Page 7 of The One Night Dash
I smile. And sweet turns to dangerous.Sofie would be proud.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice all honey. “Next time, I’ll be sure to grow eyes in the back of my head.” I keep my tone all sugar and light, “so I can spot people barreling toward me while they’re taking twenty-seven selfies for the Gram. You know, the ones where you’re trying to look effortlessly gorgeous and tragically bored, smack in the middle of a busy sidewalk, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, oblivious to the fact the rest of us are just trying to exist without becoming unpaid extras in your personal fashion shoot. But hey, as long as you get the shot, right?”
I take a slow step back, glance back down at the coffee-stained garment bag, then look her dead in the eye with a small, polite smile. “Congratulations—you nailed it.” And then I start to turn on my heel, to leave her to figure out if I meant the photo or the mess she just made.
Her mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. And then … “It was your coffee that spilled, not mine!”
I look down and hate—no, hate is too nice a term. I loathe that she is right. Of course it was mine …pfft.
From behind her, a male voice cuts in, deep and familiar enough to send a tiny electric flicker down my spine. “Everything okay here?”
I know that voice.
I turn just enough to see him—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair in messy waves, five o’clock shadow, blue eyes. DashSterling. Hockey god. The guy who once made my freshman-year pulse do Olympic-level gymnastics back in college and still has my thighs clenching on the occasions I attend the Brooklyn Bears home games.
Of course. Of course, the coffee assassin is exactly his type.Lauren 2.0.
“Everything’s fine,” I say quickly, clutching the soggy garment bag tighter, and bolt before he realizes it’s me.
My boots hit the sidewalk in a pass that mimics calm. The kind of steps you took in elementary school when there was a fire drill, but you didn’t know it was a drill, so you took no chances. The closer I get, the faster I walk, because of two things: one, my dress; and two, I will not cry in public again.
Not ever again …
I am past the café, past the florist, past Mr. Hanley and Sir Biscuit—no time to chat—until I reach the blessed brass handle of Pembrooke Books.
Inside, I shut the door, lock it, head to the Domestic Drama’s and Disasters shelves, grab the copy ofMrs. Lillian’s Complete Guide to Stain Removal and Fabric Sorcery, and head for the stairs in the back.
My apartment—my sanctuary—is above the shop. Two creaky flights up, I can peel off these clothes, get my stain-removal arsenal, and maybe scream into a throw pillow. No, scratch that, definitely scream into one.
THREE
DASH
I callKoa as I cut across the crosswalk, garment bag still fresh in my mind, but so is the fact that I just let a sure thing walk away. Hell, I all but pushed her away.
He answers on the second ring. “Sterling. What’s going on?”
“Long story short?” I grin, knowing he’s about to regret asking. “I was at this Ironwood shoot. You know, one of those ‘look hot for the camera’ gigs. Had the full setup—bar, bourbon, and they paired me with that model, Isla.”
“Okay?”
“She’s all over me. Like, for the camera, obviously, but also … not totally necessary for the ad. Hand on my chest, lips close enough I could almost taste her, dragging her nails down my arm. And, at one point, she does this little hip roll, basically dry humping my leg while I’ve got her tucked under my arm like I’m about to haul her off and tear her apart. I mean, it looked believable, but?—”
“You’re on speaker,” Koa snarls, cutting me off.
From the background, Nalani makes a dramatic gagging noise. “Ugh. Do you rehearse this crap, or are you just naturally disturbing?”
I laugh. “What? I’m just setting the stage. Anyway, the plan after the shoot was to go to her place, quick drink, maybe a little more of that hip roll …”
Koa groans. “And instead?”
“We walk out, and I just watched a coffee massacre take out what looked like a brand-new dress, and the victim was Noelle Pembrooke. But before that?—”
Nalani gasps. “Noooo.”
“Isla accidentally body-checked Noelle on Madison Avenue. Coffee everywhere. The garment bag took the brunt of it. Noelle didn’t even look at me, just tore off like she was being chased.”
There’s a pause before Nalani’s voice comes back on, sharper now. “She found the perfect dress, and your hoochie ruined it?”
