The thirty-second ride to the ground floor feels like an eternity. I’m half-expecting to be faced with a small army when the doors open at the ground level.
But there’s nothing except a huge, perfumed foyer with calming music floating through the space. I comb my hair with my fingers and walk through the foyer without making eye contact with anyone. I try to keep my pace brisk but unhurried so as not to draw unwanted attention to myself or the fact that I’m barefoot and bedraggled.
But I can already feel eyes on me. I’m nearly at the revolving door of the building when I hear someone call out, “Uh, excuse me, ma’am?”
That’s when I run.
I burst out into the city. The noise of taxis and pedestrians and hissing A/C units overwhelms me, but I can’t stop. I have to keep moving. Thankfully, my legs don’t betray me again. I keep running until my lungs have been emptied of air and my side is splitting with fresh pain.
All those years of constant running and working out have finally paid off.
I lose myself in the streets of New York, and when I work up the courage to look over my shoulder, there’s no one following me. Just a bunch of moody New Yorkers hurrying around, trying their best to avoid one another.
Relief starts to surge through me, but as it does, I become aware of other needs. I badly need to use a bathroom. And I also need to eat something. Except that I don’t have money and walking back to Long Island is obviously out of the question. Not that I’d go back there, now that it’s on Kian’s radar.
Which means I’m essentially homeless. And I have no one but myself to rely on.
I walk around aimlessly until fatigue and hunger get the better of me, forcing me to scan the area for a decent-looking place to take refuge. A pizza shop with a sign over the front reading Domenico’s seems suitable enough.
I walk inside, glad that no one pays me any notice. I head to the back of the restaurant to the restrooms and spend ten minutes washing off the grime and sweat from my face. I’d kill for a fresh change of clothes, but for the moment, I’m stuck in my old jeans and torn t-shirt. A quick rinse will have to suffice.
When I exit the bathroom, the smell of baking pizza fills my nostrils. I follow the scent back into the dining area. I glance around, wondering how I can get my hands on a slice without any money.
I’m not precious about my looks. I’ve never subscribed to the idea of false modesty. You can acknowledge something about yourself without being a dick about it. And I know I’m pretty. Maybe even beautiful on my good days. Sexy, when I make the effort.
I look down at my t-shirt. It definitely looks a little worse for the wear, but it’ll do the job, I think. I fluff up my hair a little and walk over to the small bar counter.
There’s alcohol on the top shelves, but the bottom is devoted to four wood-burning ovens, two of which are occupied.
The guy manning them is young. He’s dark-haired, with patchy skin and a swimmer’s build. He looks like he’s around my age. Definitely not my type, but then again, he doesn’t have to be. As long as I’m his type, this might work.
“Hi.” I smile, sitting down and leaning my hands on the counter in a way that pushes my breasts up a little.
He glances at me with disinterest, then does a double take when he gets a better look. “Ah… hi.”
I smile. “The pizza smells amazing.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Not my recipe,” he says awkwardly.
The trick about flirting is not to overdo it. You want to be subtle. Friendly, but not sickeningly so. His eyes flicker down to my breasts. Good start.
“I haven’t seen you around here before,” he remarks. “Most of our customers are regulars.”
“Well, maybe I will be, too,” I tell him. “That is, if the pizza tastes as good as it smells.”
“It is. We do a ton of Greek dishes, too, if that’s more your thing.”
I frown. “Really? That’s weird.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “There was a management change a couple of years ago. The guys in charge are Greek now.”
“Interesting,” I reply. Even though it strikes me as slightly odd. I don’t have the mental bandwidth to process that right now, though. I just need food.
“What can I get you?” he asks, clearly eager to keep the conversation going. “Or are you waiting for someone?”
“I am, actually,” I reply.
His face falls immediately. “I’m waiting on my brother,” I clarify. The smile pops right back onto his face. “Silly me, I lost my purse in the park and I’m stranded here until he comes to get me.”