Chapter 1
one
“Ridiculous.”
The woman behind me in line, bouncing a baby on her hip as she glares, sums my life up pretty succinctly.
Because, me standing here? Holding up the entire line in this trendy café while my brain reboots?
Why, yes. It is ridiculous.
Thanks so much for noticing.
I swallow the snarky comment, because I’ll never have the nerve to say it out loud.
My best friend, Tris, claims that choking down bitterness instead of letting it out will give me an aneurysm one day.
Then again, she’s known for saying any and every thought that pops into her head without hesitation.
I blink at the phone wedged in my left hand, trying to recall what I was doing before the text message glowing up at me ruined my morning. I think I was about to order? Yes, that’s why the people behind me are grumbling, and the shaggy-haired college guy across the counter is glowering and—
My phone vibrates. Again.
An alert from my banking app about an automated charge. The air in my chest shrivels into two lead balls. Which drop to the bottom of my lungs.
Right. I forgot about that.
My new website’s renewal fee just came through. When I signed up a month ago, the thirty-day free trial seemed generous. And, I’ll admit, I’m not the best with numbers—but surely the $18.99 that just disappeared into the ether won’t ruin Fancy Coffee Friday.
Or was it $28.99?
I should maybe check…
“Ahem.” It’s my biggest fan again, harrumphing from her spot at my back. My shoulders hunch as I cringe, refocusing on the menu. And the prices.
Sheesh. This place definitely deserves a capital “F” for “fancy.”
These little trips to local cafés started as a tradition between me and Tris in college. We were randomly assigned roommates—and totally different in every way. But leave it to my flame-filled bestie to find any and every way to turn a stranger into a friend for life.
She decided we would get “fancy” coffee together each Friday—and it stuck.
I’m supposed to be bringing hers upstairs, to her office, right now. Because eight years later, we’re still roomies. And best friends. And opposites.
As in, she is successful, gorgeous, charming, and fun.
And I am a potato.
Or maybe just the biggest idiot in Manhattan, if this woman’s disapproving sneer is any indication.
My stomach grumbles as my phone buzzes more insistently.
I ignore them both, because the texts are, of course, from my mother.
Follow-ups to a long paragraph about how she received a late payment notice for one of my student loans—berating me for choosing a “hobby” that “doesn’t pay” over a “real job.”
Bold, considering she’s never worked a day in her life.
I already typed an apology, letting her know I’ve tried to change the address for the loan statements three times. It’s the best reassurance I can offer her, since I won’t be able to pay this month’s, either.
So maybe I shouldn’t get the cranberry muffin I want.
Instead, I rattle off Tris’s usual—a large cold brew with extra espresso and extra sugar—along with my usual cup of breakfast tea. Only when my belly audibly gurgles, I sheepishly ask, “How much are the pastries?”
The employee’s focus automatically drops to my stomach. And not because it’s growling.
“Six dollars,” he replies, eyeing the love handles spilling over the waistband of my jeans.
Ironically, I only wore them because I wanted to look “nice” when I visited Tris’s office. She works for one of the wealthiest men on the planet—and Stryker & Sons is practically a monument to class and success.
The February wind makes dresses and skirts completely impractical, though. And I thought dark-wash jeans looked a bit more professional than my usual leggings.
As if underscoring my point, a frigid burst of air sweeps into the café as more people huddle in from the bustling Midtown sidewalk.
I huddle lower, burying my chin in my gray turtleneck.
Thinking for the millionth time how much I hate the color.
But it’s the newest sweater I own—a Christmas gift from Mama.
Intended to “downplay” my “mousy” hair color, she informed me.
Fat chance.
Remember when I said I was a potato?
Yeah, well. I should be so lucky.
The total appears on the café’s iPad, and I tap my phone for contactless payment. The screen changes.
PAYMENT DECLINED.
Oh shit.
My heart lurches as my chest caves in. The guy across from me can’t quite contain his eyeroll this time. “You can try it again.”
I tap a second time, even though I know nothing will change. Because I’m sure the system is correct—and I don’t have the funds to cover these two drinks.
PAYMENT DECLINED, it says again. Louder, somehow.
The woman behind me groans. I start mumbling apologies, swiping my banking app open. “I’m sure it’s just—”
Hopeless.
Because when I see that my checking account has $8 in it, I know there is no savings to move money over from. And no upcoming paycheck.
The lady behind me is tall and modelesque. She openly glances over my shoulder to see my balance before muttering under her breath, “Jesus. Then move out of the way, fat ass.”
I don’t think she meant for me to hear, but that only makes it worse. My cheeks heat as my insides tighten. She’s not wrong. I’m a mess. Wearing this ugly outfit to attempt to look decent, holding up the line, mismanaging my expenses, thinking I could ever have my dream career.
Well, what did you expect, Alice? Did you actually think you were going to “make it?”
Panic balloons in my throat, pushing small, prickling tears to my eyes. I blink and drop my hand to my side, opening my mouth to admit defeat.
“Never mind—” I start to say, “I’ll just—”
A huge arm wrapped in dark fabric reached around me. The tan, brawny hand clutching a sleek new iPhone lands on top of the payment pad just as another lands on my opposite shoulder. Squeezing softly.
“Sorry I’m late, darling,” a deep voice husks. “Forgive me?”
For the sake of full transparency, it’s very possible I’ve cracked.
Because, in all likelihood, there’s no way the gorgeous man who steps around me to reach the register is real.
For one thing, he’s enormous. Standing well over six feet, with the broadest shoulders I’ve seen outside of movies starring The Rock, all wrapped in a well-tailored blazer. His size alone would stop most people in their tracks. But, in addition to being huge, he’s also beautiful.
With obvious muscles stacked under his clothing and rich bronze skin—the man also has thick hair as black as his outfit.
The waves are combed into inky sweeps on top of his head, cropped slightly shorter on the sides.
Close-cut, equally dark stubble covers a wide, square jaw, the area under his sharp cheekbones, and the space around his mouth.
His lips are full, I note. Almost sensual, actually…
Until he frowns.
Then, he’s terrifying.
The rugged appeal of his features transforms into something stern and intimidating as he tosses the woman behind us a pointed glare. He turns the look on the café employee next, roughing out his own order before tapping his phone again, effortlessly paying for all three drinks.
My mind boggles, unable to comprehend. Does he think I’m somebody else? Is he about to look me in the eye and recoil in shock?
I’m so thrown, I lose sight of where I am until the strong fingers curled over my shoulder give a second, firmer squeeze. I blink, immediately surrendering to the man’s unspoken directive as he guides me out of the line.
And—oh God—he’s looking at me. But he isn’t backing away. Or acting like he’s made a mistake.
Does that mean he was actually just… being nice? Trying to help me save face? Why would he do that?
My mouth opens, half a dozen apologies and explanations jamming in my throat. “I—Y-you—I j-just—” I stammer, struggling to speak coherently as adrenaline drains from my body and mortification swamps my stomach.
Slashing brows form a V over the man’s bottomless eyes.
Shimmering threads of gold gild the brown irises, illuminating their depths.
They’re somehow dark and warm—a combination that matches his scowl.
A muscle ticks in his square jaw, but the frown pulling at his dusky lips feels more concerned than irritated.
Which is a crazy thought. There is no reason for this handsome stranger to care about me or my coffee. Nor is there any reason why he would be looking into my eyes so intently, as if he’s trying to read some secret inked into my soul.
Seriously. Did I fall on the icy stairs going into the subway this morning? Or get hit by a cab?
The longer he looks, the more my cheeks heat. Humiliation burns my face and stings my eyes, but there’s also something hypnotizing about being caught in his gaze. The invisible fist strangling my vocal cords finally slackens, allowing me to whisper, “I’m so sorry. Th-thank you.”
The man gives a steady, solid nod. I get the feeling that’s how he does most things—with purpose. Deliberation. His dark eyes flit over my shoulder to the restless line. When they suddenly sail back to mine and plunge just as deeply as before, I nearly gasp.
Which might be embarrassing, if I had the capacity to feel anything other than astonishment.
“It’s no trouble,” he replies, even and rumbling. “You got me to the head of the line.”
Oh. My insides spasm painfully, then deflate. Right. Of course.
Before I can spiral into a new whirl of chagrin, his mouth hitches in wry amusement. “And, unfortunately, I have a habit of saving pretty blondes.”
Pretty blondes? As in me?
I almost look around, searching for some other woman he may be referring to. But he’s still looking at me. Who else could he be talking about?
The man watches every flicker on my face. All traces of amusement abandon his expression. He frowns more deeply. Almost as if he’s deciding something.
His mouth opens to speak, but the barista sets three drinks on the concrete countertop before pausing to skim her attention over the handsome stranger. Can’t really blame her—if I weren’t currently trying to look at anything but him, I’d be staring, too.
My eyes land on my fingers, noticing tiny flecks of green paint from my latest creation that somehow escaped my shower unscathed. A fresh swirl of shame curdles my stomach, rounding my shoulders as the man hands me my tea and Tris’s cold brew.
I notice his drink looks just like mine—in a hot cup, with a tea bag string hanging down the side. His eyebrows quirk at the cup full of ice. The disapproving scowl on his face is almost funny.
“It’s not for me,” I blurt, mumbling too fast and too soft for anyone to hear.
My mother is always on me about that. Tris, too. Just this morning, I was muttering about how she had once again forgotten to buy paper towels, and she tossed back, How am I supposed to hear you if you don’t speak up, Alley Cat?
Which, I’ll admit, is a good point.
Horrifying nickname aside.
“I’m relieved.”
For a second, I can’t remember how to breathe. Did he hear me? Did he just… answer me?
It would appear so. The big man is locked in once again—his full focus latched on my face as I jerk upright. Waiting, I realize, for me to meet his eyes as he adds, “I’d hate for you to catch a chill out there.”
Utter sincerity shines through each crease in his expression. I feel the urge to blink again, disbelief and amazement swelling in my throat. “I—”
I’m about to say I won’t… but then I realize I’ll likely be walking forty blocks home. Since I can’t spend my last eight dollars on an Uber or a new subway pass.
I should have cancelled that website before it charged me. There will be no point to it, now. Plus, I’ll have to call Mama for help and tell her she was right.
I’ve squandered the little I scraped together in six years at a corporate hospitality job, all before I even managed to get my first real client. Which is exactly what she told me would happen if I followed my “dream.”
She always puts quotation marks around that word. Like she can’t quite believe anyone would be silly or small-minded enough to make wedding planning their actual dream.
Though, I suppose, at this point, I can’t really argue with her.
The handsome stranger is still staring at me. Reading me, it seems. And proficiently, too.
Without another word, he slides his hand into his pocket and pulls out a subway card. “Here,” he offers, extending it to me. “So you can get home safely.”
I’m… dumbfounded. Truly and completely flabbergasted beyond reason. A gorgeous man coming to my rescue? Worrying about my safety? Are there even gentlemen like this left in the world?
Apparently so, because he sets the subway card on top of Tris’s cup. “W-what about you?” I stammer, noticing he doesn’t even have a coat on.
But he just quirks that serious half-smile again. “I have a car. And I’m mean enough to take care of myself.”
He says the last part with a somber tone I don’t think I fully understand. As if maybe his words run deeper than they sound.
There’s no time to figure out why. A moment later, he’s in motion, picking up his cup of tea and the pastry bag beside it. Inside, I spot the cranberry muffin I wanted.
That puts something almost like a smile on my face. If I can’t have it, I’m glad it’s going to the last chivalrous man in Manhattan.
Or maybe not. Because, as I smile at my feet like the lame romantic I am, a crinkling paper bag lands on top of my drink.
The man balances the muffin on top of my cup, stepping away with a final nod. “That’s for you,” he says, blowing my mind one last time as he flashes the world’s quickest, most earnest grin. “Darling.”