Apparently, I’m not quite a ninja.
Someone behind me, a male, murmurs an affirmative: “Yeah, she did.”
My adrenaline spikes, and sweat builds on my face. Part of me wants to play it off as an accident, but ...
“Um ... yes?”
“What’s wrong with you?” he snaps as he places it back on the bakery case.
My heart thumps like a war drum in my chest as I push out my words in a gravelly voice. “She called my name; then you cut me off before I reached the counter.”
Have I mentioned I’ve passed him in the lobby of our building? He never speaks, just keeps his head down and stalks away. He doesn’t want to mingle with the peons who live below him.
“Welcome to New York. Get used to fighting for a spot,” he mutters.
“Right, right. I’ve lived here for years. Not everyone is rude. You think you can do whatever you want because of who you are. Princess.” I grunt.
The takeout area goes dead quiet. I hadn’t realized we’d drawn attention, and I lick my lips as I look around.
“I could have you arrested,” he says. “That”—he points at the napkin dispenser—“was assault.”
“Fight, fight, fight! Kick his ass!” a guy calls from behind me.
Tuck sends him a death glare, then leans into my personal space. His scent wafts around me, spice with a hint of peppermint. Like a sexy Christmas. It’s a cologne I recognize, something yummy and expensive, but I can’t focus as my stomach flip-flops with nausea. It’s not my usual “I’m anxious” queasy. It’s a new one, and it’s decided his cologne is disgusting.
“Phones are recording this,” he hisses. “Do you want to be known on Twitter as the girl who attacked me?”
“Are you hurt?”
“I askedyoua question.”
“You aren’t hurt.”
“Are you a doctor?”
Fuzziness dances in my head as I clench the edge of the counter to stop myself from swaying. A bone-deep exhaustion washes over me. Swallowing, I glance at the server. “Kendra, you said Francesca. I’ll take my order now.”
She darts her gaze from me to him.
“Kendra?” I ask, my voice rising sharply. “Now.”
She fumbles around, then hands over my order.
“Thank you.” I leave and make my way through the crowd.
I push open the door and step out to a drizzle on Fifth Avenue. I lean against the brick wall, letting rain fall on my face as I take deep breaths. What is wrong with me? I’ve never acted so childish—
“I can’t believe you” comes a male voice.
Holy cow ...
He’s followed me!
I turn, and there he stands, arms crossed. A streetlamp creates a golden halo around him, and I blink. He really is beautiful. Tall. Chin-length wavy hair. Diamond-cut cheekbones. Perfect full, bitable lips.
As if angels carved him themselves.
Too bad he’s a devil.