Arrive in a city, roam the streets begging for work, being rejected atalmostevery turn. I cringe when I think about how I beamed in the convenience store, that man was probably secretly laughing at me the whole time.
A tear slides down my cheek, and I quickly rub at it, pushing it away.
Then fate decides to twist the knife a little.
As I’m sitting there, crying and feeling sorry for myself, a gust of wind blows past and whisks my resumes out of my hand.
I curse as they fly everywhere, all over the park.
Rushing to my feet – remembering the dollars I spent to print them – I rush around, gathering up as many as I can.
Some blow away completely; others stay close enough for me to grab them. A few get caught on the park gate.
My cheeks burn as I feel people looking at me. My breath catches as I turn to the gate, meaning to count them and see if it’s even worth pursuing them.
A man’s already collecting them.
He wears gym gear, his pale blue T-shirt clinging to his strong torso. His back is turned, giving me a look at his silver hair. And for a crazy second, I think about the wolf, the silver fur, and the moonlight in his eyes.
Stop.
The man turns with the papers in his hands, his gaze moving over to me.
I’m probably imagining it, but I’m almost sure a tremor moves through him when he sees me, the same sort which stampedes through me.
I realize how tall he is as he swaggers closer.
He’s got to be at least six feet, six inches. His shoulders are wide, his mouth shaped into a casual smirk. His clean-shaven jaw is strong and confident. His expression is slightly cocky, or like he’s secretly laughing at me.
And yet I don’t feel ashamed.
It’s difficult to feel anything except for this racing feeling inside.
I haven’t experienced this. Ever.
No, that’s a lie.
Last night.
With the wolf.
Okay, double stop now.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching out. “I was miles away. I should’ve been paying better attention.”
The man nods. His voice is stiff. It’s like it’s a struggle just to speak to me.
“It’s not a problem.”
He hands me the papers, and I get ready for our hands to touch. But he seems to make a special effort for them not to, holding the papers from the very edge.
I take them, and a weird sense of disappointment hits me.
“I’m Ruby, by the way,” I say when it looks like he’s going to turn away.
The man narrows his eyes. It’s like he’s pissed I’ve given him my name. Suddenly I wish I could snatch it back.
Then he steps forward. I’m sure his heat touches me.