Chapter Three

Annabel

I could have died.

Jesus. A renegade bicyclist is the last thing I expected to find barreling through this little soirée we’re having on the sidewalk, but what do I know? I didn’t count on being hired by Marilee North, the crazy, curly-haired, and wild-eyed lady I happened upon within minutes of quitting my last job. She’d looked me up and down, pursed her lips, and asked me where I learned how to sew.

On that machine my mother dragged with us all over the country, if you want to know. My very first lesson was in Patriot, Arizona, when I was seven years old. I didn’t tell that to Marilee, though. I did tell her I’d been sewing forever. Then I pulled open the gray blazer and showed her an example of my proficiency, where I’d neatly handled one of the inner seams without destroying the line of the thing. I don’t have my mother’s machine anymore; she took it with her when she left the last time.

“I can’t guarantee you anything long-term,” she’d said after a beat. “When the rest of the department shows up—”

“Sounds perfect,” I’d said, beaming.

Marilee North didn’t waste a second. She’d clapped her hands. “Okay, great. Help me corral these people before it turns into a disaster.” From the state of her hair, it already was a disaster, but that was neither here nor there.

She left me there on the sidewalk to direct the flow to her, then hurried into the main building via the loading dock to have people sort the crates and racks and boxes into a haphazard order.

It all happened so fast from there.

The bike.

The man.

He was standing on the edge of the sidewalk, eyes narrowed, radiating a kind of heat that seemed totally out of place. What was he doing there? He’s wealthy. He must be. His suit is impeccable. Expensive, by the looks of it.

His suit is next-level. But his face? His face is something to write home about. Penetrating green eyes, chiseled jaw, sandy hair . . . a shiver of pure delight quakes through me at the sight of him.

But the rest of that package? No way. I’m not in it for men who brood like this, who look at me with a fire in their eyes like I’ve done something wrong. I like laughter. I like furious, sexy romps in the nearest bed, love ‘em and leave ‘em. I love ‘em hard, don’t get me wrong, but men have an expiration date, too. Did I mention that? They’re like jobs.

I did not anticipate getting tackled by Expensive Suit. Feeling the warm weight of his muscular arms wrapped around my body, sturdy and sure, sent a thrill soaring through me so powerfully that, frankly, I don’t want to admit it to myself.

“I undoubtedly saved your life,” he shoots back. He glances up and down the sidewalk. Checking for more bikes? He looks me up and down then, and the angry heat in his eyes softens. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I think so.” I give him my most winning smile. “The bike didn’t hit me, after all. You took the brunt of the impact.”

His jaw tightens at the words, and he draws himself up and away. “There wasn’t time to explain.”

“Oh, I’m not—” Those eyes. Those eyes are breathtaking. Green, shot through with sunflower yellow. “I’m not asking for an apology.”

“I’m not apologizing.” His words emerge as a low growl. Even as I bristle—he’s not apologizing? For manhandling me?—his voice awakens something buried deep in my gut, something dark and primal.

“Okay.” I take a big breath and let it out, trying to calm my jangling nerves.

When I open my mouth to speak again, he cuts me off. “If you’re all right, I’ll be going.” He starts to turn away.

His accent is different, somehow. It’s American but not quite. Something is different about him, and curiosity flares in my chest. This beautiful, uptight man is not my type, not my type at all, but I can’t help wanting to know more about him.

“Wait!” I call after him a bit too loudly, but it causes him to turn around. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” A curt nod, and then he’s gone. He might not be my type, but he is the type to fade back into the city. We’ll never cross paths again. The thought sends a bolt of sadness across the back of my neck. Why. Why?

I can’t let him leave without saying one last thing, and before I can stop myself, I’m chasing after him. He’s fast, taking long strides. “Hey. Wait.”

His eyes on me might as well be a spotlight. “We don’t need to do this,” he says sharply. “I didn’t want to witness a fatal accident. That’s all.”

He’s so serious that I can’t take it anymore. “You saved the day, for sure. I thought I should introduce myself. I’m Annabel Forester. I work for”—for Marilee, but the specifics escape me—“the show.”

He nods. “Don’t be so reckless out here.”

I can’t contain the peal of laughter that rings out from my chest. “Don’t be so serious.” Then, because I’m clearly having an out-of-body experience, I reach forward and tap the cut line of his cheek. “Turn that frown upside down, Mystery Man.”

Surprise lights up his face, and the barrier between us, his anger once tense in the air, dissipates. “You’re kidding,” he says, incredulous. “Nobody says things like that.”

“I do.”

“Nobody says things like that to me.”

Oh, so he’s a big dog. “Forgive me, my liege.”

His eyes twinkle, but he won’t allow himself to smile. “This once.”

What is the proper etiquette for this situation? I feel the strangest pressure to know, to do, but I have no idea how to repay a man who saved me from getting clobbered by a speeding bicyclist. I resent being saved, which complicates things. “Can I—buy you a coffee?” I blurt out the question like a buzzer somewhere is about to ring.

“No. Over here. Over here,” Marilee shouts from the top of the loading dock. “Annabel!”

“Repay me with a job well done,” he says. “And try not to attract any more disasters to my hotel.”

I turn away to wave at Marilee, to hold up a finger—one second—and when I turn back, he’s gone.