On my way out, I grabbed a free newspaper, hoping it would have a section with help wanted ads. I didn’t have a laptop to browse job listings, nor did I know how to get to the public library. I hoped to get there eventually but the vastness of the city was too overwhelming to even think about it.
Traveling on foot meant I could only buy as much as I could carry, so I had asked the cashier to pack everything into two bags. I was beginning to second guess the bag of clementine oranges I’d tossed in at the last minute. The bags were heavy, and I worried about the strength of the cheap plastic handles under the straining weight. Surprisingly, they held out okay—until I reached the front door of my building. Just as I opened the door to step inside, one of the handles ripped. Of course, it had to be the bag with the jarred sauce in it.
“Damn it!”
Glass shattered, and red tomato sauce splattered all over the floor, covering my jeans and sneakers. The bag of oranges busted open as well, following the path my Granny Smith apples were taking down the hallway. Stunned, I could only watch as the fruit I’d purchased rolled.
I wanted to cry. My funds were limited until I found a job, and I couldn’t afford this kind of waste. Forcing back tears that would get me nowhere, I got down on my hands and knees and began to collect the scattered fruit.
“Need some help?” asked a male voice. I startled. I thought I was alone in the dimly lit hallway.
“No thanks. I’ve got it,” I mumbled without looking up. I just collected my groceries and fretted over how I was going to clean up the sauce on the carpeted floor. Oscar was not going to be happy about this.
There goes my security deposit.
I paused when a pair of blue-and-white Reebok running shoes blocked my path, and an orange was placed in front of my face. I glanced up, annoyed the man was still there after I told him I had things handled. When my eyes met his, I felt all the air leave my lungs.
“You sure you don’t need help?” The man asked again and gestured to the mess in the hallway. I couldn’t speak or take my eyes off his face—I knew the man standing before me. It seemed like our chance meeting was a lifetime ago, but I’d never forget those kind, hazel eyes—eyes I’d found comfort in remembering during some of my darkest moments but never understood why. Every detail was the same as my memory—only better.
He was my stranger.
Quickly, I stood and tried to act nonchalant, although I wanted to run as fast as I could and never look back. The chances of seeing a familiar face in a city exceeding eight million people had to be slim to none. I couldn’t afford to be recognized. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t remember me. Our meeting was a long time ago, after all. I forced myself to take a few calming breaths.
“It’s okay. I…” I began.
“Hey, don’t I know you?”
My stomach sank.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said hurriedly and tried to move past him.
“No, we’ve definitely met before.” He snapped his fingers. “Your hair is different but I’d never forget that face. You’re the runaway bride!”
I closed my eyes and cursed my shitty luck. Every instinct I possessed was being questioned by the conflicting synapses in my brain. I should deny who I was—pretend I didn’t recognize him and tell him he had the wrong girl. Then there was another part of me—a very small part—that was genuinely curious about the stranger with the hazel eyes who had haunted my consciousness for years. That small part of me overruled any rational judgment I may have had.
There was no use denying who I was now. It was better to acknowledge his memory of our brief encounter, then move on and hope to never see him again. Slowly, I turned. Focused eyes roamed over me head to toe. I crossed my arms self-consciously.
“That’s right. I sort of remember you now. Funny running into you here,” I said with a weak smile.
“Yeah, it sure is. Since you only ‘sort of’ remember me, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Derek Mills. Pleased to meet you… again,” he joked and held out his hand for me to shake.
Panic washed over me as I tried to recall the conversation details from all those years ago.
Had I told him my name?
I didn’t think I did.
“I’m Val. Val Bonetti,” I said quickly, trying to portray confidence I didn’t feel. He cocked his head to the side, almost as if he were confused.
Shit. Did I tell him my name back then after all?
No, I was sure I didn’t. He was probably looking at me curiously because I was acting like some kind of loon with this false sense of bravado. I knew using a fake name was necessary to stay hidden from Ethan, but actually saying it out loud felt awkward and foreign on my tongue as I accepted his handshake. When my palm met his, my stomach lurched with anxious butterflies that had nothing to do with worry about my true name being exposed. The dancing wings weren’t qualmish or uneasy. They were fluttery and excited—and exactly how I’d felt during our first meeting. That mysterious something, I couldn’t quite place—that inexplicable spark.
His fingers skittered lightly over mine and another peculiar, questioning look flashed across his face before he seemed to reluctantly pull away.
“Well, um…Val Bonetti. I have just the thing to clean up the sauce from the carpet before Oscar sees it. He’s a good guy, but this is sure to get a rise out of him. Wait right here for a minute.”
As I watched him hurry away, attempts at ignoring all six feet of that rugged gorgeousness were futile. His grin had been wide with an excess of both cuteness and suggestiveness when he shook my hand. The combination caused a jolt of electricity to zap me, provoking exhilarating goosebumps to pebble all over my body. I absently rubbed the hand he’d momentarily held and shook off the unwarranted feelings.
When he returned, he was holding two bottles, a bunch of rags, and a plastic garbage bag. To my surprise, he got down on his hands and knees near the stain, wiped up the excess sauce, then tossed the soiled rags into a trash bag. Taking one of the bottles, he then dumped a pungent liquid over the carpet.
“Oh, that stinks! What is that?” I asked, crinkling up my nose.
“Hydrogen peroxide. It cuts through the oils. Don’t worry. It won’t smell for long. I’ll spray it down with an Ivory soap concentrate and all will be good. You’ll see.”
I just nodded and furrowed my brows. It was strange watching him scrub the carpet. Being married to Ethan, a man who never cleaned anything, made me forget men were actually capable of doing household chores. A part of me wanted to take the rags from Derek and clean it myself—but not because I felt it was my duty as a woman. I was done being a man’s doormat. I wanted to take over the task because it was my mess and I should be the one to clean it. However, stopping him might entail inadvertently touching him, and after the tingling I felt from our brief skin-to-skin contact a few moments earlier, that was dangerous.
After he finished, he threw the remaining rags into the trash bag and stood. Miraculously, the carpet looked cleaner than it had before the sauce spill.
“Wow! That sure is a magical home remedy you’ve got there! Here,” I said, extending my hand to take the bag. “Let me take those rags and get them washed for you. It’s the least I can do.”
When I took the bag, our hands briefly touched. Energy snapped in the air, and once again, I was reminded of the night we first met. The contact was like elastic stretching taut with unspoken words. And just like a rubber band, it snapped back as if the moment hadn’t happened at all.