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1.
Ella-Ashley
Crap. I’m already running late.
And it’s crowded everywhere. There are so many pedestrians out, their faces stern and businesslike. I seem to annoy the heck out of them, as if I’m taking up too much space.
By now, I should be used to the glares. Two years have passed since I exchanged my hometown for the city that never sleeps. But deep down I’m still that small town girl.
I still get scared in the middle of the night when I hear cop cars, I still smile broadly at strangers and I still can’t stand the smell of those roasted nuts they sell at every corner.
Back home we just eat them raw, maybe with a little bit of salt. No fuss, nothing fancy, just straight up like nature intended.
That’s also sort of how I feel in this town:Like nothing fancy.
Letting out a sigh, I make way for a pedestrian carrying a briefcase. He throws me an aggravated glance over his glasses, because I’m not fast enough. Clearly he’s in a hurry and clearly he expects everyone to bow down to him.
As if I don’t have enough on my plate already. I’m both cranky and exhausted which is not a good combination. I haven’t had a chance to take a break and my knees quake from all the erratic errands I’ve been running.
And Frau Falther is going to kill me then serve my head on a silver platter to her snooty guests, at her next dinner party if I don’t get back on time. Yesterday, she lectured me for at least ten minutes because I got her plain yoghurt instead of zero-fat.
It’s impossible to live up to that woman’s standards.
She’s descended from old aristocracy, and has the bizarre habits to prove it. Three times a day, she washes her face with club soda and never leaves the house without putting on all her jewelry just to flaunt her wealth.
Most people find her obnoxious and do their best to ignore her, but as her personal assistant I just have to suck it up. More importantly I need to hurry up, and I decide to take a shortcut through Lincoln Park. I cross the heavily trafficked street, then rush down the staircase and it’s not easy when you’re carrying heap-loads of laundry.
The park’s buzzing with activity. The ice-rink packed with teens and couples in monochrome outfits, sliding on the ice in designer skates.
Tick-tock, tick-tock…Drowning under the weight of dry-cleaned garments, I start jogging. And I’m in heels of all things because Frau Falther doesn’t like women who wear flats. She claims it makes them look sloppy.
But right now, I’d give anything for a pair of sneakers and I regret not sneaking a pair into my purse. Letting out a grunt, I brace myself and start running. People look at me funny, toddlers point at me and dogs bark.
It should be embarrassing, but I’m beyond that.
The sun shines through the spindly trees and the weather’s not exactly warm, but I’m already perspiring in my clothes. I probably look like a tomato in the face and my hair keeps getting in my mouth, sticking to my lipgloss.
Here comes the most frazzled girl in the world…
My heart pounds behind my red trench-coat, my blood pulsing in my ears. I’m too stressed out to pay much attention to my surroundings, and jerk when some madman in tight shorts and a helmet races by on his bike. Shrieking, I whip to the side to avoid getting hit but stumble over a tree root.
I twist my ankle, and bite down on my tongue to not let out a moan of pain.
Everything turns to slow motion as I fall on my back, my hands automatically dropping what I was holding and my head lands on a patch of puny grass. I look up at the naked tree crowns above, thinking I lucked out because I could’ve hit the concrete.
But then I blink, remembering.
The laundry!
I sit up so fast that I go dizzy. A rush of panic comes over me when I notice the laundry is now soiled and filthy. There’s dirt everywhere, brown spots spattered on expensive fabrics. My fingers tremble as I assess the damage and I struggle not to cry when it starts raining.
Really, that too? Isn’t this just my luck? I dig my teeth into my lower lip, telling myself to not bawl like a babe but this is what happens when I get overwhelmed. I immediately resort to tears.
”Whoa, what do we have here?” an amused voice says, slightly tinged with an unusual accent.
I look up, craning my neck to get a good look at the tallest man I’ve ever seen. His physique is out-standing and the tears in my eyes immediately come to a halt. Probably from pure shock. He reminds me of an NFL player or a wrestler, but then I catch the dots of smudged coal on his fingertips. Athletes don’t tend to have those.
And his hairstyle is a little bohemian, the length reaching just above his shoulders and he keeps half of it up and half of it down.
