Thank fuck.
But then I hear the barista call, “Macchiato with white cream, double brewed, light on the almond milk and a splash of caramel. One-sixty internal temp.”
Damn, that’s quite the complicated order. I stop in my tracks and look back. Her expression falls as embarrassment shapes her features. This time, I cock my brow, tasting sweet victory.
Catching my eyes on her, she says, “Go ahead. Say what you want to say and get it out of your system.”
“You’re three layers too deep in coffee demands and a real pain in the ass to every barista in town and mine. Have a nice day, Mrs.—”
“That’s Ms. to you.”
“My apologies. Ms. Complex.”
The barista then adds, “For Tuesday.”
Tuesday . . .
Go fucking figure.
I knew I hated Tuesdays.
2
Loch
Wanting to savor my victory as well as finally drink the coffee I waited for long enough to grow a five o’clock shadow before four in the afternoon, I stop a few doors down from the coffee shop.
A woman’s scream catches in the wind just as I taste the hot brew. “No!” she yells louder as I search the area for the source of the sound.
Finally, I catch sight of the socialite when her coffee cup flies in the air. She swings her arm and tries to land a hit, but a man hovering over her blocks her. He then starts wrestling to free her bag from her grip.
I’m already running back toward her, glad people haven’t packed the streets yet from leaving work. “Excuse me,” I say, pushing past a few folks gawking nearby instead of helping.
She’s shoved against the exterior of the coffee shop. The back of her head bounces off the brick, instantly silencing her as her body crumples to the ground before I have time to help. I push harder. When I reach her, I glare at the man darting between people or pushing them out of the way.
I yell to a guy pulling his phone out, “Call 911!”
A bulky guy in a hoodie seems to be debating what to do, shifting uncomfortably. When his eyes meet mine, I say, “Go after him!” As if permission was all he needed, he starts running after the guy.
I kneel beside her unresponsive body, wishing I had paid better attention in that CPR class I took as a Boy Scout. Her eyes are closed as I check for a pulse in her neck. “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, hoping she snaps back like she did earlier.
If I wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to leave or . . . guilt riddles me, knowing that guy wouldn’t have tried it if I’d been exiting with her. Finally, I feel a pulse. Although weak, I take it as a positive sign.
Glancing over my shoulder, I look for anyone ready to assist. The barista calling out orders earlier runs up just as I ask, “Has anyone called 911?”
“I did,” he replies, kneeling next to me. “Is she dead?” I don’t need flairs for the dramatic in this kind of situation.
“She needs medical attention as soon as possible.” Careful not to move her, I run my hand gently along the back of her head to check for bleeding. Red scrapes across my fingertips, but fortunately, it’s not enough to worry about blood loss. She’ll have a concussion, though, so that concern rightfully exists in the pit of my stomach.
An officer moves people back as his partner dips to the ground, eyeing her and then me. “What happened?”
“She was mugged. The guy pushed her, and she hit her head against the bricks. Then he stole her purse.”
“You her husband?”
“No.”
Sirens echo down the avenue, approaching at New York City traffic speed—too slow in an emergency. The officer looks at me and then stands. “Go ahead and step back. We’ll handle it from here, but stay close because you’ll need to give a statement.”
“Okay,” I reply, moving back enough to make room for the paramedics when they arrive.
The barista taps my shoulder. “Is she going to be okay?”
He’s young, no more than eighteen, but I can’t give him the reassurance he seeks. “I hope so.” It’s the best I can do.
The ambulance can’t pull close because of the cars already at the curb, but the paramedics park in the street, causing the car behind it to blare its horn in outrage. Typical New Yorkers. They’re the only ones with less patience than I have.
With a stretcher in their hands, the paramedics are finally able to maneuver through the fenders and set it beside . . . Fuck, what was her name? Tuesday. Her name was Tuesday. I move out of the way but stand close and say, “She has a pulse, but it’s faint, and there’s bleeding at the back of her head.”
One of the paramedics turns to look at me over her shoulder. “Did you move her?”
“No. I only checked for her pulse.”
She nods and returns to the woman, checking her pulse for herself, and counting. After a pause, she nods. “Let’s move her,” she says to the other paramedic. In unison, they lift her onto the stretcher and start back to the ambulance.
With his arms held wide, the officer shuffles the onlookers back, including me. I owe her nothing. But seeing her—the same woman I was just bantering with—lying on the stretcher with a softness belying her earlier expression makes my chest tighten.
I’m known to be a shark in the courtroom and a total asshole to just about all the females I know, other than my mom and sister. But I have a fucking heart, even if it is frozen at its core. I can’t seem to walk away from this woman, though. I need to know she’ll be okay.
Fuck.
I look around, disgust settling in as I see all the people surrounding her, gawking like the attack happened for their entertainment. Acting on instinct, I follow close and approach the ambulance when the paramedics load her inside. One says, “Step back, sir.”
What am I doing?
Why do I care?
She filled part of my day with irritation. Why would I sacrifice more of it to her whims?
A law professor of mine once told me I needed to forget the small-town manners I grew up with and own the life of the big-city lawyer I am now. I needed to harden up.
I’ve had no problem following his advice.
Until now . . .
Considering no one else has stepped up to claim a relationship of any kind with Tuesday, she’s obviously alone. I contemplate how I would react if my little sister, Marina, or my mom had been mugged. I know, without a doubt, that I would never leave them alone.
But why am I making this random lady my priority? What about her makes me second-guess my ability to walk the fuck away from this situation?
I stand there like a creeper, making sure she’s being taken care of when I’m shot a stern look. “I said step away from the ambulance.” The paramedic’s tone matches her glare.
“I’m her boyfriend.” What the—
“Get in.”
I don’t have time to settle on the bench across from the paramedic before the doors are closed. I hold on as soon as the vehicle veers forward into traffic with the sirens blaring. Staring at the blonde, I note her hair has fallen from its tightly twisted knot, and the ends hang down around her shoulders, some curling around the gurney. Dragging my gaze away from her face and the peaceful expression on her face, I start to wonder if she’s worse off than first suspected.