He's painfully handsome. Looking at him makes my eyes water; it’s like staring into the sun. Ice-blue eyes glaring at me from under thick dark brows, glossy black hair that begs for fingers running through it, a square jaw that would make Superman weep with envy. My finger quivers with the urge to trace the curve of his Cupid’s-bow upper lip. The beautiful package is wrapped in a navy pin-striped suit that drapes perfectly over his broad shoulders.
“Yes? You urgently needed to speak to me?” He raises his voice to be heard over the jackhammers.
I remember how to breathe – and that I’m mad enough to spit nails.
But I also remember you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar. I’m not sure why anyone would want to catch flies, because they’re gross and what would you even do with them after you caught them? But that’s how the saying goes.
So I paste a smile on my face and wave my hand at the construction workers. "Excuse me. So sorry to bother you.” I make sure to let my Southern lilt come through. I’m just a little ol’ Southern belle, a damsel in distress. “Is this your crew?”
“And if it is?”
Would it kill him to give me a straight answer? One can only hope.
I smile wider. “I’m sure you didn’t know this, but you’re in violation of a city ordinance. They turned their jackhammers on at 6 a.m. You’re not legally allowed to start until 7 a.m."
Instead of answering, he looks me up and down, the corner of his mouth quirking up in amusement.
“Something you want to say?” My smile’s starting to twitch a little bit.
“Oh, I don't know where to start.” His voice has the cultured tones of boarding school and country clubs. Privileged and richly amused.
And I can see that my smile is going to waste, because he’s going to act like an entitled horse’s patoot no matter what I say or do. So I let it melt into an ice-cold stare. “How ’bout you start by telling your crew to turn their equipment off for the next hour?”
“Oh no, I’d rather start with a discussion of what happened in your life that led up to…” he waves at my pajamas. “All this.” He glances at his watch. “I’ve got three minutes to spare. Talk fast.”
This. Guy. I glower. “Do people smack you in the face a lot?” The furious heat burning through my body is so intense, it almost feels like arousal. I chalk it up to being so tired that all my internal wiring is crossed.
His eyes gleam with amusement. “I’m tall enough that they usually can’t reach me.” Yep, he’s an easy 6’3” to my 5’4”. That’s okay – the bigger they are, the harder they fall.
“Turn the jackhammers off. It’s the law.”
He shrugs. “Sorry, the project is on a schedule. It’s already delayed due to rain. Got to make up for it while we can.”
“Fine, I tried to ask nicely. Now I’m calling the city.” I want to sound intimidating, but it comes out sounding a lot like I’m telling my mom.
I turn and storm off, heading towards the front door before I remember that I’m locked out.
I won’t be calling anybody until I can figure out a way to get back inside, and I don’t have my cell phone with me.
I spin around to see His Royal Hiney standing there watching me with a smirk on his lips. A silver-haired man trots up to him and hands him a cup of coffee. Of course he comes with a minion. All the best supervillains have them.
“I’m going for a walk first so I can cool down!” I yell at him. “Because I’m too mad to talk right now!” Better than admitting the obvious – I locked myself out.
He arches an eyebrow as he peels the cap off the cup. He takes a sip, and holds the cup up as if toasting me. Then he turns his back on me and starts chatting with his minion.
I storm off without another word. There’s a twenty-four-hour deli that I frequent, and I know the owner. Unfortunately it’s five blocks away. It would be great if there were nobody out this early to see my walk of shame, but New York is called “The City That Never Sleeps” for a reason. Streams of early risers meander past me on the sidewalk, and they don’t even try to hide their double-takes.
I’m cute enough, or at least my parents think so, but this morning all the wolf whistles are obviously meant to be ironic. I curse Tall, Dark and Dickish with every step I take.
And hey, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. This is Manhattan. Yesterday, when I was doing my dog-walking gig in Central Park, I passed by a bald old man in a ballgown, and a woman wearing a tinfoil mini-skirt.
I bustle into the deli in a storm cloud of righteous indignation. Delroy, the deli owner, is a seventy-something Jamaican man with greying dreads. When I tell him my dilemma, he laughs so hard tears leak from his eyes and run down his wrinkled cheeks. He hands me the store phone, hands shaking with laughter.
“Oh, my. You never disappoint me, Miss Winona.”
“Thank you?”
Wincing, I call Isabella, my roommate and best friend. Isabella and her rent-controlled apartment are the only reason I can afford to be in New York – barely. I feel terrible about waking her up, because she’s an E.R. nurse who works overnights, and when she gets a day off she likes to catch up on her sleep.
“Wmghsp?” she groans into the phone. Yep, she was so tired she even slept through the jackhammers.
“Isabella, I called to say that I love you so much.”
“Big deal. Everyone loves me.” Her voice is thick with sleep. “I’m cute and funny and I know how to dress a bullet wound. What’s the emergency? And at this hour of the morning, it better involve arterial blood spray.”
I shudder, wondering if she was normal before she started working in the E.R. Not the time to ask, though.
“I kind of Winona’d things.” Yes, this happens enough that it’s a real thing my friends say. “I have a situation here.”
“Def-con level?”
“Three. Five being the worst, right? I ran outside to yell at the guys with the jackhammers, and forgot to bring my keys with me. I’m at the deli in my pajamas. I’ll be back in five minutes. Can you meet me at the door and let me in?”
“Ay, bendito.”
“Is that Puerto Rican for moron?”
“It should be. Tell Delroy I say hola. Also, you owe me big time. Next time I need bail money, it’s all you.”
“Well, obvi.” I’m lying. I’m so broke I can’t even pay attention. “Wait, next time? What?”
“What? Meet me at the front door.” And she hangs up.
“Thanks, Delroy. Isabella says hola,” I call out.
He’s talking to a customer, but he gives me a thumbs up. “Looking good, Miss Winona!”
Well, at least someone appreciates my fashion sense.
When I step outside the deli, I pause for a moment and take a deep breath of cool morning air. The sun is rising, painting the skyline with gilded fire. I may be having a morning so ridiculous that a sitcom writer would reject it as too far-fetched, but at least I’m having it in New York.
I love New York, and nothing will make me feel differently. Back in Peach Pit, every day felt the same. I knew exactly who I’d see; there were no strangers in Peach Pit. No new friends to meet. I knew where I’d go and what I’d do, that day and the next and the next. Main Street has eight stores, one gas station, and the town hall. The sidewalk rolls itself up at 5 p.m.