I hold up my takeout bag. “I have pepper spray.”
He points at the passing pedestrians. “I’m not going to hurt you with people around.”
“Would you if we were alone?”
“I don’t hurt women,” he says, lids lowering. “But you do test me.”
“Same page,” I mutter.
He tucks his hands in black joggers as he shifts from one foot to the next. “I would have been gone in a couple of minutes, you know. Patience is a virtue.”
“Should I let Bradley Cooper be rude to me just because he’s hot and a superstar? No.”
“I’m hot?”
“No,” I sputter, then rub my face with my free hand.
“Are you all right? Inside you seemed—”
“I’mfine.”
He cocks his head, his expression softening. “You sound terrible.”
“I have a cold, so you better stay back.”
His gaze goes behind me. “Watch out; you’re about to get mowed down by a pack of tourists. They never look where they’re going.” He takes my arm with a gentleness I didn’t expect and eases me out of their trajectory into the mouth of the alley outside the restaurant.
“Oh. Thanks.”
We watch them pass by us as the rainfall increases, and I groan as wetness creeps into my shoes.
“Hang on a second.” Moving around, he unzips the duffle on his shoulder and pulls out a white umbrella with the Pythons mascot, a coiled black-and-gold snake with its mouth open to strike. “I’m always prepared. My ankle can feel the change in pressure. I fractured it a while back, and it always knows.” He pops the umbrella and waves me under it.
My leftover anger deflates like a flat tire as I step beneath the cover.
“Did the napkin thing hurt your ankle?” I mumble.
“Nah. I was messing with you.” Our shoulders brush as he turns to face me, and I tense at our proximity, a tingle of something strange dancing down my spine.
Our gazes cling for several heartbeats. There’s something about him I can’t look away from ...
“I’m glad you’re okay,” I admit grudgingly, focusing on his sneakers as I try to suss out why there’s a sense of familiarity about him. It’s more than just seeing him around Manhattan. I shake my head to clear the fog from it.
“Regrets, huh?” he says.
“I’m not normally a violent person.” But my moods have been off the charts lately. I snot cried during a toilet paper commercial yesterday. It had puppies frolicking around in toilet paper; I don’t even like dogs.
“I must have really gotten under your skin,” he murmurs. “Let’s start over, yeah? I’m Tuck. And you are ...”
I catch my reflection in the puddles, knowing what he sees: a short nondescript girl, my hair tucked up in a hat, old glasses with raindrops on them, and no lipstick.
“Francesca. I told Kendra, like, five minutes ago.”
“Missed it. I was distracted by your fiery attitude, but now you won’t even look at me.”
I move my gaze up, and he’s grinning. “Hi there,” he says softly.
“Hi.”