“Was that so hard?”
“No.” I shrug, then say, “I hope no one got us on camera. I don’t want to be on Twitter as harming New York’s favorite wide receiver.”
“Meh. Maybe they did; maybe they didn’t. But we’ve patched things up. Beautiful name, by the way. Are you Italian, Francesca?” He says my name slow, tasting the syllables.
“Maybe,” I say, then sigh. “Look. I’m sorry. Really. I thought it would drop on the floor and get Kendra’s attention. That’s all.”
“Truth? I spotted you making a beeline to her, and I was in a hurry. So ...” He grimaces. “I cut you off on purpose. Now you know.”
“Rude jerk.”
“Don’t hold back.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m friendly with Kendra and knew if I beat you, I might get my food quicker. I’m used to getting what I want when I want it. So you’re right. I’m an egotistical asshole.”
“I never said egotistical asshole.” I smile. It’s hard not to. Maybe it’s the way his eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles. Or the line of dimples.
He chuckles, and the sound of it reminds me of—
My thought is lost as the door to Café Lazzo opens and a man ambles out. Wearing a Pythons sweatshirt and joggers, he’s tall with frizzy blond hair that falls around his shoulders. “Yo. Kendra said our food will be ready in five. You all right out here?”
“Yeah, we’re cool. My attacker adores me,” Tuck calls out to his friend.
“I’m addingnarcissistto your list,” I murmur.
“That just hurts, Francesca,” he says on a laugh as he glances down at me.
“You should make a list of my flaws.”
He searches my face. “Hmm, I’d start with ... striking.”
Oh.
“Nice throw in there. I’m Jasper,” says the friend as he walks to us.
“Francesca. I didn’t throw it. I eased it to the floor. Were you the guy saying ‘Fight, fight, fight’?”
“Guilty.” He winks. “I saw the whole thing.”
“He lives for drama,” Tuck says dryly as he shuts the umbrella as the rain eases up. “So where are you headed, Francesca?”
“Um, actually, I live at Wickham. I’ve seen you around. In the lobby ...” I stop at the wary expression growing on his face.
“What a coincidence.”
I shrug. “Most of the tenants know you live in the penthouse. You’re famous. And the doorman is lovable but a bit of a gossip.”
“Really. What’s the doorman’s name.”
What the ... “You don’t believe me?”
“What’s his name?”
“Herman,” I say, frowning. “He’s worked at Wickham for over twenty years. He’s married to Catherine, and they have five grandchildren. I live on the twentieth floor with a view of Central Park. Happy now?”
“This little kitten just hissed at you, bro,” Jasper says with a smirk as he holds up a fist for me to bump. I ignore him.