“Where will you take me?” I ask, hand hovering over his.
“Anywhere you want to go.” His response is delivered in a low, husky tone as if he’s imagining an intimate moment. It’s a tone you hear on the beach at the end of a long day spent lazing in the sun and rubbing lotion over your lover. It’s the sound you hear when an invitation is issued to come to bed—and not to sleep.
There is something between us. My eyes widen and I feel the pull, the inexorable pull of the universe drawing me closer. I couldn’t have stopped my feet if I wanted to. And the closer I get to him, the more I realize that he feels it too.
We aren’t strangers. Somewhere, at some point, we must have made a connection and we’re now recognizing it again in this lifetime.
“Hello there,” he says softly, as if we hadn’t spoken moments before. He isn’t saying hello to me. He is acknowledging that there is something special between us.
I’m inches from him, and he’s bending toward me. He’s going to kiss me right here in the street and strangely, wonderfully, weirdly I want to be kissed. New York strangers don't kiss on the street in broad daylight. We don't even make eye contact willingly. We fold up our bodies into tight, compact containers on subways and buses so we can avoid accidental touching.
Yet here I am walking straight into the arms of a guy I would never dream of dating. He's too rich, too polished, too posh for me.
My kind are the worker bees. This guy directs the bees from up high in the clouds. Yet he wants me. I can see it in his eyes, in the way that they've darkened with appreciation and even desire.
“I want—”
“I’ll take that package.” A body muscles swiftly between the stranger and me, breaking our connection. A petite woman with striking red hair plucks the box out of my hands and turns to the stranger. “Ian, why don’t you hold this?” Turning back to me, she asks, “Do you have anything for me to sign?”
I nod and jerkily pull up the app on my smartphone. As she scribbles her name down with her finger, I meet Ian’s gaze over her bent head. It’s like he’s never looked away from me. As if everything he wants is right before him.
Ian. I like it. I like him. Would it be so terrible to take him up on his invitation? To go over to Central Park, take my shoes off, and hold his hand as we walk down one of the wide sidewalks and suck in the fresh spring air. Wouldn’t it be absolutely lovely to check all my problems at the gate of the park and walk inside? We could stroll to the lake and he’d place those lush lips over mine and I could feel how truly soft they were.
We’d kiss for a long time, and then he’d take me to dinner where we wouldn’t eat a thing because we would be too busy talking and laughing and falling in love.
The woman takes the package and goes inside the shop, leaving the two of us alone.
“Is this your last delivery?” he asks. “The invitation to the park is still open, now that you’ve divested yourself of your responsibilities.”
“No.” My one word comes out with real regret because I’m staring down lost opportunity. I can’t go to the park. I can’t forget my responsibilities.
I’m her shield.
“I’m not a fan of that word.” He steps toward me, but the owner of the wig shop has broken the spell. And a good thing, too, because I don’t have time for this man who whips up uncommon wants inside me. I know all too well that sick mothers and men don’t go together. All my energy should be focused on my mother and this minor god is too big of a distraction. Still, even knowing all that, I can’t look away from him.
I hold up my hand to stop him. “Don’t.”
Before he can say another word, I get on my bike as fast as I can and pedal away without a backward glance. There’s a sour taste in my mouth because another time, I would have followed him anywhere.
Chapter 3
“SIGN THIS.” MALCOLM SLIDES ME a piece of paper with lots of words on it. It will take me five years to decipher all the words and he knows it—the punk.
“I'm not signing anything. Give me the package, and I'll deliver it.” I grab for the empty, dull yellow envelope that presumably is the container for these papers my stepbrother wants delivered. For the past four weeks, I’ve transported small packages for him all over the city and several boroughs. I don’t know what’s inside these packages and I hope to keep it that way. Plausible deniability and all that. “By the way, the actor guy that took the big package the other morning looked like he was going to shiv me. Maybe you outta tell your customers that you have a new delivery girl.”