Chapter 2
TWO
ANNISTON
I’m officially having the worst, most mortifying, yet weirdly cinematic Tuesday of my entire life. And that’s saying something, because last week I accidentally forwarded an email that basically screamed corporate fraud to the entire legal department instead of just my one trusted contact.
I’m speed walking down the bustling sidewalk in front of Halo Tower Plaza, clutching my oversized coffee like it’s a shield, my laptop bag slapping against my hip with every step.
My heels click click click in that frantic rhythm that screams I’m late, I’m anxious, and I definitely did not sleep last night. Again.
Do not look over your shoulder, Anniston. Do not. You’re being paranoid. The bad guys don’t operate in broad daylight with all these tourists taking selfies. Probably.
My internal voice is doing its best cheerful best friend impression, but even she sounds a little shrill today.
I take a giant sip of my vanilla oat milk latte and immediately regret it because it’s still lava hot.
I sputter, eyes watering, and that’s exactly when the universe decides to deliver my meet cute.
Or meet disaster. Same difference.
I crash straight into a solid wall of man.
My coffee explodes between us like a vanilla bomb.
Hot liquid splashes across his dark gray shirt, down his chest, and all over the very expensive looking tactical watch on his wrist. My laptop bag slides off my shoulder and smacks his boot.
My hair, which I spent a whole forty five seconds taming this morning, flies into my face like a blonde curtain of shame.
I freeze, mouth open, staring up at the tallest, most unfairly gorgeous man I have ever accidentally assaulted with dairy.
He’s got sharp gray-blue eyes that look like they’ve seen actual war zones and still decided to judge my life choices.
Dark hair, a little messy in that I woke up dangerous way.
Broad shoulders. The kind of jawline that belongs in cologne commercials.
And now he’s wearing my entire morning pick me up like modern art.
I want to die. I also want to climb him like a tree. Both feelings are equally strong and extremely unhelpful.
“Oh my God,” I blurt, my voice pitching up into that high pitched register only dogs and embarrassed women can reach.
“I just baptized you. In oat milk. I’m so sorry.
Are you burned? Should I call 911? Do they handle oat milk emergencies?
I can Google it. Wait, no, do not Google in a crisis.
That’s rule number one of every disaster movie ever. ”
He blinks once, slow and controlled, like he’s processing a glitch in the matrix. Then the corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close enough that my stomach does an actual cartwheel.
“You always weaponize breakfast drinks like this?” His voice is low, a little rough, the kind that should come with a warning label.
“Only on Tuesdays,” I say, then immediately wince. “And apparently only when the universe decides I need to meet the most attractive man in Halo City by ruining his shirt. Hi. I’m Anniston. Anniston Wells. Professional coffee terrorist and current candidate for most embarrassing human alive.”
I’m still holding the empty cup like an idiot.
I shove it into the nearest trash can, then pull out a crumpled pack of tissues from my purse that I definitely stole from the last hotel I stayed at.
I start dabbing at his chest without thinking, which is when I realize I’m touching a complete stranger’s very firm pectoral muscle.
I snatch my hand back like he’s on fire. Which, to be fair, he might still be. Oat milk burns are real. I’ve read the studies.
He catches my wrist gently, not hard, just enough to stop my frantic dabbing. His fingers are warm and surprisingly calloused for someone who looks like he could star in a boardroom drama.
“Banks Hawthorne,” he says. His eyes flick over my shoulder for half a second, scanning the plaza like he’s cataloging exits. Then they come back to me, softer this time. “And I have had worse things spilled on me. Usually blood. This is an upgrade.”
I laugh, a startled little burst that sounds way too loud for public. “Blood? Okay, that is either the coolest or most terrifying introduction I’ve ever heard. Are you a spy? A hitman? Please say yes so my romcom brain can justify how unfairly hot you are.”
He raises one eyebrow, and I swear my knees actually weaken. Traitors.
“Not a hitman,” he answers, lips curving just enough to make my heart flutter like a caffeine addicted hummingbird. “Private security. New contract in the city.”
Private security. Of course he is. Tall, lethal looking, and apparently now my personal dry cleaner. This is exactly the kind of man my mother warned me about while secretly hoping I would bring one home.
I realize I’m still standing way too close to him. Close enough to smell whatever woodsy soap he uses and the faint vanilla now mixed in. I step back, smoothing my pencil skirt like that will somehow restore my dignity.
“Look, at least let me buy you a new shirt. Or coffee. Or a new shirt and coffee. There’s a boutique right there that does rush tailoring for important meetings.
I know the owner. She owes me for not publishing her very messy divorce details last year.
Long story. Involves a yoga instructor and too much tequila. ”
Banks looks down at the massive wet stain across his chest, then back at me. Something shifts in his expression, almost like he’s deciding something important.
“Deal,” he says. “But only if you let me carry that bag for you. It looks like it’s trying to stage a coup against your shoulder.”
I glance at my overstuffed laptop bag, which is currently unzipped and flashing the corner of a very illegal USB drive I probably should not be carrying in public. I zip it fast.
“You don’t have to. Really. I’m a strong independent woman who only occasionally tries to murder attractive strangers with beverages.”
He takes the bag anyway, slinging it over his own shoulder like it weighs nothing. His fingers brush mine again and I feel it all the way down to my ridiculous sparkly toenails.
We start walking toward the boutique, the morning sun catching on the glass towers around us.
For the first time in weeks I’m not constantly checking over my shoulder.
I’m too busy sneaking glances at the man beside me who looks like he could bench press a sedan but is currently listening to me ramble about how I once spilled soup on a federal judge during a deposition.
He doesn’t laugh out loud, but his eyes crinkle at the corners, and that feels like winning the lottery.
Maybe today isn’t the worst Tuesday after all.
Maybe it’s the start of something that’s going to get me in a lot more trouble than just a ruined shirt.
And the scariest part? I think I might be okay with that.