entire city is angry about something.
Not me, though. My heart is light, my soul free.
Free by my standards, anyway.
I take advantage of the standstill traffic to jog across the street. My skirt is tight, forcing me to take small steps, to run mostly on my toes. My heavy, oversized shoulder bag bounces against my hip, and my breasts jiggle a little uncomfortably.
As I dart between two parked sedans, one of my stiletto heels just… crumbles under my weight.
Stumbling, I catch myself on the car’s hood. Barely.
I hobble to the sidewalk and brace my hip against a parking meter. Slowly, I bend my knee and look at my shoe. The heel has snapped, the bottom part connected to the sole only by a flimsy strip of black fabric.
The crowd, oblivious to my tragedy, continues past me, and I stare mournfully at my shoe. Pushing away from the meter, I put weight on my foot and take a tentative step. After all, I don’t have far to go.
The first step is fine, but the second?
Disaster.
I get chummy with the meter again. As I look up, I catch sight of Romeo standing in front of our office building.
Even from a distance, his dark gray suit looks crisp, like he just put it on. He’s talking to someone I can’t see.
Romeo seems relaxed. His face is arrestingly gorgeous, and I can’t take my eyes off him.
Then he smiles, and my heart stops beating. There haven’t been enough of Romeo’s smiles lately.
Passing groups of women check him out. Who can blame them? He’s tall and extraordinarily well-built. His facial features are perfect, symmetrical. He’s got a strong jaw and chin, a straight nose, full lips, white teeth that contrast with his lightly bronzed skin.
It doesn’t hurt that he exudes success and power. At twenty-eight years old, he commands envy and respect, and he knows it.
Another tall, dark-haired man moves into view. Slade. Grinning, he says something, and Romeo throws back his head and laughs. Even though I can’t hear anything across the distance and the murmur of the crowd and the honking horns and squealing brakes, I still feel his laugh vibrating through my body.
I’d give anything to know what they’re talking about. But even when I’m sandwiched between them, I’m always on the outside. I wonder where Hawthorne is.
If they all go up together, maybe that means there’s time for some fun? They’re like the three musketeers of sex: one for all and all for one. It’s not always easy to coordinate the schedules.
Romeo glances at his phone, and the smile slides off his face. He says something, then walks away. After a moment, Slade crosses the street.
I track his progress, hoping he’ll sense me staring and look over.
He doesn’t. He does, however, reach the far side without his shoes falling apart. As he disappears into the crowd, I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. I like Slade. A lot.
“How’s your ankle?” asks a deep male voice.
I glance up into Hawthorne’s piercing blue eyes. His conservative tie is slightly loose, and his hands are in his pockets, but his posture is ramrod straight, and every dark hair on his head is in place.
My cheeks heat, and I don’t answer.
“Do you want a ride?”
“No,” I say. “I’ve got more work to do.”
“I know. I’m offering to carry you.” His smirk doesn’t deserve a reply, so I don’t offer one.
While I dig through my bag, Hawthorne hovers. Let him. I’m good at ignoring people, even when they’re as unfairly sexy as he is.
Hawthorne begins to whistle. It takes me a moment to place the slow, somber tune—a funeral march. For my shoes?
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask. “Kicking puppies or stealing lollipops from babies?”
“I did all that this morning,” he says.
The weight of my bag pulls it down, and I rebalance it against my knee and continue to dig. I don’t ask myself what Hawthorne wants because it’s clear: he can’t pass up an opportunity to annoy me.
Not me, though. My heart is light, my soul free.
Free by my standards, anyway.
I take advantage of the standstill traffic to jog across the street. My skirt is tight, forcing me to take small steps, to run mostly on my toes. My heavy, oversized shoulder bag bounces against my hip, and my breasts jiggle a little uncomfortably.
As I dart between two parked sedans, one of my stiletto heels just… crumbles under my weight.
Stumbling, I catch myself on the car’s hood. Barely.
I hobble to the sidewalk and brace my hip against a parking meter. Slowly, I bend my knee and look at my shoe. The heel has snapped, the bottom part connected to the sole only by a flimsy strip of black fabric.
The crowd, oblivious to my tragedy, continues past me, and I stare mournfully at my shoe. Pushing away from the meter, I put weight on my foot and take a tentative step. After all, I don’t have far to go.
The first step is fine, but the second?
Disaster.
I get chummy with the meter again. As I look up, I catch sight of Romeo standing in front of our office building.
Even from a distance, his dark gray suit looks crisp, like he just put it on. He’s talking to someone I can’t see.
Romeo seems relaxed. His face is arrestingly gorgeous, and I can’t take my eyes off him.
Then he smiles, and my heart stops beating. There haven’t been enough of Romeo’s smiles lately.
Passing groups of women check him out. Who can blame them? He’s tall and extraordinarily well-built. His facial features are perfect, symmetrical. He’s got a strong jaw and chin, a straight nose, full lips, white teeth that contrast with his lightly bronzed skin.
It doesn’t hurt that he exudes success and power. At twenty-eight years old, he commands envy and respect, and he knows it.
Another tall, dark-haired man moves into view. Slade. Grinning, he says something, and Romeo throws back his head and laughs. Even though I can’t hear anything across the distance and the murmur of the crowd and the honking horns and squealing brakes, I still feel his laugh vibrating through my body.
I’d give anything to know what they’re talking about. But even when I’m sandwiched between them, I’m always on the outside. I wonder where Hawthorne is.
If they all go up together, maybe that means there’s time for some fun? They’re like the three musketeers of sex: one for all and all for one. It’s not always easy to coordinate the schedules.
Romeo glances at his phone, and the smile slides off his face. He says something, then walks away. After a moment, Slade crosses the street.
I track his progress, hoping he’ll sense me staring and look over.
He doesn’t. He does, however, reach the far side without his shoes falling apart. As he disappears into the crowd, I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. I like Slade. A lot.
“How’s your ankle?” asks a deep male voice.
I glance up into Hawthorne’s piercing blue eyes. His conservative tie is slightly loose, and his hands are in his pockets, but his posture is ramrod straight, and every dark hair on his head is in place.
My cheeks heat, and I don’t answer.
“Do you want a ride?”
“No,” I say. “I’ve got more work to do.”
“I know. I’m offering to carry you.” His smirk doesn’t deserve a reply, so I don’t offer one.
While I dig through my bag, Hawthorne hovers. Let him. I’m good at ignoring people, even when they’re as unfairly sexy as he is.
Hawthorne begins to whistle. It takes me a moment to place the slow, somber tune—a funeral march. For my shoes?
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask. “Kicking puppies or stealing lollipops from babies?”
“I did all that this morning,” he says.
The weight of my bag pulls it down, and I rebalance it against my knee and continue to dig. I don’t ask myself what Hawthorne wants because it’s clear: he can’t pass up an opportunity to annoy me.
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