“Fancy words.” I shrug. “I just call out BS when I see it.”
“Then you should get your eyes checked. There’s no ‘bullshit’ here.”
“Hmm, maybe you’re right,” I say slowly, tilting my head. “Just a loser in an overpriced suit trying to act important. Trying to remind the little people of their place.”
“You have no—find another damn spot and someone else to annoy. Leave now.” His voice is a drawn saber, rattling with this raw, masculine warning.
“Uh, did you just growl at me?” I blink, trying not to snicker.
“Why the hell are you walking around Chicago with a folder full of cat cards, anyway?” He straightens the knot in his tie, working those huge, angry fingers on fabric and holding my eyes hostage longer than I like.
“What’s it to you?” I whip my gaze back at the ground. “I work—worked—at a pet furniture company.”
“Pet furniture?” he echoes, as if he’s one breath short of laughing in my face.
No.
He’s just pissed off the wrong girl. I’m out of banter. I don’t need to do more talking, really, to extract myself from this misery.
It’s been a day from hell and the last thing I need—the very last—is being mocked by a jackass suit with a God complex. I push the Sweeter Grind cup to my mouth and chug the remaining delicious liquid, as much as I can hold in my mouth.
Then I lean forward, look down, aim, and spray cinnamon-colored coffee all over his expensive Italian shoes.
So much for savoring the flavor. It kinda sucks that I spent nearly ten bucks on this unexpected date with Chicago Satan.
But the result is worth it.
The guy doesn’t strike me as the type to have any emotions beyond pure bleating rage, but in his cold eyes, I see something else leak through.
Abject horror. Shock. Maybe a little humility—finally!
He doesn’t say a word, just stares down at his soaked shoes, thinning his lips like he’s considering how to retaliate.
I grin triumphantly.
The big bearded guy has been so quiet through this exchange, I’ve forgotten he’s there. Until he looks up with his hands pressed against his cheeks in utter fear, and whispers, “I-I’ll go find you a napkin. Right away!”
He scurries off and I add up the score.
Unlucky Girl: 1.
Colossal Prick: 0.
I smile up at the arrogant jackass with my latte still dripping off his shoes, slowly standing up. “The space is all yours, pal. I’m done with my coffee now.”
With my parting jab signed, sealed, and delivered, I storm away.
Well, I try.
Storming is hard when one shoe is three inches taller than the other.
“Forget the napkin, Hugo,” King Asshole says behind me. “We need to get this shoot going now.”
I can’t resist tossing a look back over my shoulder. Only to find the jackass still watching me, something on his face I can’t quite read.
He doesn’t look angry or humiliated anymore.
More like...awkwardly amused?
Okay, yeah, my broken heel is hilarious. It’s easy to laugh it up when these boots aren’t made for walkin’ anymore.
The worst part is, even after all that, he’s still hot. That kind of wound-tight-to-snap caveman pose wrapped in a silk suit that’s hard to ignore and even harder to avoid drooling over.
Or maybe I’m just on my last nerve.
Jesus. I’ve got to go home and lie down. I need to wake up on Saturday the fourteenth.
Though I should probably check on my parents first. Fridays are usually the best day for that. I should also start scanning jobs and unlikely unemployment requirements before calling it a night.
I will make it to the fourteenth.
Eventually.
And no amount of growly egos and good looks are going to stop me.
2
Latte Girl (Magnus)
Her long brown hair whips in the wind as she limps away.
Is she hurt? Maybe that’s why she didn’t want to get up.
If so, I should’ve assigned someone to help her instead of demanding she move. Then again, she could’ve just said she was injured like a normal human being instead of going on a tirade about having a right to occupy public property as long as she damn well pleases.
The self-righteous ones don’t impress me. I guarantee I pay more taxes than a thousand of her combined, and I’ll only use this space again if I need another shoot. She’s welcome to come squat on her bench another time.
Shame there’s no denying the hot current coursing through my blood like a chainsaw.
There’s something about this girl.
Unfortunately.
It’s still hard to peel my eyes off her. When she sprayed coffee on me, my eyes were as glued to her as they are now. I was fixated on her lips—very full, kissable, hellfire lips—when the cinnamon reeking liquid splattered my leather shoes.
Now? It’s hard to pin down one good reason why my eyes have a mind of their own.
It could be the way the purple sweater dress hugs her body, accenting curves I shouldn’t be so interested in. The fabric stretches across her breasts in a colorful band, swoops in, and spreads across her hips. An ass like a plum, begging for a sinful hand.
She’s not a tiny girl—not toothpick thin—which makes me relish the thought of taking her over my knee even more.
Fuck.
I scan the length of her and my gaze catches on her boot.
So she’s not limping from pain.
A missing heel, actually. For some unholy reason, I want to know the story behind it.
I swallow a chuckle and shake my head. The day’s taken a strange turn. I can’t help being curious about the hellcat who might’ve used her claws like she threatened, rather than that cinnamon dreck pungent enough to strip paint.
She turns to look back at me as she shuffle-retreats. Deep mocha-brown eyes connect with mine for a split second. A crease lines her forehead.
“Go to hell,” she mouths, if I read her lips correctly.
Damn.
She’s this territorial over a park bench?
I stand by my mouthy description.
“Mr. Heron? Do you want me to get the park police?” Hugo asks. “She...she’s crazy! I’m worried she’ll come back the second your back is turned.”
“The cops?” I shake my head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve stepped in far worse on these streets than coffee spit. Get back to work and pretend this never happened.”
Hugo Little may be many things—awkward, whip smart, and always so high-strung I worry about his blood pressure—but the man’s a loyal workhorse to the end. No sooner than the words leave my mouth, he’s bustling around, calling for our camera people to get to their places, directing them to move everything over to the vacated spot with better light.
I realize I’m still holding something that doesn’t belong to me. I remove the papers I stuffed back in the pink folder after collecting them off the ground. Thumbing through them again, I nod, muttering to myself.
Apparently, Miss Llama Spit works in advertising. Her work speaks for itself. Hard to believe she’s developed the same defense mechanism as a shaggy camel if she’s ever called an office home.