Chapter 1 #2
A sharp pain shoots through my shoulder as it collides with another hard surface—the ache so strong it forces me to a halt. My chest heaves at the sudden influx of oxygen, and the soreness in my legs is evident as I try gathering enough strength to stand upright.
“Watch where you’re going!” an angry voice barks, a spritz of something landing on the tip of my nose.
My eyes flick up to meet those of a man towering over me.
Six feet too tall. Probably on steroids. Sharp canines. Clenched fists. Flared nostrils.
I take a step back, fearing this may very well be the end of me.
“I’m really sorry.” I toss my hands up in surrender, not missing their obvious tremor.
The monster takes a large step forward, crossing the line of respectable acquaintance distance before growling. A swoosh of air blows the hair out of my face, and I’m scrambling away before my feet can catch up to my brain.
Down the street, a herd of well-dressed bodies eager to cross grabs my attention. But it’s he who stands out the most. Navy blue suit. Red soles. White turtleneck. It’s a horrible combination, but not as bad as seeing the crosswalk light flick on.
I push my legs to move harder, faster, despite the cramp in my foot, as they make their way across the street. And that urgency only heightens when the countdown starts.
Three.
You can make it, Vivienne.
Two.
Talking to him won’t fix the problem, but yelling might make you feel marginally better.
One.
I’m about to jump the guns and chase after him when a hand clamps onto my wrist.
Distinct honking noises blare from all directions as my body slams into its third hard surface of the day.
A yellow taxi car screeches to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road, stopping inches away from a scrawny-looking teenager strolling across. Profanities are spewed his way, but the kid couldn’t care less as he flips off the driver.
Me? The bones in my body may very well be fused from the shock.
“Do you have a death wish?” A harsh voice drags my attention away from the near-freak accident.
I turn around slowly, bracing myself for the caveman who growled at me mere minutes ago, only for my breath to hitch in surprise.
Emerald-green eyes. Chiseled features. Muscular arms. Attractive models swarm New York City, but this man—whoever he was—surpassed every standard.
My gaze drifts downward again—slower this time—taking him in piece by piece. The fitted navy-blue suit hugs his frame perfectly. Beneath the matching jacket, a crisp white button-up hints at a strong chest. And at the edge of his loafers is the faintest flash of red.
I take a step back, my body seizing in disbelief.
I was not lusting after the man who did me dirty.
“What is wrong with you?” I push him in the chest, but he doesn’t budge. He stays put, like a statue made of the strongest steel. “You can’t be ruining people’s things and walking away without so much as an apology!”
The dark-haired man tilts his head to the side, confusion etching itself onto his brows. “What are you talking about?” he asks.
“The notebook!” I choke back a laugh, waving it between us. “When you soak someone’s things, you apologize. No matter how busy or important you think you might be.”
The stranger’s eyes track my hand, narrowing with uncertainty before his gaze settles back on me.
I cross my arms over my chest, scowling when his lips twitch upward, ever so slightly and ever so slowly.
“You want an apology so bad, you’re willing to jump in front of incoming traffic and risk your life for it?” His voice drips in amusement.
I still—the absurdity of my actions settling.
Was it reckless?
Yes…but with his attitude, I sure as hell won’t be admitting it now.
“I wouldn’t have endangered myself if you’d given me what I wanted to begin with.”
“And what is it you wanted?” The man’s eyes flit down my body, settling on the tips of my shoes before making their way back up. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and rotates a hip slightly—as though he’s imitating me.
I huff, shaking my head in disbelief.
The nerve on this guy.
“An apology. After all, it’s the decent thing to do. Have you heard of that word before?” I sneer. “Decency?”
“Can’t say I have.” He turns his head to the side, biting down the smile I so badly want to wipe off his face. “Would you like to define it for me?”
Too much fun.
He’s having way too much fun.
Blurting out dictionary definitions has never been a personality trait of mine. But thanks to one roommate who treats game night like an Olympic sport and drags us along for the ride, I can positively say I’m damn good with my words, my definitions, and my Scrabble-winning strategies.
The best thing to do would be to walk away, act like a normal human being, and move on with my life. But there’s nothing I want more than to prove him wrong, especially with the taunting quirk of his brow.
“If I recall correctly”—I cough for dramatic effect—“the dictionary definition of decency goes something along the lines of ‘conforming to an accepted standard of morality and respectability,’ Something you’ve clearly failed to do by not apologizing.”
“Did I not do the moral thing by saving you from a near freak accident?”
I take a second to ponder the question.
Yes, but “Not when it could have been avoided if you’d been respectful to begin with,” I say instead.
The stranger throws his head back in a laugh, exposing his Adam’s apple. Long fingers scratch at the stubble trailing down his neck, and shame fills me when I’m once again admiring his good looks.
“Do you do this with every man you meet?” he asks.
Alas, still no apology.
“Do you save every woman who’s about to jump in front of incoming traffic?” I raise a brow, thinking I hit the spot but hating the way it makes him sound chivalrous.
“Only the ones who stand out.” The man winks—a move that only fuels my white-hot hatred.
My hands clench on their own accord, ready to follow through on the threats swirling through my mind when he speaks up.
“Anyway, I’d love to continue our chat, but I have a meeting to attend.” With a single nod, he starts making his way to the far end of the sidewalk.
I follow him on instinct, not ready to let this go, but freeze when I see him reach for the passenger-side handle of a car. In the front, a gray-haired chauffeur sits, looking awfully happy to see him.
Talk about a trust fund baby.
I’ve had a taste of this man’s personality, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that the look the driver gives him has everything to do with the paychecks he signs off.
“You’re as bitter as your coffee,” I yell, the words leaving my mouth before I can think them through.
His undeniably muscular body freezes halfway through settling himself into the back seat. Then he turns, his gaze taking me in once more before he says, “Nice try, sweetheart, but I take mine with milk and sugar.”
With a final and distinctive click, the door shuts. Deeply tinted windows barely reveal the wide smile on his face as the car drives off, leaving me stranded and seething on the side of the road.
Before I know it, I’m on a call with Sutton, consumed by anger and, apparently, willing enough to shake up my status quo. Since just like that, I’m her plus-one at that engineering event later tonight.