by Kim Karr
Oh, no way!
Pushing the briefcase towards the middle of the bench seat with my body, I park myself right in its overpriced place and prepare to go to battle. In a sea of over eight million people, of which almost half use the mass transit services, New York is, after all, all about finding your territory, and this is mine.
“Excuse me—” I start to snap when I glance over and see the extremely wide back of a man closing the other door. As he rights himself, his profile comes into view, and I freeze right where I sit.
The shock of red hair is the first thing I notice. Having stolen my interest, I continue my assault on him with my wandering eyes instead of letting my mouth do the talking.
His build appears strong and the set of his angular jaw turns me on. But what makes my heart pound is the slight spackling of freckles on his smooth sun-kissed skin. As soon as I see those sexy dots, I nearly combust because I’m in a cab with Prince Harry.
Prince freaking Harry.
Wait.
No.
It can’t be him, though.
This man is on the phone and is scowling at someone about his car service. He has a slight accent that I’m not entirely sure is British. In fact, I’m doubtful. Hold on. I listen a bit more. “I don’t care what the excuse was!” he snaps. Yep. Now, I’m more than certain this is not Prince Harry because he’s shouting, “Incompetence won’t be tolerated. I fired them both.”
Silence from him.
“I don’t need one,” he snaps.
More silence.
“It’s my choice,” he growls.
Wow, kind of an asshole. And definitely not a royal. Royals don’t shout in public, nor do they have tantrums in public. This, I know for a fact since my roommate’s sister is the secretary to Queen Victoria of Alexandria, and because of this I’m fairly versed on their protocol.
I’ve had enough.
“Excuse me,” I say again, louder this time so he can hear me over his shouting fit.
The most insanely bluish-gray eyes glare over at me, and for a moment I almost forget we’re about to go to battle over this ride.
However, when the cab driver barks, “Where to?” he brings me back to reality.
“Get me the address. I’ll call you back in five,” the cab-jacker grunts to the person he’s speaking with on the phone, and then after hanging up, he sets the device on his enviable piece of Louis Vuitton.
My gaze moves upward and I pretend not to notice the Prince Harry Lookalike’s perfectly sinful lips when I ask him, “Would you kindly mind getting out of the taxi? I had it first, and I’m going to be late for work.”
There’s mischief in his grin as he lifts his hips to reach for his wallet and responds with, “Feel free to ride along with me if you’d like, but I’m not getting out.”
Chivalry has officially died.
Now, I know the last thing I should be doing is looking at those muscular thighs. But they are right there, between the flaps of his fancy raincoat, and how can I not notice them, as well as how well-endowed he must be.
Wait?
Rewind.
Did he say ride me, or ride along with me? On reflection, his unusual accent sounds like a mixture of New England, English, and perhaps a dash of French, but I can understand him just fine. Which is why I’m replaying what he just said in my head when it should absolutely not be what I’m thinking about. At all.
Work.
I have to get to work.
I cannot be late or I won’t have a job just as candidate number 1 no longer has one.
So, get a grip, Gigi. Sheesh. Good-looking men are everywhere in this city, seriously, they are around every corner.
Straightening my shoulders, I refocus. “Ride along? Did you say ride along?” I ask him with a huff in my tone.
All arrogant and cocky-like, he nods.
Breathing deep, I keep my calm when I say, “I am not riding along with you, anywhere. You can ride along with me since I was here first, but only if you’re paying half of the fare or else you can get out.”
Okay, that was a bit bitchy, even I have to admit.
“I don’t care who was here first,” the cabbie bellows with his thick New York accent, “Just tell me where to?”
I’m rummaging through my purse to toss an extra twenty at him, in order to command his vehicle, but I can’t seem to find my wallet. It’s not in my purse.
No.
No.
No.
Frantically, I look around the interior. On the floor. The seat. At him. My heart stops when I realize it isn’t anywhere.
It must have fallen from my bag when I pulled my metro card out of it. That whole—doing two things at one time—it doesn’t always work so well.
The jerk beside me tosses a hundred dollar bill at the driver. “Start heading uptown as fast as you can. I’ll get the exact address to you in a minute. And there’s another one of those if you get me there by noon.”
Like a bat out of hell, the cab driver barrels into traffic and takes a quick left. I’m twisting and turning like I’m going into anaphylactic shock to appraise if my wallet is somewhere in the sea of black rain jackets and black umbrellas behind me.
Spotting nothing, I start to panic. “Pull over,” I shout. “I dropped my wallet on the sidewalk somewhere between my apartment and where you picked me up, and I have to go find it.”
“Sure you did, lady,” the cabbie hisses, ignoring my demand.
He’s beneath the light when my jerky ride-along snickers. “You don’t seriously think you’re going to find your wallet out there, do you?”
“Out there?” I glare at him, and this time when our gazes meet, I’m taken aback by how much he really does look like Prince Harry. The shock of red hair is actually ginger. His eyes are so bluish-gray they look like ice. With the slight amount of facial hair on his jaw, he’s rugged and imperfectly raw. Regal. Royal, even.
Seriously, he could be royalty if not for his arrogance and all-around bad attitude.
“Yes, out there,” he snaps.
I narrow my gaze at him, challenging him to go on, and he does.
“If you did drop it, someone has most undoubtedly picked it up by now. You must know that?” he smarts and I realize, as much as I hate to admit it, that’s the way this city is.
Finders keepers is the way of life here.
“You’re probably right.” Sighing at the truth, I glance at my watch. With the rain and traffic, there’s a chance I’m already going to be late, and if I’m late, well, as I’ve already told you, I won’t have that new job.
Or new boss.
With the new rules.
I weigh the two sides in my mind—career or wallet containing maxed out credit cards and two twenty dollar bills (my life’s savings). Besides, my cab-mate is right. Someone will have already picked it up and the most I can hope for is they drop it in a mailbox.
Falling back into the scarred leather of the seat, I sigh again. “Where did you say you’re going?”
“I didn’t,” he says with a smirk.
“You said head north, though.”
He nods. “Yes, toward Midtown.”
“Where specifically in Midtown?” I ask, trying to cover my annoyance. After all, the concrete jungle is twenty-three square miles of Manhattan glory and midtown is a third of it.
“I’m not entirely certain. I’m waiting for the proper address.”
The wheels in my head start spinning. “Then I suppose somewhere in Midtown will have to work for me.”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Work for you?”
“Yes, I guess I’ll just ride along with you,” I cajole, eating my own words as I speak.
Those two ginger slashes above his eyes raise. “I’m sorry, but if you do, ride along, you’ll have to pay your half.”
“I just told you I lost my wallet,” I balk.
“Well, I don’t normally just provide free transportation to random strangers. However, since you’re a Broadway
actress on her way to work, I’ll make an exception. But only because I believe in supporting the arts.”
I look at him in confusion. “I’m sorry. What?”
He draws an outline around my body. “I assume you’re playing a role in It’s Raining Men or some production similar to that with the catastrophe you’re wearing.”
Oh, right.
I shift in my yellow, brighter than the sun raincoat and quickly begin to unzip the juvenile outerwear. “This,” I say with a small laugh, “isn’t mine. It belongs to my niece. She’s here visiting from Texas and left it at my apartment. I recently moved here and couldn’t find mine.”
Actually, I moved to Manhattan twenty-one days ago, but I haven’t gotten around to unpacking. The place just doesn’t feel like home. A fact he doesn’t need to know.
Aiding me in my moment of unease is the sound of his cell ringing. And just like that, there goes my eyes one more time to where the device sits, on his thighs.
The Prince Harry Lookalike holds up a finger and places the phone to his ear before I can tell him I’m not an actress and I’m not going to Broadway. “Yeah.”
No hello from this guy, I guess.
“What did you find out?” he barks.
He waits a moment, looking impatient as he listens before barking into the phone. “I don’t give a fuck what the excuse is. I’ve already fired them both. Now, send a new service to pick me up, and make sure this one is on time.” Clearly, he’s very upset.
There’s more silence while he listens.
Agitation lines his brows when he speaks this time. “No, I don’t want a replacement for Gabriel. Something was off about him, anyway. He asked way too many questions.”
I eye the stranger, noting that behind his grim expression is the most handsome face I’ve ever seen.
Feeling flushed and warm, I recall what I’m wearing and pull my rubber duckie hood off of my head. When I do, my hair tumbles out in long waves around my shoulders. I don’t miss his sharp intake of breath or the way his gaze drops to the hem of my super cute skirt, where he’s now staring at my bare thighs.
“I already told you, I don’t care why they were late,” he tells whoever is on the other end of the phone, and the entire time his cool, iceberg-like eyes are still on me, unwavering.
I open the coat, and as soon as I do, I feel his heavy, thick-lashed stare grow even hotter.
“Just do what I said,” he orders. “And I’m still waiting for that address.”
Geeze, this guy is ruthless. It must be something in the water because the email Kendra forwarded me from my new employer listed three behaviors that are immediate grounds for dismissal.
Office fraternization
Tardiness
And gossip
Speaking of my new job, I pull out a small mirror and check my appearance to make sure it’s acceptable.
Hair a bit messy but otherwise styled on trend. Check.
Waterproof mascara not running. Check.
Nipples sticking out like steel daggers. Uncheck.
Goose bumps on my bare legs. Uncheck.
Yes, I’m cold, and I should have worn tights but that would have been riding the fashion line between summer and fall, and I didn’t want to straddle that potential mistake my first day on the job. Especially since today we’re shooting the feature spread for the magazine’s launch, and I want to look like I know what I’m doing (even if I really don’t).
Seriously, it’s not as straight forward as wearing white pants after Labor Day—we all know that’s a no-no.
As I tuck my compact away, I can still feel my cab mate’s scorching gaze on me and try not to squirm in my seat.
He ends the call and opens the lapels of his sleek black Tom Ford raincoat to drop the cell into his suit pocket. The collar goes up all Tom Cruise Risky Business-like when he does, and I find myself wetting my lips. This man knows how to dress, and it’s such a turn on. At the same time, I’m finding myself extremely flustered by how arrogantly annoying he is.
Why am I so attracted to him?
Many reasons, the devil on my shoulder laughs.
His dapper style is one I can appreciate after working at Built for Men. The line sells the most luxurious garments of outerwear—dressed-up knit scarves, cravat ties, and of course, stylish coats. A lot of his items are sourced from a small Peruvian village. They are to die for.
Like this man’s coat.
“Now,” he says, “Sunshine, where were we?”
Sunshine?
Whatever.
“We were discussing Broadway?” I smile.
He places one long finger on his sexy chin. “Yes, we were.”
“You’re not American, are you?” I ask, just tossing it out there, biding time.
His gaze flashes over me from the top of my head to the tip of my new booties. “No, I’m not and you’re stalling.”
Busted.
This time when I shiver, it isn’t from the cold. It’s from the way his gaze has gone dark, like he’s hungry and he wants to eat me for lunch. I swear if he keeps scanning me with that porn-star stare, I might just have to offer him his first taste, and I am not that kind of girl.
But it’s so sexy.
The only thing saving me from ruination is the ringing of my cell phone. Glancing at the screen, I see it’s my older brother. I have to answer it or he’ll call back a thousand times. He’s in town with my niece. They’re staying with one of his old college buddies in Brooklyn. I texted him that I’d have to cancel my plans for the day due to work; however, now that he’s been in the city, he’s more worried about me than ever. He’s super protective and hates that I’m living in this big city all alone at the current time. Even though that’s temporary, he doesn’t see it that way. So with no other choice but to answer, I hold a finger up. “One second.”
The sexy ginger-haired guy furrows his brows, as if he isn’t used to being told to wait. Seriously, this man needs to chill. At least his arrogance seems to pass quickly because while I say a quick hello to my brother and tell him that I’ll call him later, my ride-along finally averts his fiery stare.
While he waits for me to get off the phone this time, he leans forward to talk to the cabbie. Oh, God. The lines of his long, lean body seem so prominent even through the fabric of his waterproof coat that I have to look the other way, toward the sidewalks of New York and the rain.
He’s just too sexy.
Hanging up, I take a moment to gather myself and then look over at him. “You were saying?” I’m placing my phone back in my purse when his rueful expression catches mine, and I swear my breath hitches.
He taps the door handle with his long fingers, and I oddly notice how nicely manicured his short nails are. “I believe we were about to discuss your half of the fare for the ride.”
My eyes pop. “You said it would be free.”
His lips curl at the corners. “Those words never left my mouth. What I did say, however, was that if you were a Broadway actress, I wouldn’t mind supporting the arts. Although,” he draws that circle around my body again, “you’ve already admitted to wearing that coat electively, and by your rather trendy attire, it is doubtful you’re an actress on her way to work.”
Now I’m fastening the coat up as fast as I can, as if this is going to make a difference in his opinion of me.
The cabbie is on West Street and just passing Canal. That leaves me way too many blocks to go. With less than twenty minutes to get to work, I can’t afford to get kicked out yet. “No, I am not. However, I’ll do just about anything if you’ll please drop me off somewhere near Columbus Circle.”
Again with the lips curving at the corners. “Anything?”
My spine straightens. “Sure, within reason. Sing, dance, you name it. You like Broadway, I can be Broadway. But the one thing I can’t be is late.”
For some reason, I have his undivided attention and amusement dances in his eyes.
Stall, all I have to do is stall. New York
passes by us as we push our way uptown and I really will break out in song if it means getting to work on time and keeping my job.
Turning slightly, he crosses one long leg over the other and although this isn’t his luxurious car service he was raising hell over minutes ago, he acts as if it is. “If I wanted to hear your voice, what would you propose singing?”
“Elton John,” I toss out.
One sexy brow raises. “Interesting choice.”
I shrug. “I’m pretty sure I know almost every lyric to almost every song. I drove my father’s old Volvo until recently, and the radio was broken. That left me the tape player, and the only cassettes he had in the car were Elton John. Try finding Post Malone on cassette. No, don’t. It’s impossible.”
The burst of laughter he expels tells me I’m so in for this ride. In the car. Not on him. Of course. “Okay, Elton John it is, then. Let me hear you.”
Drawing in a breath, I expel it. I’m thinking through the words to “Bennie and the Jets” but the electric boobs part might embarrass me, so I decide to go with a cleaner song.
Channeling my best Elton, I start by bobbing my head and then after doing a first pump, I hum the intro and pretend to play the piano.
Might as well give him a show.
He laughs and I think he’s shocked I’m actually going to do this but the thing is what do I have to lose—so I go for it and open my mouth wide.
You’ll never know what it’s like,
Your blood freezes just like ice,
There’s a light that shines from you.
His palm flies up. “Woah, wait a minute. Stop right there.”
Feeling myself flush, I want to fall into the cracks of the seat. “Am I really that bad?”
He’s shaking his head. “You sing like an angel but you’re massacring Sir Elton Hercules John’s lyrics.”
Hercules is Elton’s middle name?
And even if it is, who uses it?
Besides, he’s wrong. Dead wrong about the lyrics. Now I’m shaking my own head. “Excuse me? I am most certainly not massacring the lyrics. I assure you I know the words to “I’m Still Standing.”