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CHAPTER1
“Umm, Rocky, I think your computer is having some sort of seizure.”
Glancing up from the pasta on the stove at my roommate Tasha, who is currently pointing at my laptop with a look of great concern, I step over and see the flashing email notification. “Oh, it’s Jackson, looks like he has a new manuscript for me to start working on.” Considering the precarious state of my bank account, the timing is fantastic.
Tasha smiles. “Ooooh, exciting! What’s the title?”
I grimace. “The Virgin and the Minotaur Pirate.” I look up just in time to see Tasha’s jaw drop.
“You’re joking, right?” I don’t think she’s blinked in at least a minute.
“Serious as a heart attack, babe.” I shrug. It’s not the first smutty romance novel I’ve edited since I started working for Jackson, and it certainly won’t be the last. Some of them are actually pretty good, and given my complete and total lack of any company in my own romantic life, I’ll take what I can get.
“Remind me why you do this job again?” she asks. “You’re a talented journalist with a degree from NYU, for Pete’s sake.” Pouring a glass of wine, she hands it to me and then takes a second for herself.
“Because freelance journalism doesn’t bring home the bacon. I’ve become accustomed to a certain lifestyle.” I toast our apartment with my glass, which makes her laugh.
In terms of New York City real estate, our apartment isn’t exactly going to make the cover of any magazines. We share a two-bedroom apartment on the third floor, walk up, on top of a mom and pop Italian restaurant smack dab in the middle of little Italy. Our respective bedrooms have just enough space for a bed and dresser. The closet and desk are shared space, and they are in the living room. The kitchen comes fully equipped with no dishwasher and a café table that seats two, and only two, people. All things considered though, it’s a great place, and it’s something two twenty-five-year-olds can afford.
I met Tasha when I started at NYU. We’ve been best friends ever since. She was pre-law, and I was majoring in communications. We were roommates in the student dorms on campus the first few years before branching out to find this humble abode. I graduated and started working as a freelance journalist, but quickly realized that I would need a more reliable form of income, so now I read manuscripts by day and investigate by night.
I return to the stove and drain the pasta, dumping in a jar of canned sauce. Mrs. Morelli, who owns the restaurant downstairs, would be aghast. I really can cook, I just hate doing it. I split it into bowls while Tasha refills the wine.
“Is everything set up for your mom’s surgery?” I ask.
“Yeah, my brother is picking me up tomorrow morning to take me back to Trenton. The doctor said to expect her needing help for the next two, maybe three weeks.”
“Ok, call me if I can help with anything. I adore your mother, even if she does talk about me in Russian like I’m not in the room.”
Tasha smiles. “Don’t worry, she does that to everyone. She is just trying to set you up with every nice boy she knows is all.”
Maybe I do need to go on a date if Tasha’s extremely conservative mother is trying to be my matchmaker.
CHAPTER2
Groaning, I thrash around my nightstand until I find my phone’s alarm and shut it off. I’m not a morning person on the best of days, and the morning after splitting a bottle of wine is certainly not one of those.
After a few minutes of self-pity, I make my way to the bathroom. I don’t bother to shower, since I’m starting my day with a run anyway. I wash my face and braid my long brown hair down my back. Even though I’ve been in New York for years now, I still haven’t adapted to the cooler weather. As soon as the summer temperatures begin to fall, I start embracing long sleeves and leggings to run in.
Popping my headphones in, I head downstairs and out the back alley. I wave at Gino Morelli unloading supplies from the delivery truck. He’s Mrs. Morelli’s grandson. He smiles and his eyes flash. Tall, with caramel skin and warm brown eyes and a smile that shows off a pair of dimples, everything about him should be attractive. I’ve watched enough girls trip over their own panties when they meet him to know it’s true. For some reason though, he just doesn’t work for me.
Turning the corner, I warm up with a jog before speeding up my pace. I debate internally if I want to go all the way to Central Park today. It’s about five miles each way, more than I usually do. Fuck it, my schedule is light today and I can always catch the subway back if I don’t feel like walking. I let the fast beat of the electronic music blasting in my ears take me away.
I discovered running after my sister’s suicide. I needed to do something, anything, to burn off the anger and hurt I felt. But there is nothing you can do after something like that. I tried going back to Texas to help my parents for a while, but my mother slammed the door in my face. She never stopped blaming me for her death. Sometimes I do too.
I shake my head. Digging up old ghosts does nothing but cause heartache. I relax into the steady pounding of my feet and the thumping music in my ears, drowning out the city around me. Taxi horns vanish, the distant subway sounds disappear. All that’s left is me and my feet and the earth. In my head, there’s nothing. No anxiety, no guilt, no fear, just blankness.
Rounding into the park, I take a minute to rest. Chest up, arms behind my head, breathing in the damp earthy smell, so foreign in the middle of the city that never sleeps. I work through a series of stretches until my pulse is normal and my body has a warm, relaxed glow.
I pull out my phone and see a message from Tasha. She’s safe and sound in Trenton. I start clicking through emails, wandering slowly toward the exit of the park. Face buried into my phone, I don’t notice the brick wall I walk right into.
Tumbled onto my ass, I look up and my jaw hits the ground. The biggest, scariest man I’ve ever seen is standing there, glaring at me. As my gaze travels down, I realize why I thought he was a brick wall—he might as well be. A solid block of muscle from his broad shoulders down, the anger blasting out of his dark blue eyes is enough to melt stone.
“Watch where you’re goin’ next time. Clumsy lass.” His thick Irish accent doesn’t speak so much as command. I’m too shell shocked to be as indignant as I normally would. With one last glare, he turns around and continues his own run.
I watch him go, sprawled out on the wet grass, wondering why I’m equal parts angry, terrified, and turned on.
CHAPTER3
