Mia Perez woke up in the wrong bed.That was the simplest way to say it. She was twenty-six years old, a managing director at a mid-sized litigation firm in Manhattan, and she had spent the last five years looking for the man who had saved her life. She had been nineteen the night it happened, walking home from a late class when she stumbled into a staged mugging near the East River. A stranger had shielded her with his own body, driven the attackers back, and then disappeared before she could learn his name. She had memorized two things about him. His face. And a small mole she had glimpsed on his right shoulder.She had spent five years searching for that face.The night she found him, or believed she had, she pulled him away from a hotel bar with the recklessness of someone who had been patient for too long. She did not examine the shoulder carefully enough. She did not think clearly enough. She simply acted on the certainty that five years of longing had made sharp and unreliable
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