Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“Are you daft?” He stops defending himself. “And cussing like an adult—”
“ ‘Are YOU daft’ ?” I mimic, shoving my hair back and peering up into riveting eyes the shade of summer’s richest day. I yearn to dive in and float away in the perfect blue of them.
The air in my lungs, hell all rationale, fades. Is this man telling or asking if I’m a woman? Should I give him my wallet? Mesmerized, I gape at his lips as he speaks.
God spent a good weekend creating just his facial features. Strong jaw, brow line, pleasing lips. His shoulders stretch on and on in his expensive button-up.
Finally, I reclaim some of my Harlem edge. “Little girl? Did you call me a little girl! I am twenty-three.” Lux, hush. This stranger doesn’t need to know your age. “I am not a little ass girl.”
A voice lush like sex envelops me. “You are indeed tiny, but my apologies.” He pauses, ocean blue gaze washing over every inch of me only to land on my face. I die beneath a smoldering gaze that’s content counting all these hideous little freckles.
Damn, I’ve thought about being whisked away by a tall, dark stranger. He would’ve been darker—obviously Black. But the specimen in front of me is too tall. He would flip me about. Turn me out.
A gust of wind sends the rose petals airborne, and Manhattan materializes with a throng of patrons milling around as if we don’t exist. Just seconds ago, we were the only people on the planet.
I let out a shuddering sigh. I grew up in Harlem. Cultured. Adoring Black love.
And for the first time in my entire life, a white man has taken my breath away.
“Clearly, you’re not a pickpocket,” I murmur. “Still, you can’t go around pushing people.”
“Miss, you’re mistaken.” The Brit’s tone is dark, calculating. “I saved you from being run over at top speed.”
“Am I supposed to thank you? How about you take your savior complex and shove it, okay? That very courier comes by at the same time every day. I walk here every Monday, and he’s never hit me. His name is Billy, by the way. Usually, I say a quick hello as he whizzes by. Thank you very much.”
The man’s head is slightly shifting left and right, eyes keen.
What the hell is he looking for? “What? Are you mocking me?”
He gives a tummy fluttering chuckle as a response. Instead of addressing him any further, I pick up a few of the untrampled roses.
“Psychotic asshole,” I mutter under my breath.
“Are you sure about that?” His sinful mouth corks as he retrieves another limp stem. My hand darts toward a rose he was aiming for. Once more, there’s an annoying, sexy chuckle.
“Again, I apologize, Miss?” The gorgeous guy tries for my name as I arrange the pathetic bunch of four roses with a fifth that’s all stem.
“Look,” he removes a thick money clip from his back pocket and pulls off a few hundred-dollar bills, “let’s get you a fresh bouquet of roses. I saw a florist a block away. This is for your trouble.”
“Still can’t save the day,” I start, snarky. “I'm a florist. I visit a nursery to pick my own flowers. Besides, they won’t have black roses, which is what I should be giving my dad at twelve-fifteen sharp.”
“Your daddy, hmmm.”
I suck in air. “You’re sick! My father. Not daddy or zaddy. Oh, now you’ve returned to mocking me? I’ll have you know Gin—my mom—always took . . .”
Tears prick my eyes. Giving him the old fuck-you, you-won nod, I back away. Goodbye, douchebag.
His fingers stitch into mine; the other hand slips down my back.
“Hey!”
“Saving you, finally,” he laughs, gesturing. Heart marching to a beat of its own drum at our intimate connection, I hardly glimpse over my shoulder. Yup, a shark in a suit would’ve trampled me.
“Oh, I . . .” Voice fractured, I focus on how I mentioned my departed momma to a stranger. Tears begin to overtake me.
Shit, Lux. Go back to the grief counselor already.
The hand dominating my lower back lets go, but my body’s still flush against the brick of him. He scrapes a knuckle over my cheek, regarding me with a newfound interest. I find myself cuddled into his arms. Voice low, deep, tangible, he prompts, “You were saying?”
“My, uh, mom would bring Dad flowers every Monday at lunch, religiously. And then . . . and then . . .”
A hand consoles my back, another skims my cheek, breath fanning across my forehead. He’s surrounding me from every angle. “She died,” he replies.
“Yes.” I inhale the most intoxicating cologne and swallow a jaded rock. “Thank you.”
“For what?” A brow, which would otherwise be called cocky, pulls pensive.
I let out a huffed laugh. The man is rich, filthy rich looking. People don’t comfort each other where he’s from.