“Look, I have no idea—” Rafe came to a sharp stop before me, recognition flooding his expression as his eyes darted over me. “You,” he announced accusingly.
I grinned. “Me. What are the chances? Eight million people in this city and we run into each other twice in three days.”
Rafe’s eyes were even more attractively blue than I remembered as they wandered over my long strawberry-blond hair. “Your hair is different.”
“Yeah, this is real. No wig.”
His attention strayed down my body. I might have been feeling familiar tingles everywhere his eyes touched, but then he retorted, “Yet you’re still in costume.”
Frowning, I looked down at my maxi dress. While I dressed to suit how many hours I’d have to wait in line for something, when I knew it was just a half-day kind of deal, I dressed like me. And I liked dresses and skirts and a lot of florals. I also liked braid crowns and circlets. None of which was costumey. It was cute boho. “Uh . . . no.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’re auditioning to be a fairy princess.”
I beamed at the compliment. “You’re so sweet.”
Rafe’s lips pinched together for a second before he sighed heavily and glanced along the line toward the Apple building. “Is there a reason you catcalled ridiculous nonsense at me, or was it just boredom while you wait for a nonsensical gadget that’s ruined the state of humanity?”
“Ooh, wow, there is a lot to unpack in that sentence, but to answer your question, no. I just felt like yelling at you.” I shrugged. “And I’m not waiting for me. I’m a professional line sitter.”
“You’re a what?”
“A line sitter. I work for All on the Line. We’re a group of line sitters. People pay us to wait in line for the things they want but don’t have time to wait for. Phones, sneakers, theater tickets, gourmet coffee. I’m booked all this week to wait for all of those things.”
He considered this. “People pay you to wait for stuff?”
“That’s right. The company I work for created this app and people can post the jobs to it and if we want to do the job, we book it. The app takes care of the financials.”
“And that’s your job? Along with the Disney princess stuff? This”—he gestured along the line—“is what you do for a living?”
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t just in a bad mood at his niece’s party. Maybe he was just an asshole. “I’m not a Disney princess actor. I’m a costume character actor and a line sitter. Those are my jobs.”
Silence fell between us as Rafe stared at me.
The longer he gazed into my eyes, the more I noticed his. His lashes weren’t long, but they were unfairly dark and thick, making his eyes seem bluer. There were little silver striations in his irises that fascinated me. Refusing to break his stare because I knew I’d only linger over his gorgeous face (thus alerting him to the fact that I was attracted to his condescending ass), I remained still and quiet.
Then, true to form, Rafe pivoted and rudely departed without another word.
The mischievous teasing I’d felt earlier vanished, and I no longer experienced the urge to needle him with more catcalling. I stared after him but rather than feel insulted by his lack of interest in my life and seeming contempt for it, I felt sorry for him. He was clearly contained by the box that he’d grown up in and wouldn’t know what an open mind was if it bit him on the behind.
I felt pity for anyone who was narrow-minded. It closed off so much of the beauty of the world to them.
Disappointed he’d turned out to be a cliché, I was looking away when movement caught my eye. I was shocked to find Rafe striding determinedly in my direction again. His broody face was more brooding than usual, so I braced myself.
Rafe Whitman drew to a stop before me and blurted out, “You’ll literally do anything for money?”
Anger flared in an instant from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair, so I didn’t hear the tone in which the question was asked. I threw back my shoulders. Taller than average height at five-seven, I was still a good seven or eight inches shorter than this arrogant Manhattanite, but I was prepared to take him. Anyone who knew me knew I was a patient, laid-back kind of person . . . but Rafferty Whitman had crossed the line!
“What the hell does that mean?” I seethed. “Are you suggesting I charge money for sex?”
Rafe’s blue eyes flashed with indignation. “No, I am not,” he hissed at me, eyes darting around. “And lower your voice.”
“I will not lower my voice.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I like most people, but you sure do make it difficult, Whitman. It’s like you get off on being as insulting as possible.”
He mirrored me, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not insulting you. If you’d paid attention, you’d realize the question was not meant to be untoward.”
“Untoward?” I grimaced. “What, are you from the nineteenth century? Is that why you hate phones? Because if the technology is difficult for you to grasp, I can teach you how to use a phone.” I was being a little shit now, but he brought it out in a person.
Rafe sneered. “How much will that cost me?”
Argghhh! I narrowed my eyes but smiled. “Oh, for you . . . twice as much as I’d charge anyone else.”
“I see. Well.” Rafe uncrossed his arms to reach into his back pocket. He removed his wallet and then a business card from that. Holding it out to me, he continued, “I guess you stand to make a lot of money for doing very little. If you’re interested, call me.”
Flummoxed, I took the card. “Um . . . doing what?”
But he was already walking away.
“Doing what, Whitman?” I yelled after him.
He didn’t answer, just casually strolled off. His suit pants molded perfectly to his sculpted ass. So unfairly physically perfect.
“Are you going to call him?”
I looked up from the business card that read whitman veterinary clinic, dr. rafferty whitman.
His vet clinic was on the busy, tree-lined Columbus Avenue. Nice location, Dr. Rafe.
There was his phone number right beneath the address.
Yvonne grinned at me, and I answered her question. “Nah.”
Her eyes bugged out of her head as her friends gaped at me in shock. “Uh, Clark Kent just asked you to call him, Star. You don’t turn down Clark Kent.”
“You do if he’s an asshole. Life lesson, girls: an attractive face should not sway you if a pompous, arrogant, insulting, offensive turd lurks behind it.”