Page 5 of Two days, One Pucking Night
“You’re either a thief or a pervert.” She stops directly in front of me without even an ounce of fear and peers down at me.
Her eyes darken, and specs of gold appear in her irises. I suck in a sharp breath, realizing her eyes aren’t green but hazel.
The air rushes out of my lungs as I do another sweep of her face and body. The braces have gone. The long mane of wild, curly hair is nowhere to be seen. And those eyes, I know them. I’ve stared into similar ones for over a decade.
No way.
No fucking way, this is Sofia.
2
SOFIA
I’m sick and tired of being manhandled and told what to do. I hate it when my family does it, and I especially hate it when strangers do it.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?”
I peer down at the tall, hooded male figure on the ground, a flicker of a smile plastered on the small glimpse of his full lips and flashing white teeth. His deep, baritone voice brushes against my skin with an unknown warmth and familiarity, seeping into every pore and setting off a shrill, rasping feeling that makes goosebumps rise over my whole body.
“No, I don’t. And I don’t care to know either.”
Though his face is cloaked under a blue hoodie, the evidence of his discipline is clear as day through his sinewy arms and massive, sculpted body. The type and build I know can only be built by athletes on the court or ring. I should know. My dating life is haunted by the ghost of my athlete boyfriend’s past and satirized by my brother’s job as an infamous NHL player.
Mr. Blue Hoodie grunts, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Minus his hold over his crutch, he seems unphased, intrigued, amused even.
I stare at him long and hard and conclude that maybe, just maybe, I might have made a mistake. Perhaps misjudged him. Even worse, I might have overreacted by kicking him in the balls. But the last thing I want is for him to know that. For all I know, there could be something seriously wrong with him. Unless you’re Bruce Wayne, I mean, who casually strolls through the children’s park in the evening and goes about saving women from thieves?
“This cannot be happening,” he mutters under his breath, one hand placed over his crotch and the other on the ground, balancing his gladiator physique.
I bite back the sharp retort sitting on the tip of my tongue: Yes—yes, this is happening.
“You do … martial arts?” He grunts, lowering his head.
My fingers twitch with the need to drag that hoodie off and see what’s underneath.
“Boxing,” I respond out of habit.
A low groan follows.
I'm not sure if it’s because he is in pain or he’s genuinely taken aback by my response. I fail to add that I do boxing for fitness and fun rather than combat. It's one of the few areas in my life where I can exercise some type of autonomy. My disciplined steps, sharp movements, and swift motions were developed from the countless self-defense classes I was forced to attend.
I strap my Jacques bag over my shoulder, rummage through it, and take out the small personal defense spray I bought at the airport, just in case.
Mr. Blue Hoodie grumbles, cursing under his breath as he slowly rises to his feet. I catch the moment the overhead light from the tree hits his eye—blue with embers of gold and quartz. Sharp, smoldering, intense.
His eyes fall on my hand, and his mouth contorts into a stern grimace. “Seriously, put that thing away. I’m not a pervert, woman.”
I arch my brow.
“Or a thief. What is wrong with you?”
Damn, he is huge. I take a few steps back and swallow, hating my body’s reaction to his physique. I’ve always been a sucker for the tall, dark-haired, muscular, athletic types, and even though I’ve sworn off them this summer, my body hasn’t caught up with the memo.
“Sounds like something a thief or a pervert would say.” My eyes continue to rove over his body, ogling him far longer than I should.
I should leave. I’ve made my point pretty clear, but for some reason, I can’t seem to get my body to. A devious smile stretches his lips, and his eyes glint with awareness as if he can read through my bullshit.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and without looking, I know it’s my mom, ready to remind me how much of a failure and disappointment I am. I ignore it, not yet ready to deal with the emotional blackmail that will ensue. I know I will inevitably have to face her wrath, especially since I left for London with only a scrambled note on my bed:
