“Miss, you’re mistaken.” The Brit’s tone is dark, calculating. “I saved you from being run over at top speed.”
“Am I supposed to thank you? How about you take your savior complex and shove it, okay? That very courier comes by at the same time every day. I walk here every Monday, and he’s never hit me. His name is Billy, by the way. Usually, I say a quick hello as he whizzes by. Thank you very much.”
The man’s head is slightly shifting left and right, eyes keen.
What the hell is he looking for? “What? Are you mocking me?”
He gives a tummy fluttering chuckle as a response. Instead of addressing him any further, I pick up a few of the untrampled roses.
“Psychotic asshole,” I mutter under my breath.
“Are you sure about that?” His sinful mouth corks as he retrieves another limp stem. My hand darts toward a rose he was aiming for. Once more, there’s an annoying, sexy chuckle.
“Again, I apologize, Miss?” The gorgeous guy tries for my name as I arrange the pathetic bunch of four roses with a fifth that’s all stem.
“Look,” he removes a thick money clip from his back pocket and pulls off a few hundred-dollar bills, “let’s get you a fresh bouquet of roses. I saw a florist a block away. This is for your trouble.”
“Still can’t save the day,” I start, snarky. “I'm a florist. I visit a nursery to pick my own flowers. Besides, they won’t have black roses, which is what Ishouldbe giving my dad at twelve-fifteen sharp.”
“Yourdaddy, hmmm.”
I suck in air. “You’re sick! My father. Not daddy orzaddy.Oh, now you’ve returned to mocking me? I’ll have you know Gin—my mom—always took . . .”
Tears prick my eyes. Giving him the old fuck-you, you-won nod, I back away.Goodbye, douchebag.
His fingers stitch into mine; the other hand slips down my back.
“Hey!”
“Saving you, finally,” he laughs, gesturing. Heart marching to a beat of its own drum at our intimate connection, I hardly glimpse over my shoulder. Yup, a shark in a suit would’ve trampled me.
“Oh, I . . .” Voice fractured, I focus on how I mentioned my departed momma to a stranger. Tears begin to overtake me.
Shit, Lux. Go back to the grief counselor already.
The hand dominating my lower back lets go, but my body’s still flush against the brick of him. He scrapes a knuckle over my cheek, regarding me with a newfound interest. I find myself cuddled into his arms. Voice low, deep, tangible, he prompts, “You were saying?”
“My, uh, mom would bring Dad flowers every Monday at lunch, religiously. And then . . . and then . . .”
A hand consoles my back, another skims my cheek, breath fanning across my forehead. He’s surrounding me from every angle. “She died,” he replies.
“Yes.” I inhale the most intoxicating cologne and swallow a jaded rock. “Thank you.”
“For what?” A brow, which would otherwise be called cocky, pulls pensive.
I let out a huffed laugh. The man is rich, filthy rich looking. People don’t comfort each other where he’s from.
They snigger. Ridicule.
After an awkward wave, I meander off. A few paces later, I tell myself not to look back while ignoring the self-preservation tactic.
He’s still in the same spot as people weave between us.
“Wait,” he says. “Is your father nearby? I’ll explain the situation to him.”
“You saved me when I almost backed into the suit. We’re even.” I grin through a sparkling of fresh tears. He stands his ground. “This is New York. People bump into each other,” I say.
And they’re bumping intome.Him, they respect, offering a wide berth. He shifts in loafers that cost more than my entire wardrobe. “But do you Americans cry when being jostled about?”