Page 11 of City of Love

I nod, and I try to stop crying; I really do. Because I’m not a crier. I’m more of a doer. If there’s a problem, I don’t cry about it; sometimes I get angry first, but usually I just get to work fixing it. But today seems to have done me in, what with being lost and jet-lagged and phoneless.

Plus, you know, the fact that my uterus is staging a bloody revolt. Cramps are the worst.

I managed to get a taxi at the station, but I’m 99 percent sure the driver overcharged me. I’m just glad he let me use a card, because all I have currently is American cash. I managed to convey the address to him—I didn’t even try to speak English, because from what I’ve heard that’s a good way to annoy the locals—but either I misspoke or I misremembered, because this apartment does not belong to my pen pal. Which makes me feel like a complete idiot.

Especially because my guess is that my French wasn’t good enough for the driver to understand.

I’d be lying if I said Marcus’s words aren’t still swirling around in my head, too. They get louder when I step into the bathroom—which consists of a toilet, a shower no more than three feet by three feet, and a tiny pedestal sink—and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the little mirror. I just stare at myself in horror for a second.

My mascara has its own zip code on my cheeks and around my eyes; I look like a drowned, deranged raccoon. My nose is red from crying, and my hair is plastered to my head. I’m a total mess.

Again I hear Marcus’s voice in my head.No one but me will ever want you. You know that, don’t you?

When I see myself like this, it’s easier to believe him.

The first thing I do is rub down my wet clothes. I wish I could dry them somehow, but that would involve taking them off and borrowing something from this man. I’m not going to strip in a stranger’s apartment, and I’m not going to go commando under another man’s pants, either—which I’d have to do if I wanted to dry my underwear. I have limits. So I’m just going to have to use the towel. There would be barely enough room in this bathroom to undress anyway.

My jean shorts are stuck to me like plaster, uncomfortable and stiff, but my shirt is loose enough that I’m able to pull it away from my body and wring it out. It stretches the neckline a bit, but what’s done is done, I guess. Once I’ve finished that, I go to work on my hair. I do my best to towel it dry before forcing my brush through the tangles. It hurts, because the brush from my purse is one of those hard ones that folds in half, but it’s better than nothing.

Once I’m cleaned up, I look my reflection in the eye and begin a pep talk. I’m a master at pep talks. I give them to anyone and everyone—Jade, Mina, Cohen, even Noel.

“You’ve got this,” I say to my reflection. “You’re intelligent and resourceful. Your situation is sucky, but this isn’t the first time you’ve been in a sucky situation, and it won’t be the last. Someday you’ll look back on this and laugh. You’ll tell Jade and Mina and Noel, and they’ll laugh along with you. All you have to do now is go out there, talk to that guy, and get out of here. That’s it. Easy. You know how to talk to strangers. So forget Marcus, forget being embarrassed, and focus on what matters.”

By the end of my speech, my voice has risen from a whisper to a firm rebuke, and I’m jabbing my finger at myself in the mirror. The pep talk is, granted, less effective when I have to give it to myself, but it still works well enough to let me take a few deep breaths. I eye myself in the mirror briefly before pulling a tube of mascara out of my purse, applying enough of it to darken my lashes, which are the same dusty brown as my hair. I need my power lashes.

After this I take care of my lady business. Then I clear my throat, straighten up, and exit the bathroom with my head held high. I’m going to fix this situation.

I’m immediately greeted by the sight of Mr. Grump leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door, muscular arms folded over his chest, frown firmly in place. His somewhat rough exterior doesn’t detract from his handsomeness. He has thick, dark hair with just a bit of wave, or maybe curl, and I can see a bit of scruff starting to appear. I strangely even appreciate the tattoos I see—one of which crawls up the side of his neck from beneath his neckline, the others forming a barely visible sleeve above his left elbow.Normally tattoos aren’t my thing, but somehow on him they just seem extra masculine.

“Were you talking to yourself?” he says, and I pull my eyes away from his tattoos. He asks without any hint of emotion, leaving me guessing about whether he thinks I’m weird or just insane.

I swallow. “Yes. I was giving myself a pep talk.”

“Of course,” he says sardonically, nodding. His eyes leave mine and travel the length of my body before coming back to my gaze. “Did it work?”

“Well enough,” I say.

Mr. Grump looks at me, nodding again. Then his eyes narrow as he appears to look more closely at my face. “Did—did you put on more makeup?”

I don’t bother hiding my exasperation. “Yes. What’s it to you?”

His frown shows his confusion, or maybe it just shows that he thinks I’m an idiot. “But what if you start crying again?” he says.

Way to call me out.

But I don’t mention his rudeness. “I won’t,” I say. My voice is so firm, so decisive, that I believe it completely.

Mr. Grump pushes off the wall and takes a few steps toward me, his head tilting, his eyes betraying a hint of curiosity. One lock of dark, wavy hair falls over his eyes. I watch with apprehension as he speaks again.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he says, but it’s more of a statement than a question.

I shrug. “Very,” I say. And I am. I’m done crying. It’s time to focus on the solution rather than the problem.

He just looks at me for a second before giving a quick nod. “Good,” he says. “Let’s get you a glass of water for the medicine.” Gone is the brief curiosity and the gentleness from before; the no-nonsense attitude is now firmly back in place. “In the meantime, sit”—he points to the futon—“and touch nothing.”

“You want me to sit? I’m still all damp,” I say, eyeing him skeptically.

“Better sitting where I can see you than sneaking around,” he says darkly.

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