Slightly Bridget Jones

I'm a temp worker. Phew. Feels good to get that out there.
Anyway, this current position is two months of playing receptionist for an investment brokerage in White Rock, a very quiet retirement town by the beach. The average age there is about 40 years higher than anywhere else in the province, excepting maybe the geriatric ward at VGH. It's an easy but pretty boring job. All I have to do is show up, look presentable, answer the phone (which rings maybe 20 times a day), greet the occasional elderly client, and load the dishwasher at the end of the day. The biggest excitement is when mustachioed GLENN HILMLINGER, whose name requires capitals, stops by to remark that I am wearing pink. Yes GLENN, I am wearing pink. Oh, that's nice. Yes, isn't it. Have a maltball, Pink. Thank you, GLENN.
Until one day last week. I was passing the time by staring out the window at the parking lot and counting veterans' license plates as is my wont around mid-morning, when somebody walked in through the door. Somebody tall. And dark-haired. And good-looking. In a suit. A pinstripe suit, no less, that fit very well. If he'd been wearing a fedora, I don't think I could have held myself back.
Sitting up a little straighter and casually taking off my glasses, I asked whether I could be of any help (back rub?). "Yes," he said. "I'm here to see Rob." "Oh," I said, "I'll just ring him in his office. Could I have (take?) your name, please?" "It's Darcy," he said.
Could it GET any better?
The answer is yes, it could have, if he'd decided to chuck his meeting with Rob in favour of taking me out for lunch in some cozy bistro on the strand, followed by a proposal to sweep me off to the south of France for a few years and tell my parents later, but no such luck. So here I am, back to the reception desk and reality...