My parents’ idea of summer looks like this: Cyprus, me, my eight-year-old sister, and—like a rescue—fast internet. I was counting on quiet Cypriot evenings in the company of women, children, and pensioners, but fate had other plans, and their name is Fyodor Nemtsov. He’s completely not my type: complicated and closed off, yet he looks at me in a way that sends shivers down my arms. I hadn’t planned on resort romances, but it seems he doesn’t care about that at all. Contains profanity.