, sì, it’s true.” He chuckled. “So, you say you’re . . . ehh . . . working out what it means to be Afro-Latina. This means what?”

Wow, Seat F was direct. And a sharp listener. Sharp-listening in a foreign language was no easy feat. Also, this conversation was getting so deep, so fast. It challenged Sasha’s stranger-danger rules. But he was pulling her in. She felt as if she was swimming against a current.

“Sometimes I feel like a fraud claiming Afro-Latina identity. My parents were never together, and I don’t know my dad.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I speak Duolingo Spanish. I’m so ashamed. I really regret not experiencing my Dominican side.”

“Ahh, but that should be his regret. Not yours.”

“Well, it’s a long story,” she said, knowing she’d said too much.

Seat F cocked his head slightly. He noticed her hesitation and didn’t pry. “Santo Domingo is beautiful. Have you visited?”

“A decade ago. Being there was a mind-bender. I saw my cheekbones everywhere.”

“Why have you not returned?”

Anxiety, she thought. Fear born of one specific experience that rippled into every part of my life. Things that used to be easy, like flying, are excruciating now. I hate it. But I can’t help it.

“No time,” she told him,. . .