Their group takes a break a minute later, and the chubby production guy jogs over.
“Hi t-there,” he stammers, stopping in front of the bench I’m sitting on, leaning on the back of it to catch his breath.
I give a floppy wave and sip my latte, bracing for what’s next.
“So, I was wondering if there’s any chance you’d be willing to move? This spot has better lighting for our shoot. I hate to ask. I’m sure you’re just out here enjoying your day, but...it’s a big job. We’d be really grateful if you could clear it.”
Could I “clear it?” Sure, let me just vacate public property with a grateful smile. All so your rich bitch boss can get his ever so important shots.
Before I can string the words together to form a nicer response—I know this guy is just a fellow minion doing his job—Mr. Rich Bitch himself stomps up.
“You’re going to have to move, miss. We need this spot.” At least his grumpalicious voice matches his looks.
I meet his eyes and smile. Not because he’s just as confusingly barbaric and good-looking up close.
“Now,” he adds, when I don’t move an inch after several long seconds.
I blink, shocked at his bluntness. I open my mouth to respond, but I haven’t gotten a word out before he folds his arms, his brows drawn together like thunderheads.
How fitting that he has the temperament of a heartless Greek god, too.
“This is public property. I’m not going anywhere,” I snap, giving him my best defiant face. “My mom says you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you know. Maybe you should try it.”
His eyebrow quirks up. “As cute as clichè Midwestern sayings are, there’s a marketing campaign happening here with a very tight schedule, and you’re stealing our light.”
Oh, their light.
I’d forgotten.
How do you steal sunlight, anyway? Is he so rich he thinks he owns the sun? Arrogance and entitlement go together like chocolate and peanut butter with this dude.
“So sorry. I bet you’re pouring a ton of money into this campaign, aren’t you?” I ask sweetly.
He nods, his scowl easing. “I’m glad you get it, so if you’ll just—”
“What I get is that you should’ve locked down a more private venue for your little campaign if it’s life or death. This is a public park, last I checked, and I’m not moving until every last bit of my cinnamon latte is gone.” I hold up my cup, sloshing the liquid around loudly.
He crosses those huge arms again, his shoulders bowing out like they’re ready to rip through his imported fabric. “Lady, I’m done being polite. If you don’t get your ass in the air, I’ll move you myself.”
Whoa. That was polite? I wonder what rude looks like...but I’m more interested in telling this millionaire bully where he can shove it.
I hold my hand up, showing off the fresh set I had done last weekend.
“Choose wisely. Touch me, and I’ll dig my plastic so deep into your pretty face you’ll need the jaws of life to extract it. Capisce?”
His jaw clenches before he answers.
Yeah, Grump with a capital G confirmed. Being wound so tight he might break a few teeth must be his preferred facial expression.
But then he just sighs, raking a hand through his hair, before hitting me with another dizzying starlight-blue gaze. “Ha ha, you’re funny. Congratulations. Now if you’re done with the comedy act, move.”
I blink, unsure what to even say to that. And did I really call him pretty?
Too late to deny it, unfortunately, and as horrible of a person as our brief encounter leads me to believe he is...the man does make truffle-good eye candy.
Heck, if I were a casting director, this guy would be Mr. Darcy. You know, before the whole redemption arc.
I take another small sip of cinnamon courage, savoring it slowly, thinking how far I really want to take this.
“You’d be better off leaving me alone and letting me finish my coffee in peace,” I say, leveling my tone. “You’re going to run out of good light for quality images soon. The sun craps out way too fast this time of year.”
His death-glare actually makes me uncomfortable.
I shift my legs and that ridiculous bedazzled pink folder slips from my lap, hitting the ground with a thunk. Half a dozen cartoon cat cards slide from the pockets, the height of my genius exposed to the world.
I’m about to extend a foot to slam down on top of them, but I don’t get the chance.
The Suit bends to pick up my mess, muscles rippling behind his clothes, his blue eyes filled with this cruel wonder.
Not fair.
Why do so many men with dangerously beautiful bodies turn out to be ogres?
He surveys the cards quietly before making any effort to return my things. I clear my throat and our eyes lock. I don’t dare let on how small I feel right now.
“I propose a trade. Your cats I’ve kindly rescued from blowing away for my camera space.” He smiles, and not in a friendly way. “Are you a cartoonist? A cat-toonist, maybe?”
I fight back an eyeroll so intense it’ll probably land me in the ER.
“Ha, ha, ha. So original. Hope you’ve got copywriters.”
“My writers are some of the finest marketers in the country, from sea to shining sea,” he says, pride entering his voice.
“Cool, then I’m sure you’re set. God knows no one pays for your jokes,” I throw back.
“Damn, you’re mouthy,” he growls.
That’s it. It’s a statement. And not an entirely furious, insulting one. There’s a hint of amusement, too, like mouthy is something that interests him.
Awesome.
He’s known me for three minutes while trying to extract me from a city bench but I’m pegged as “mouthy.” Like he isn’t the one who made me that way?
Well, two can do the pegging today.
Besides being a rich suit, an unbearable McHottie, and a park tyrant, he seems like one of those guys who think women should keep their mouths shut.
I shoot him a fake docile smile. “My bad, your highness. I’ll try harder to be seen and not heard. Of course, I’ll be seen on this bench until I’m good and ready for a walk.”
His jaw tenses again and there’s the faintest flash of angry white teeth around his lips. He stares up at the sun, muttering something to himself, and then turns back to me.
“Frankly, Miss Hardass, I don’t care where you’re seen or heard as long as it isn’t on this bench. You’re blocking the light. You’ve already been told.”
Funny thing is, I probably would’ve moved in a heartbeat, with no problem, if he just asked me nicely.
But he picked the wrong day to dick with my pride, and now I’m on a mission.
This bench is mine until I say it’s not.
“When was that? I didn’t quite hear you,” I say with a yawn, looking back at my phone.
He rolls his eyes so hard I think they might stick to the back of his head.
I swallow a laugh. At least we’re having fun with this crapfest, right?
“I’m impressed! You roll your eyes better than a thirteen-year-old cheerleader,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Only when I’m being faced with someone as obstinate, immature, and insufferable as you,” he grinds out.