Stories From The 6 Train 1(37)

I try to ignore the flutter of butterflies taking flight in my stomach. I hate when he does that to me. Thrown off balance by the effect he has on me, I nearly lose my footing on a crack in the sidewalk, the heel of my Manolos catching.

He reaches out to steady me, leaving his hand around my waist for what might be considered a few seconds too long. When he removes it, I can still feel the heat radiating out from where he touched me.

“Yeah, keeping you in line is far from easy. Wish I’d known it was part of the job description,” I joke. It’s nearly difficult as keeping myself in line around him. How I’ve made it through two years working for him keeping my girlish crush to myself is a mystery.

“Ah, you know you love me.” That grin again. Full of mischief. He bumps his shoulder against mine, and I laugh, shaking my head.

We head underground, the crush of the morning commuters all around us. Linc places a hand on the small of my back, searing me yet again. I would think after months of this morning routine I would be immune. Nope. Furthest thing from it.

When I moved into his neighborhood a few months back, he decided to forgo his town car that normally took him to work in favor of taking the 6 Train with me. Said that the walk and the fresh air did him good. And it gave us a head start on the day.

I don’t complain. Even though we’ve always had an easy vibe at work, I feel like these mornings have given me a chance to really get to know him outside of the office. Because even though we’re supposed to be using the time to get ahead of the workday, most of our mornings are spent discussing the Knicks or what happened on our favorite shows the night before. Working for him is a dream anyway, but these mornings? Best part of my day.

We squeeze onto the platform and talk about our favorite draft picks. When the train rushes by, screeching to a stop, we push forward, Linc guiding me on board with a hand on my elbow. Standing room only. Great. My favorite.

Suddenly, raised voices catch my attention as the train lurches forward, and I crane my neck to see what’s going on. Some arrogant businessman is arguing with a woman, and she’s shouting insults and waving a flyer in his face.

I arch my brow at Linc and shrug. Just another day in the city. When we reach the next stop, the same man pushes through angrily, obviously in a hurry to get off the train. He spins to hurl one last remark to the woman, and when he does, his elbow hits my coffee cup, sending milky brown coffee flying from my hand to land smack dab in the center of Linc’s chest.

The shock on his face would almost be comical if it weren’t for the huge stain spreading across what I’m sure is a ridiculously overpriced dress shirt.

“Fuck,” he grits out, glaring at the man. But he’s already off the train.

“Here,” I say, shoving my tablet into his hands. “I’ve got this.”

I dig in my bag for a minute and proudly produce stain-removing wipes, holding them up in front of him as if it’s a winning lottery ticket.

Linc chuckles and shakes his head. “What would I do without you? You’re like a Boy Scout or something.”

“You’d probably be avoiding the train and enjoying the luxury of your fancy chauffeured car. That’s what.” I smile and pull a wipe from the package, hurriedly dabbing at the stain. It’s really not that bad. With any luck, it won’t even be noticeable.

I place my palm flat on his chest, pulling the shirt taut so I can scrub the fabric.

I’m suddenly acutely aware of how close we are. Inches apart, really. I take a deep breath, but that only makes it worse because now I have a lungful of his spicy, musky scent. Shit. My hand shakes as I continue to work on the stain. His gaze bores into me. I can feel it.

“What?” I say, not looking up, my voice nearly as shaky as my hand, and I want to curse whoever that asshole was. There is no way Linc isn’t going to notice the effect he’s having on me right now. The way my fingers are twitching with the urge to dig into his shirt and pull him even closer so I can rub my body all over his.

“I think you’ve got it,” he says. He’s right. I’m still furiously scrubbing a stain that’s no longer there. He drops a casual kiss on my hair, causing me to freeze. “Thanks, Jules. Saving the day yet again.”

I swallow, schooling my face before I look up at him with a too-bright smile. “That’s my job.”

His eyes flicker with something I don’t quite recognize, a sexy smile curving lips that I really want to lick, and I tell myself it’s nothing. The hand that’s back on my lower back, resting oh-so-lightly there as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. The fucking kiss he just dropped like that’s just what we did.