I wince trying to subtract nine dollars and nineteen cents from the last fifty bucks I had in my bank account this morning. Math was never my best subject, and about an hour ago, I’d really been hoping Brad B. would show up like a gentleman and insist on buying my snack.
“Are you okay?” The cashier studies my face for a second.
I look past her, my eyes flitting up to the large black-and-white photos behind the counter. They’re all scenes from some idyllic little mountain town, a smiling family, a huge man with a scarred, handsome face licking chocolate off a spoon.
“Just admiring the décor. I’m fine,” I say, already tasting a month’s worth of ramen noodles. I finally stick my debit card in the stupid machine. I really shouldn’t be spending money on this, but I need the sugar and caffeine rush to get through the day I’m having.
A couple minutes later, she hands me a paper sack holding my treats plus a hot cup of coffee. I breathe in the cinnamon steam.
Sweet nirvana.
Since I’m off work in the middle of the afternoon, I might as well enjoy it. I decide to take my coffee to the park across the street. There’s plenty to mull over besides jerks who don’t show up for dates. Like what I’m going to do now that I’m jobless, for one.
The scenic park always calms me down.
Even more so at this time of year with the trees casting off their summer greenery for the kaleidoscope reds, oranges, yellows, and browns of autumn.
I tighten my grip around the warm cup in my hand, bracing against the crisp Chicago breeze as I head across the street. My favorite bench is empty, thank God. I plop down there with so much force the cinnamon latte splashes out of the sippy hole in the lid.
Smooth. Now my new sweater dress is stained.
I hate that I wasted a sip of my drink, too. I need to savor the flavor. It’ll be my last cinnamon latte before I’m a working gal again.
My half of the rent is a thousand bucks a month. No idea how I’m going to make that, and it’s the cheapest place we could find in a decent area.
Paige pays more since her room is larger—not by much. But Paige has rich parents and zero student loans which means she has luxuries like savings.
I have debt that compounds daily and will only blow up faster if I don’t find another job, pronto.
It’s not just my rent I have to cover, either. My parents depend on me, too, whether they know it or not (hint: they don’t).
Ugh. It’s going to be tricky bulk buying Mom’s books this month with no income.
How long does it take to get unemployment, anyway? I doubt I’m even eligible since I wasn’t part of Purry Furniture for long.
Also, it’s still Friday the Thirteenth. The day’s barely half over.
Plenty of opportunities to dump more messes in my lap, I think sourly, popping the truffle in my mouth.
For a second, I wilt back against the bench, smiling as a sugar high washes over me.
Good Lord. Whatever else is conspiring to go wrong today, it’s got nothing to do with the chocolate goodness bursting in my mouth, sweeping my woes away for thirty whole seconds.
When I open my eyes, there’s a camera crew bustling around the park. Their tight, hurried movement pulls me from my thoughts.
A heavyset bearded man frames the shot with his hands, counts down, and yells, “Action!”
Two guys with cameras swing themselves around the scene. A statuesque woman stands in the middle of the circle like this weird oracle, her head tilted slightly up, a blue dress blowing gently in the wind.
On a day like this, how does she even manage a gently rustling garment?
The wind almost bowled me over on my way to the bench. Or maybe it was the broken heel.
Models. Bah.
They know how to make life look easy.
All of these people do, actually. They’re real artists, creators playing midwives to the images in their heads. Making real art and getting paid real money.
Bitter much?
Yes. I. Am.
I glance down at the stupid bedazzled pink folder on my lap, wondering who you have to kill to be a real artist with a real salary. Also, why does that woman have to be so perfect?
When I look up from the folder, there’s a new man staring at me.
Holy Hercules.
When did I miss the lightning bolt that sent him down? If Miss Model looks flawless, this guy is divine.
Over six feet of sculpted muscle stuffed into an Italian suit that probably costs more than my parents’ mortgage.
The cut of his chin, lethal.
Thick sandy-brown hair like a lion’s mane.
The cheekbones, the brow, the dusting of a well-trimmed beard all hint at an inner wildness tucked behind his hell no to any and all nonsense expression.
What really makes me clench my coffee cup until it dents in, though, are his eyes.
Hands down.
Yes, they’re blue, but to liken them to a pristine sky or beautiful gems almost feels offensive.
His ocean-blue eyes are riptides, humming with a distant, unforgiving energy. Still so close I can feel it like the ozone before a storm.
His gaze sends an instant shock down my spine, and my whole body tingles. My toes shrink up inside my mismatched heel boots.
He...he has to be a male model, right? But the better question is why he’s looking at me like a scorned Casanova.
Oh.
Oh, God.
His expression turns me inside out. One arched eyebrow raised significantly higher than the other and cocky as hell.
I glance down, desperate for an excuse to break eye contact. And halfway afraid I’m in the middle of a terrible wardrobe malfunction I’m clueless about.
Nope.
Sweater dress still intact.
Heart still beating.
Panties still safely concealed where they should be...
I think?
When I look at him again, those feral eyes have shifted away from me, back to the photo shoot. I slowly exhale a sigh of relief.
This stranger and his sexy voodoo eyes are just the kind of trouble I don’t need today.
The chubby bearded guy close to him, who I peg as the photo manager from the way he scurries between the cameramen and Miss Perfect, becomes the focus of the male model’s glare. Stroking his chin, he watches the scene with a cold eye and clenched jaw.
I frown.
Everyone seems to be working their butts off to please this guy, and he can’t do more than grump-stare and make slight hand gestures now and then?
Life in the arts is hard enough, but having to kowtow to an entitled suit...woof.
Don’t feel too sorry for these people, Brina, I remind myself. They’re still getting paid by Mr. Entitlement. Well, hopefully.
But still. That’s what suit-wearing pricksters do. They treat the artists who make their precious ads that they depend on like trash. Without us, they’d be nothing.
I glare at the annoyingly gorgeous jerkface and take a loud slurp of my latte.
Model Man’s stabby blue eyes jerk to mine again. This time, I hold my ground, telling the butterfly swarm in my belly to stay put.
He holds a thick hand up, pointed directly at me, and motions to the statue beside my bench. Like he’s telling me to move without even having the decency to come over and ask politely.
Bad, bad move, Neanderthal.
Of course he does it again, this time more forcefully.
Of course.
Really? You don’t even know me and you think you can order me around?
With a snort, I dig my heels—okay, heel—into the ground. If looks could kill, there’d be a smoking crater right where his smug, rude, devilishly fine figure used to be.