“Me?” I squeak, absolutely dumbfounded that of the roughly one point eight million people who live in Manhattan,he’sthe one who's slammed into me. “What areyoudoing here?”
Sly laughs, deep and unrestrained. Tossing his hands into the air, he says, “Unbelievable.” Then he turns and walks away.
I stare at his back for several seconds, reeling over the exchange, before I snap out of it and gather my thoughts. Bending to pick up my empty coffee cup that’s rolling near my feet from the light breeze, I smash it in my fist before slamming it into the trash can a few steps away.
Looking down, I’m mildly relieved to see the majority of the coffee soaked my blouse andnotmy favorite coat, though it did take some of the splatter. At this point, I have no choice but to get a cab back to my office so I can change. If there’s time, I’ll send one of the interns to grab another latte from the cafe on thecorner near our building—which is where I should have gone to begin with.
Once I’m back at the corner, I lift my arm to get myself a car, but find myself turning when I hear quick footsteps hitting the pavement behind me. My attention is drawn as I see Sly jogging my way.
It's then I notice he’s in black jeans and what appears to be a black medical scrub shirt beneath his black leather jacket. It’s no secret that Sly’s father is one of the most prominent surgeons on the Upper East Side, but I hadn’t realized his son was also in the medical field.
When he reaches me, his brows are furrowed with confliction. He reaches out as though he's about to touch my arm, but then, at the last second, he drops his arm. “I wasn’t paying attention. I apologize.”
His apology is short and to the point, but as he says it, his eyes sweep over me, looking at the devastation caused to my shirt.
I’m not in the mood for an insincere apology. In the few times we’ve met, his interactions with me have been rude, if not one step above hostile, and it’s crystal clear that the hatred for my family extends to me—he’s made that known.
So, curiosity be damned, I’m not engaging.
Turning back toward the street, I lift my hand again as a cab driver speeds by without stopping. Another is further behind, stuck at a stoplight. I’ll try harder to get that one's attention.
“Vinnie.” I hear my name between his lips, but I stay strong and pretend like I haven’t.
The sound of the crosswalk chirps next to me, and to distract myself, I take another step toward the edge of the curb.
“Vinnie,” Sly tries again, his voice louder this time.
Pushing up to my tiptoes, I look to see where the yellow cab went, leaning forward slightly in an attempt to see past the cars blocking my view.
In a split second, a passing car quickly switches into the lane I’m practically standing in—the speed throwing me off-kilter and causing me to waver on the edge. I nearly slip and fall into the street when a hand grabs my arm, pulling me out of the way.
Slamming back into Sly, my hands instinctively land on his chest as his grip on my arm stabilizes me.
“Christ, Vincenza,” he breathes, his voice unsteady and thick.
Once again, I’m too stunned to speak—something that seems to be becoming a trend around this man. Realizing I'm still pressing my hands against his chest, I drop my arms and take a step back, putting some distance between us. The close proximity is too intoxicating.
Swallowing thickly, I lick my lips, readying myself to thank him, but I don’t miss the way his eyes drop to my mouth when I do.
“I—thanks…”
“Try to be more careful. Why are you taking a taxi, anyway? Where is your driver?”
Mybrows stitch together for a second. “Why do you care?”
It's juvenile, but it flies from my mouth faster than I can stop it. His expression is stone while he waits for me to give him a real answer. With a dramatic sigh, I cross my arms over my chest. “I didn’t use my driver. Grabbed a cab here to get a coffee, and was planning on walking back to my office to clear my head a little—it’s been a long week. But now that my shirt’s soaked, I need to catch a cab back.”
“Where is your office building?” he asks, his vibrant hazel eyes staring into mine. The anger is gone from his voice, but his gaze is still as intense as always.
“Manhattan Valley. On Columbus and 97th.”
“That’s over a mile from here.”
“Yes, and I’m fully capable of walking a mile.”
“You’re not wearing the proper footwear.”
Looking down at my flats, I take in the shine of the black patent vegan leather shoes. They’re not ideal for walking, but they certainly are better than heels.
