Chapter 3 It’s Giving… Fuck Boy #2
Still rifling through my tote like it personally betrayed me, I start walking, eyes bouncing between the ground and my bag. Which is exactly how I manage to slam into a solid wall of something warm.
My shoulder smacks hard muscle. A pair of pristine basketball shoes dangle from a big hand I almost knock clean out of his grip.
“Sorry,” I mumble automatically, trying to sidestep. Phone first, social anxiety later.
“No, it’s my fault. My bad.”
The voice is deep and smooth, with a little laugh woven through it. I keep my head down, pretending my bag requires all my focus.
“You good?” he asks. “You look like you’re about to fight that purse.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just lost my phone. Again.”
“Walking and digging is dangerous,” he says lightly. “You almost took me out.”
“Pretty sure you stepped in front of me,” I shoot back before I can stop myself. “Giant trees should really stay off sidewalks.”
He laughs, and the sound rolls over my skin, rich and warm. “So now I’m a tree and the villain.”
I sigh and finally look up.
He’s even taller up close. The sun haloing his head doesn’t help. T-shirt clinging to a chest that very clearly has a gym membership, veins threading down strong forearms inked in black and gray. His jaw is sharp, lips full, nose straight, cheekbones stupid. And his eyes—
What the hell.
They’re green. Like, emerald green, with little gold flecks around the edges. Up close, they crinkle at the corners like he laughs easy.
My brain throws up a 404 error.
This man, right here, is fine. I’m talking warm chestnut skin and tattoos fine. The kind of fine that makes you forget basic things—like your name, your plans, your fully developed frontal lobe.
God took his time with him too. I mean really sat down and said, let me add something extra. The soft curls? Criminal. The dimples? Unnecessary. Borderline excessive, really.
And the worst part? He knows it just enough to be dangerous, not enough to be annoying.
I know I am in trouble the moment I open my mouth.
“Sss-sorry,” I repeat, because apparently that’s the only word I know now.
His mouth curves. “You already said that.”
“Okay, well, congratulations. You discovered repetition.” I gesture vaguely at him. “Congratulations on your height too, I guess.”
He lets out another low laugh. “You know how much life you’re missing never looking up from the ground?”
“I’m looking for my phone,” I tell him. “Not enlightenment.”
Asshole.
“Phones are replaceable,” he says. “Walking into six-two men?” He shrugs. “Little less likely.”
“Wow.” I cross my arms. “You really are in love with your own height.”
“Can you blame me?” he asks, dimples digging in at both cheeks. “Took my mom a long time to grow this.” He licks his lips and smiles big and bright.
Of course he does.
I keep moving, doing that awkward side shuffle. Somehow he steps the same way, blocking me again. We end up doing the human version of the cha-cha slide, minus music.
“Can you—” I huff, finally stopping. “Just pick a direction, my dude?”
He holds up a hand, palm out. “Truce. I’ll stay still. You do whatever mission you’re on.”
My fingers finally close around the cool rectangle of my phone at the bottom of my bag. Relief floods me. “Got you,” I whisper to it.
“Congrats,” Tree Man says solemnly. “You saved it from the void.”
“Thank you for your service,” I deadpan. “And sorry for calling you a giant asshole. In my head. And also out loud. A little.”
His eyebrows lift. “Giant asshole?”
“If the size fourteen fits,” I say, then immediately want to die.
His grin stretches, teeth bright and stupidly straight. “Never been called polite and a giant asshole in the same five minutes before. This is new.”
“I didn’t say polite,” I mutter.
“I did apologize,” he points out. “Which earned me the asshole title, apparently.”
“You didn’t earn it,” I say. “It’s just… written on your face.”
“Oh?” His eyes sparkle. “Is it in cursive?”
I press my lips together to keep from smiling and fail. “You’re annoying.”
“I like to call it persistent,” he says. “But annoying works.”
There’s a beat. The sounds of the court drift over: a ball thudding, somebody laughing, a whistle of air.
“So,” he says. “Do we start over now that your phone’s safe and I’ve accepted my fate as a giant, polite asshole?”
I should walk away. Instead, I stick my hand out like I’m at a networking event.
“I’m Harlee,” I say. “Not like the motorcycle. Double E, no Y.”
His palm slides against mine, warm and a little rough. Electricity zips up my arm so fast it makes my knees feel weird.
“August,” he says. “Like the month, not the attitude.”
I snort. “So you say.”
He holds onto my hand a beat longer than necessary, then lets go, expression curious. “So, Harlee-with-two-e’s. What’s the story? Dad into Harleys?”
“God, no.” I shake my head. “He wanted to name his son after the Harlem Renaissance. Greatest intellectual, social, and artistic movement among Black people of all time, his words. They thought I was a boy until I showed up. Mom just dropped the ‘m’ and added another ‘e.’”
His face softens in a way I don’t expect. “The Harlem Renaissance is a solid hill to die on,” he says. “He has taste.”
Something warm uncurls under my ribs. It hits different hearing someone else say it without mocking.
“Yeah, well, up until the ultrasound surprise, I was supposed to be Harlem,” I say. “Guess I disappointed everybody by being born with a vagina.”
He shakes his head slowly, eyes steady on my face. “Can’t imagine anybody being disappointed in you existing.”
My cheeks go hot. I look away, pretending to mess with the strap of my bag. Compliments usually slide off me. This one lands and stays.
“You’ve got this quiet, artist vibe going,” he says, eyes flicking over my faded tee and messy bun, like he’s studying a painting. “Like you’re about to pull a sketchbook out your bag and ruin somebody’s life with charcoal.”
I laugh. “Please. I can barely draw a stick figure. I’m a math girl. Numbers, proofs, spreadsheets that would make your soul ascend. It’s not sexy until you need someone to pass stats.”
“Math is a form of art,” he says. “Structure, rhythm, patterns? Don’t sell yourself short.”
It’s not even the compliment that gets me. Men look at me all the time; this one actually listens. Like my nerdy course load and practicum drama belong in the same group chat as whatever grown-man shit he’s juggling at home.
“I’ll sell myself at whatever price I can get some days,” I say lightly. “Grad school is expensive.”
He chuckles. “Can’t argue there.”
His gaze drops to my wrist. “Sais?”
I tilt my arm. The little crossed blades tattoo is small, but he clocked it.
“Raphael is my spirit animal,” I say. “Angry, dramatic, loyal as hell.”
His jaw drops in mock offense. “You’re a Raph girl? That’s bold.”
“Why?” I ask. “You give Leonardo energy?”
“Absolutely not,” he says. “Mikey all day. I still have my nunchucks.”
I blink. “You just became ten times hotter.”
Oh fuck — I just said that out loud. Foot insert mouth.
“Only ten?” he teases.
Fuck it. We're here now.
“I’m being generous,” I say, but my lips are betraying me into smiling.
My phone buzzes again in my hand. A little rock of dread settles in my stomach. Spencer.
August’s eyes flick to the screen and back to my face. He doesn’t comment, which should not make me like him more, but it does.
“Boyfriend?” he asks, gentle.
“No,” I say too quickly. “Situationship. Train wreck. Extra credit assignment from hell. Not your business.”
He nods, accepting that answer like it’s enough. “I get that you don’t have time for that, then.”
“For what?”
“Dating,” he says. “Or whatever we’re calling it these days.”
I huff out a laugh. “I don’t have time to breathe deeply. Dating is for people with disposable income and working AC.”
“Fair,” he says. “But I’m going to be selfish anyway.”
“Shocker,” I mutter.
He smiles. “I don’t… want this conversation to be over yet.”
The honesty of it knocks me off balance more than running into him did.
“I’m not asking you out,” he adds quickly. “I know you just met me, and I look like I have a pending child support case or something.”
I snort. “You do.”
“But.” He takes a tiny step closer, somehow expanding without crowding. “I am asking if you have time for friends.”
I blink. “I barely have time to pee.”
“So that’s a no?” he asks, pretending to be wounded. “Damn. I’m a great friend too. Top shelf friend. Literally.”
“You think highly of yourself.”
“My friends do,” he says. “They call me the Messiah of all best friends. No friend left behind.”
“That sounds like a cult.”
“Ten percent,” he says. “In snacks.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
He tips his chin toward my phone. “You don’t have to give me your number,” he says. “I meant what I said. No pressure. You can take mine, and if you ever need someone to talk to who understands math is art and Raphael slander will not be tolerated, you hit me.”
That… is not how this normally goes. A man not treating my number like a trophy? Unfamiliar territory.
“And if I don’t want to?” I ask, because I don’t know how to be normal.
“Oh, you definitely want to,” he says, eyes glinting. “You’re going to get home, decide to hang a picture or put a shelf up, and realize you don’t own a level. You’ll stand there like, Damn, I wish I could call my new friend August to make sure my shit isn’t crooked as a bad lace front.”
I bark out a laugh, dropping my head for a second. He’s ridiculous. Ridiculous and… not wrong about my DIY skills.
“You are too much,” I say.
“Persistent,” he repeats, smiling. “But if you really don’t have space for new friends, I respect that. I just—” He shrugs. “My gut says I’d like knowing you.”
He says it so simply it makes my throat go tight.
My thumb worries the silver ring on my index finger. This is dumb. He’s hot. He’s charming. Men like him blow up six-year plans for sport.
“Fine.” I sigh. “Give me your phone.”
He taps his temple instead. “Don’t worry. Premium storage. Hit me.”