Fun fact for anyone paying attention. With me, mad equals verbal. Things fly out of my mouth with wild abandon that should probably stay tucked behind my lips. “Of course she’s all right,” I yell a little too loud. “She was beating Preston like a street thug.”
Quirking his mouth, he gestures to her as if to imply I’m the stupidest being to ever breathe air. “Maybe you missed the fact she’s a girl.”
“Maybe you missed the fact that she could kick Mike Tyson’s ass?”
“Maybe you should’ve been paying attention instead of having your nose in a book?” he counters, taking a step forward.
Fun fact number two about me…I like to argue. I’ll argue about anything. You like apples? I like oranges. It doesn’t matter if apples are really the nectar of the Gods and I think orange juice tastes like a freshly squeezed asshole. If it’s debatable…I’m debating it.
“You should try books sometime. Or reading in general. Maybe you could start with consent forms for everyone to sign for all those pictures you’ve been taking instead of letting your kid run around unsupervised.” Feeling smug, I point to his camera. “Or are they for your own personal enjoyment?”
See? Asshole juice.
His eyes narrow, little flecks of gold swirling in a sea of espresso. “Are you calling me a pedophile?”
“Are you calling me negligent?”
A tug on the hem of my shirt breaks our stand-off as Preston sneezes and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “I’m okay—”
“Stay out of it!” the perv and I both yell at the same time.
Preston and Sophie back up, their little mouths rounding in matching Os. It’s not until then that I notice everything is deathly quiet. Managing a weak smile, I take in the crowd of onlookers who’ve gathered during my verbal volleyball match with the Ansel Adams protégé standing beside me.
Shit.
The name Laken Cavanaugh doesn’t mean much of anything in this city, but Preston Hammerle is a different story. The last thing I need is some social trash magazine reporting that the Hammerle nanny let the heir apparent get the shit beat of him by a miniature Ronda Rousey while duking it out with her dad on the sidelines. I’ll have to eat a little crow on this one.
But the brawler’s dad beat me to it. Bending down, he holds the little girl’s stare. “Sophie, did you hit this boy?”
She never flinches, her eyes steady on him and her tone flat. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“He went too slow on the slide,” she says, cutting her eyes toward Preston. “Don’t get up there and be a baby.” With dark braids, pale skin, and the apathy of a serial killer, this kid reminds me more of Wednesday Addams than a normal kid.
Hot foreign guy scrubs a hand down his face and groans. “Soph…” Pursing his lips, he shifts his gaze to me, letting his amber eyes settle on my denim shorts before trailing leisurely up my tank top to rest on my face. He seems to be appraising me, taking in every curve of my body and feature of my face.
An unfamiliar warmth spreads through my veins, and I swallow hard.
“Look,” he nods to Preston while still holding my stare. “Sophie didn’t mean any harm. You know how kids are, right? Why don’t I buy you both ice cream to make up for it?”
Preston’s eyes light up like a megawatt microscope behind his glasses “Please? I never get to have ice cream.”
And this is how I get killed.
Because all crime documentaries begin with a young, single woman alone in a park with a strange guy taking pictures of her. She probably isn’t even his kid. This is all most likely a ruse to lure me into the back of a van.
“What do you say?” he repeats with a wink. “That is if you’re okay having ice cream with a reformed pedophile?”
Despite myself, I smile. “Double scoop with sprinkles and I won’t call the cops. But don’t press your luck.”
Grinning a wide smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, he nods to Sophie and tells her to collect their belongings. After bouncing her eyes back and forth between us, she narrows a warning stare at me and regretfully storms off toward the bench.
There are kids who just seem wise beyond their years—old souls trapped in a child’s body. From her hostile reaction, I wonder how many actual souls she’d claimed and trapped inside her.
With the two of us standing there awkwardly staring at each other, he finally extends an arm and holds his hand out by way of a formal greeting. “By the way, I’m Niall Mackay.”
Don’t tell him your name. Donottell him your name.
