It’s currently mid-November. “That’s months from now and four hours away. Besides, eventually Harlee will be in charge.”
He grimaces. “Right. Well, I’m here for a while. Think on it if you can’t find anything else.”
Donny’s words play back in my head as I leave and take the stairs. This place isn’t my parlor anymore keeps echoing in my head. It feels surreal, and my chest aches. I’ve worked here for eight years, and to be let go because my fiancé cheated with the manager—it’s almost too much to bear. Normally, I’m a dreamer, an optimist. Even when I struggled through Edward’s betrayal, I kept my head up, but this . . .
I clench the handrail when a dizzy spell hits.
I plop down on one of the steps and bend over to clear the black dots dancing in my eyes. Jesus. Have I eaten anything today? I’m running on coffee and cough drops. I pull out a protein bar from my smock, gagging for a second at the smell before shoving it in my mouth. My stomach clenches at the food before eventually settling down. It hasn’t been right for a few days. I’m fine. Totally. I rub my forehead with icy hands as I focus on what’s next. First, I need to shake this cold, maybe take a few days to sleep off this exhaustion, and then plan for another job.
I find a box in the back and fill it with essentials from my station. I’m walking a couple of blocks to my apartment, and I can’t carry everything. When I close the door to East Coast Ink & Gallery, I force myself to not let pity inch inside.
Girls like me don’t have time to wallow.
We’ve been rejected before, and when it happens, we make plans. We move on. We survive.
I look down at the box and see the framed photo of me and Cece and Brogan at a party in Chelsea years ago.
Donny has his family.
And they are mine.
Be tough. Be strong. Take one step, then two—then you’re up and back on the journey. That’s the motto I live by.
I’ll be fine.
So why is there a deep churning pit of anxiousness in my gut?
Chapter 5
FRANCESCA
Fatigue ripples over me as I press my back against the wall inside Café Lazzo, my favorite restaurant near my apartment. It’s been two weeks since I lost my job. My cold has worsened, and my throat is hoarse. Thanksgiving came and went, a busy time, and I’m hoping that’s why I haven’t gotten any callbacks from the parlors I checked in with.
I tug my black toboggan down over my forehead, covering my messy bun. I’m sloppy with my glasses, ripped jeans, and faded peacoat. Shivering, I tighten the scarf around my neck. I just want to get my pasta, go home, and starfish on my bed.
“Order up for Francesca!” comes from the server at the takeout stand.
“Here!” I rasp out as I work my way through the throng of people waiting for their own takeout. Sadly, this restaurant doesn’t deliver, and their butternut squash soup and crab ravioli have been circling in my head for days. My mouth waters, and I’m almost to the counter—
A man steps in front of me, cutting me off. “Kendra, sweetheart, how are you?”
Kendra, the server who called my name, blushes at the man, then titters that it’s good to see him and that yes, she watched his game and is “so devastated” about the loss—and don’t worry; her poodle is feeling better after his surgery.
I wave at her. Look! Me, me!
He blocks her from my line of vision and leans in over the counter. I take in his clean-shaven, chiseled profile as he lowers his voice. “I’m glad your dog is good. Hey, my friends and I ordered twenty minutes ago. Could you check on it for me? You’re looking gorgeous today, by the way.”
“I’ll check your status.” She bats her lashes, then darts to the takeout window.
I tap my three-inch stacked Converse, waiting for him to notice the angry girl next to him, but he’s too busy watching the swing in Kendra’s hips.
I scan the Pythons sweatshirt he’s wearing, and it dawns on me. Of course! It’s him.
Jesus. Is he everywhere?
Tuck Avery. Professional footballer. Lives in the penthouse of my building. Tawny hair, angular face, big muscles. Arrogant.
I ease the aluminum container of napkins from the bakery case closer to me, then knock it to the floor. A grunt comes from him when it bounces and lands on his foot.
I blink. “Oops.”
He bends to pick up the container, then frowns as he rakes his eyes over me. “Did you throw this at me?”
Apparently, I’m not quite a ninja.
Someone behind me, a male, murmurs an affirmative: “Yeah, she did.”
My adrenaline spikes, and sweat builds on my face. Part of me wants to play it off as an accident, but . . .
“Um . . . yes?”
“What’s wrong with you?” he snaps as he places it back on the bakery case.
My heart thumps like a war drum in my chest as I push out my words in a gravelly voice. “She called my name; then you cut me off before I reached the counter.”
Have I mentioned I’ve passed him in the lobby of our building? He never speaks, just keeps his head down and stalks away. He doesn’t want to mingle with the peons who live below him.
“Welcome to New York. Get used to fighting for a spot,” he mutters.
“Right, right. I’ve lived here for years. Not everyone is rude. You think you can do whatever you want because of who you are. Princess.” I grunt.
The takeout area goes dead quiet. I hadn’t realized we’d drawn attention, and I lick my lips as I look around.
“I could have you arrested,” he says. “That”—he points at the napkin dispenser—“was assault.”
“Fight, fight, fight! Kick his ass!” a guy calls from behind me.
Tuck sends him a death glare, then leans into my personal space. His scent wafts around me, spice with a hint of peppermint. Like a sexy Christmas. It’s a cologne I recognize, something yummy and expensive, but I can’t focus as my stomach flip-flops with nausea. It’s not my usual “I’m anxious” queasy. It’s a new one, and it’s decided his cologne is disgusting.
“Phones are recording this,” he hisses. “Do you want to be known on Twitter as the girl who attacked me?”
“Are you hurt?”
“I asked you a question.”
“You aren’t hurt.”
“Are you a doctor?”
Fuzziness dances in my head as I clench the edge of the counter to stop myself from swaying. A bone-deep exhaustion washes over me. Swallowing, I glance at the server. “Kendra, you said Francesca. I’ll take my order now.”
She darts her gaze from me to him.
“Kendra?” I ask, my voice rising sharply. “Now.”
She fumbles around, then hands over my order.
“Thank you.” I leave and make my way through the crowd.
I push open the door and step out to a drizzle on Fifth Avenue. I lean against the brick wall, letting rain fall on my face as I take deep breaths. What is wrong with me? I’ve never acted so childish—
“I can’t believe you” comes a male voice.
Holy cow . . .
He’s followed me!
I turn, and there he stands, arms crossed. A streetlamp creates a golden halo around him, and I blink. He really is beautiful. Tall. Chin-length wavy hair. Diamond-cut cheekbones. Perfect full, bitable lips.