Not Your Biggest Fan (Not Yours #1)

Chapter 1 Harlow

Chapter 1

Harlow

Being single has its perks.

I have no one to answer to.

I have an entire bed all to myself, no sharing.

I can travel at a moment’s notice, like I am now.

Yup. Life is real good.

“Just a small-town girl, chillin’ in a big, bad world ...”

I sing off key, as usual, unable to carry the melody, a jaunty pep in my step as I bop along the street, kicking a wayward stone that somehow made its way onto the sidewalk.

As I get closer to the entrance to Central Park, here to people watch and get some vitamin D, I shift my laptop bag higher on my shoulder.

And work, obviously.

I look like a local and feel like a local, adopting the New York state of mind. Low patience for the congested traffic. Basking in the hustle. Harboring a newfound disdain for tourists. Wearing sneakers with every outfit. Walking everywhere.

When I need a cab, I stick my arm out into the street to flag one down as if I’ve been doing it my whole life.

I’m miraculously able to locate an empty bench near the entrance of the park, plop down, and unzip my computer from its sleeve before setting it in my lap and cracking it open. It whirs to life, my desktop icons slowly loading—and while it’s doing that , I scan the area around me with curiosity, nibbling my lower lip.

A tired-looking woman pushes a stroller with an infant in it while a toddler catches a ride on the back. Is she the nanny? Or are these her children?

A man in tiny tight khaki shorts struts past walking a miniature poodle with a pink leash.

I stare down the hot dog cart, which also sells soft pretzels, chicken kebabs, chicken tenders, and a few other things that don’t make sense to sell together. Ice cream. Gyros. Apples.

A few men linger near the truck, obviously on their lunch break, each of them wearing a different version of the same outfit: dress pants, polo shirt, shoes with no socks.

Loafers.

Men back home don’t wear anything like this.

I hide a smile, tucking it into the collar of my crewneck, not wanting to be sitting here grinning like an idiot to myself.

The air is fresh.

The environment is loud.

Busy.

Full of people who always seem to be in a rush to get somewhere.

Yet, somehow, I’m relaxed on this park bench.

Ahh.

This is the life.

I stretch, feeling very much like a New Yorker—heck, I might even leave with an accent by the end of the weekend!

My stomach grumbles.

Guess that bagel and lox I ate this morning on my walk here wasn’t enough.

My stomach grumbles again, this time so loud I can hear it, so I root around in my laptop bag for a granola bar I know is buried in a pocket somewhere; I normally carry emergency snacks for occasions like this, but my hand digs and digs and comes up empty.

No snacks for me.

I rise, stuffing my laptop back into its sleeve, then into my computer bag. Sling it over my shoulder as I meander to the food truck parked at the curb, walking to the back of the short line. Only two people wait in front of me, so I make a show of studying the menu, eyes slowly straying from the menu ... to the man in front of me.

His shoulders are wide, back tapering to a narrow waist.

Athletic shirt tight, the center column down his back soaked with sweat.

White cords are attached to the buds stuck in his ears.

Old-school headphones. Nice.

He has a thick neck, and is it possible to get physically turned on by the back of someone’s neck? Judging by the butterflies in my stomach, all signs point to yes.

I clear my throat, glancing away.

He steps forward when it’s his turn, his deep voice confidently declaring, “I’ll take two chicken skewers and a cola. Please.”

Wait. Chicken skewers?

Chicken. As in: if it’s undercooked, you could die.

Dude, no.

Who in their right mind orders chicken off the street? Like, since when has that ever been a good idea?

Also me: ordered chicken skewers the last time I was here, and as it so happened, they were undercooked, and I was in my hotel room that night literally vomiting and sitting on the toilet at the time, if you catch my drift.

Was that TMI?

I hear his voice rumbling again about barbecue sauce on the side and asking for extra napkins.

I scoff.

Like extra napkins are going to help you later when you’re shitting yourself in a public toilet? Come on, dude, be real.

Ha!

“Yikesss,” I drawl. “Seriously, chicken?” I’m muttering under my breath, doing my civic duty as someone who has been personally victimized by raw chicken in this very park. “Um, hi. Excuse me. PSA: I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I’m speaking to his broad, sweaty back because he hasn’t turned to face me, careful not to let my eyes linger on his chest when he does.

Dang.

He’s pretty darn tall. Dark. Imposing.

“I’m sorry?” He’s staring down at me from several inches up, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or irritated—or both. “What did you just say to me?”

His low baritone rumbles.

His words? Polite yet sharp. Irritated but curious. It’s all very confusing to decipher, but then again, perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut.

Too late now. No take backs.

I clear my throat. “PSA, you know, a public service announcement? To, um, not eat the chicken.”

“But I’m sick and tired of hot dogs—and I know what a PSA is, but thanks.” His expression is blank, baseball cap pulled down over his brows, his pouty mouth set in a straight, serious line.

And speaking of his mouth, surrounding those perfect lips is the most glorious five-o’clock shadow I’ve ever seen in my whole darn life.

A pair of expensive designer sunglasses is clipped over the neckline of his white ringer T-shirt. It has a screen-printed image of a famous cartoon mouse on it, and it’s stretched across the front of his pecs, mostly distorted—that’s how tight it is.

On his bottom half? A pair of compression tights layered under black running shorts.

Bright-orange sneakers with blue laces complete the outfit.

He grabs the top of his foot and pulls it back, bending his knee and stretching his quad while he waits, as if he’s going to tear off into a run once he takes his lunch.

His thigh muscles contract, looking hard as a rock.

I peel my eyes off him with a sigh, since I’m not in New York to find a boyfriend—I’m here to work . Well, technically, I’m here for a presentation, to get advertisers on board for a dating app I created because obviously I’m trying to make it the most popular dating app in the world.

Have I mentioned that?

Yeah. I’m the creator and lead engineer for a dating app I’ve named Kissmet, and not to brag, but it’s going to be kind of a big deal.

Manifest.

“You’re sick of hot dogs?” How can that be possible? “Hot dogs are a classic. A New York staple.” I sound way too enthusiastic about this, but I cannot shut up. “Hot dogs are also sketch but get the job done,” I announce—as if I were an authority on meat; plus, I’m ordering one and so should everyone else .

“Tell me how you really feel. And say hot dog one more time.” He rolls his eyes. “Not that I asked.”

“Still wouldn’t do it. Wouldn’t order the chicken, I mean,” I babble, undeterred. His cocky ego doesn’t bother me; my father is ten times worse. “Go for something else.”

I pull a face, going so far as sticking the tip of my tongue out; it illustrates just how disgusting I think his choice of chicken is—because I’m classy like that, but lordy do I want to stare at him.

He’s seriously good looking—even if he is a bit too fit for my taste.

I prefer my men softer, not as hard, if that makes any sense? Someone who feels good during a cuddle session, not someone who feels like a brick wall, as I suspect this guy does.

“You might as well wear a sign that says ‘I have salmonella poisoning.’” Oh my God, why am I still talking? This dude does not want my opinion.

“I don’t have salmonella.” He snorts, slipping the sunglasses onto his face.

I tilt my chin up self-confidently. “You will.”

“Is salmonella even a thing anymore?” His tone is sarcastic, as if he thinks I’m making up facts.

Is he being serious—has he never watched the evening news? Does he not know that undercooked chicken can make you violently ill, and the chicken they serve here has been in the sun cooking all day—and not in a good way ...

“What do you mean, is that even a thing anymore?” I can’t stop from sounding incredulous. “You can get sick from undercooked meat!”

He lowers his head to get a better look at me, peering at me over the frames of his sunglasses. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not going to eat undercooked meat.”

Why I’m bothering to lecture a complete stranger is beyond me. But here I go, talking at a grown man, one who can make his own decisions. If he wants to eat the chicken and pay the consequences, that is on him. He’ll have to learn the hard way that chowing down on skewers of street meat might come back to bite him in the ass.

That’s a him problem, not a Harlow problem.

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

Stop talking, Harlow. This is none of your business ...

Plus, this is New York City; he’s probably more shocked I’m speaking to him and not ignoring his presence like everyone around us is doing. Because that’s what people do here, ignore everyone else.

But I’m from the Midwest, and we don’t ignore people there.

Meddling is what we do —smiling at strangers, opening doors, saying “excuse me” when we cut someone off, apologizing profusely, and sharing wisdom are what we do best .

Mr. Athletic glances back and forth from me to the proprietor of the food truck, a man who’s leaning on the stainless steel countertop, clearly wanting to get involved in our conversation and give his opinion.

He flashes the food truck guy a toothy grin and a wink, his teeth all but sparkling in the sunlight.

Ugh.

“My buddy Reyansh would never do me dirty like that, would you, Reyansh?”

Without another word he turns his back on me, crossing his arms as he waits. The movement pulls at the snug T-shirt, thin fabric straining over his back muscles.

Damn, he’s in good shape.

Like, seriously good shape . . .

The man inside the food truck—Reyansh—smiles widely. “No, Andy, everything cooked perfect.” He does a chef’s kiss, the two men coconspirators against my interference. “That will be fourteen dollars.”

Mr. Athletic turns to face me, grinning happily with a cocky countenance, his coveted skewers now in hand. The pair of them are like two sparklers on the Fourth of July, long and dangerous if not handled properly.

I eyeball them as he rifles through the pockets of his running shorts, finally pulling out a small stack of bills. He counts them with one hand.

Frowns.

Glances up at Reyansh with furrowed brow. “Shit. I only have twelve bucks.”

Reyansh stares down at the guy.

The guys stares up at Reyansh.

Reyansh stares down at the guy.

I stare at them both , my gaze going back and forth between the two of them.

Ugh.

“Are we going to stand here all day waiting for two dollars to fall out of your asshole?” I mumble, digging into the pocket of my laptop sleeve to snag two crisp dollar bills.

“Here.” I extend the bills to the guy with a smirk. “Consider this a gift.”

He reaches for the cash but hesitates, pulling his hand back. “Are you sure?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s two dollars. I think I can manage.”

“I can pay you back.”

“How?” My brows shoot up. “How are you going to pay me back?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Can I Cash App you?”

“The fee will cost more than two dollars.” It actually won’t, but it’s definitely not worth the hassle of standing here while he fishes out his phone and I fish out mine, yada yada. “Dude, just take the money.”

I give the two bills in my hand a shake.

He accepts them reluctantly—slowly—adding the dollars to his small stack before setting the exact amount on Reyansh’s outstretched hand. He gives another glance back at me.

“If you’re sure.” He grins. “Or we could stand here a little longer to see if cash will actually fall out of my asshole.”

I laugh.

“If you don’t get sick or shit yourself, yeah, come find me.” I sound so cocky, tilting my chin up confidently. “I’ll buy you dinner. If you do get sick, you owe me dinner.”

Not that I’ll ever see him again , and we both know it.

But it’s amusing to make fun of him and predict his future, even though I won’t be around to see it.

This is New York City. It’s filled with millions of people—what are the odds our paths will cross again? Even if he does indeed get sick, I’d never know about it; we are strangers in Central Park.

“Deal. You’ll buy me dinner.”

Those blinding white teeth chomp into one end of the skewer and slide a whole hunk off. It disappears into his mouth.

He chews.

Holds the stick in my direction as if to prove how delicious it is.

“See. Chicken is fine.” He chews theatrically, making the kind of obnoxious food noises a person does when something tastes delicious. “Mmm, my God, this is so good.”

I don’t believe him, obviously. “Yeah, I’m so sure that’s the best thing you’ve had all day.”

“It is. I haven’t had breakfast.”

He winks—actually winks at me—before meandering off down the trail, two sticks of meat in one hand, a soda in the other, whistling as if he hasn’t a care in the damn world.

I stare after him, stepping into his spot for my turn; all the while he strolls down the sidewalk and into the park, where he’ll no doubt find a bench before continuing on his run.

At the window I order a hot dog with ketchup—okay, two—smiling sweetly when Reyansh hands them down to me.

I take a bite of one. “Mmm,” I enthuse as warm liquid oozes out the back of the bun and plops down the front of my white T-shirt.

“Dammit!”

When I swipe at it with a napkin—huge mistake; I should know better—it smears across my boobs. Shit, has anyone noticed?

I glance up.

No one has noticed. This is New York, and everyone is doing their own thing, and no one cares that the young woman with the long brown hair has a massive red stain on her boobs because the blob probably looks designer.

And the good-looking stranger? He’s gone, jogging through the park, no doubt luckier than I am when it comes to food.