Page 2 of Stuck-Up Big Shot
A kiss he seems to have forgotten. And I’m a woman he doesn’t even remember.
Even with this weird and unexpected reunion, my heart strums wildly in my chest and out of control at the sight of Miles in the doorway.
Holy smokes.
Did I hit my head harder than I thought? Because why else would Miles have materialized in front of me out of the blue, as if I’ve just conjured him out of my dreams?
What in the world is he doing here?
Although his appearance doesn’t suggest it, maybe he’s with the fire department sent to rescue me. Like the way he rescued me from that tree so many years earlier.
“Button, how in the hell did you get that far up there?” Miles’s tone is a mixture of amusement, disapproval, and maybe even a little pride, considering the height of which I’ve climbed the big oak tree on the Crispin’s front yard.
I grasp tightly to the limb, afraid to look down, but also not wanting Miles to know I’m a scaredy-cat. He would tease me mercilessly for days, maybe weeks to come. As do boys his age to little girls nearly six years their junior. It’s the way of the world. As a skinny, brace-faced, skinned-knee twelve-year-old, I’m just an invisible pest to the hometown hero, Miles Thatcher.
Everyone in town worships him, as do I, which makes this an impossibly embarrassing predicament to be stuck in a tree while Miles and his sister, Mel, look on from ten feet below.
“Are you stuck up there, Button? Need my help?”
His loud bark breaks through my teenage memories, splintering them to pieces like broken glass. “Who the hell are you?”
2
Sutton
Blackie choosesthis moment to bark, and it draws my attention down to the hysterical white fur ball in my arms. Or maybe I’m the one that’s hysterical. I mean, I’m standing in front of my teenage crush in my summer pajamas as an alarm sounds in an unfamiliar apartment hallway.
Or perhaps it’s just the alarm bells I hear in my own head at the sight of Miles.
I stand in silent awe, confusion etched in my brows and a gaping mouth, about to respond to his question. But he doesn’t seem to have time for my idiotic behavior.
“Never mind,” Miles grunts impatiently, peering around me to check to see if anyone else is in the apartment. “We need to get out of here. Are Graham and Soraya here with you?”
I stare blankly back at him until he extends an arm and grabs me, clasping his warm hand around my wrist where the robe loops over, precariously dangling there. I catch it just as it slips, and he tugs me forward, my feet tripping over themselves to keep up. The door swings shut behind us as I follow Miles, his strides long and purposeful, hellbent on getting out of here and to safety.
A few other occupants emerge from their apartments, Miles nodding after them, but remaining quiet and singularly focused. If he notices that his hand is still glued to my arm and I’m having to take three steps for every one of his, he doesn’t show it. He just continues down the corridor and around the corner to the stairwell markedExit.
Aha—so that’s where it is! A coat of relief settles over the panic that’s been pushing through my bloodstream for the last five minutes.
Miles bursts through the heavy door into the stairwell, now crowded with bodies, most dressed in their bedtime attire, as we descend the seven flights of stairs before pushing through to the exterior street-level exit at the back of the building.
We exit into a very crowded alleyway, where people of all age groups congregate and mill about, some chatting or in frantic tears, some on their phones, and others looking just plain exhausted. I get corralled to the left, while Miles heads toward the opposite side of the building.
I lose track of him in the crowd and work my way through the maze of people while still holding Blackie in my arms. After rounding the corner, Blackie and I stand in front of the building and take in the scene. The street is now littered with bystanders and gawkers, fire engines sit parked along at the sidewalk, and the fire crew works to assess the situation.
I shiver out of shock, not chill, and crane my neck to see if I can spot Miles again, but he seems to have disappeared entirely. I look down at my appearance and then realize how exposed I am and no longer have the robe I brought with me.
“Miss?” A man’s voice startles me, as I turn to find a large, strapping fireman at my side. “Why don’t you wrap this around you? It’ll help regulate your temperature, which is probably low because of the shock you’re in.”
He hands a blanket to me, which I gratefully accept. In my daze, I try to figure out how I’ll cover myself while still holding Blackie, since I didn’t grab one of the leashes hanging in the hall closet before rushing out. Then I remember that the dog obeys the basic commands of sit, stay, come, fetch, etc., according to the quick description from Graham before he left on vacation. I take a chance and set Blackie down on the ground for a moment, then I crouch down and say, “Sit, Blackie. Stay.”
Pleasantly surprised and relieved that he does what he’s told, I tug the blanket around my shoulders. While still crouched down, I look around the sidewalk, peering through a sea of legs to see if I can find the robe I brought with me. It must’ve slipped off my arm as we moved through the crowd.
Not spotting it anywhere within visual distance, I’m about to pick Blackie back up in my arms, when a red NYFD truck with lights flashing and an earsplitting emergency siren blasting, barrels to a stop on the street next to the sidewalk. The screech of the brakes is loud and spooks my scared little buddy. Blackie slips through my hands and tears off down the sidewalk, through the throng of people milling about.
Just like that, he’s gone in a flash, and I can’t see him anywhere.
“Blackie!” I yell, pushing to a stand and swiveling to search the area. “Blackie, come back!”
