Grouch-face studied me carefully; then instead of introducing himself like any other person would, the bastard picked up his paper and began to read. Not that I needed to make friends or anything, but one minute he was giving me dating advice, and the next he was ignoring me? That didn’t cut it with me.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”
He remained silent while the train sped onward, getting closer and closer to my destination. Dammit, MTA. Why couldn’t you be more predictable and have train traffic now like every other morning? What happened to those inexplicable delays in the tunnels when you needed them most? As much as I couldn’t afford to be late, I wanted more time with Grouch-face.
“Why?” he asked.
If I didn’t believe that violence solved nothing, I’d have punched him.
I gritted my teeth. “Common courtesy. I told you my name. You tell me yours. That’s how it goes.”
“Only if I want it to.”
He was entirely too casual for my liking. That calm, measured tone only pissed me off more. As such, I wanted to rile him up, so I leaned in closer, touching my shoulder to his. “Why don’t you want to?” I murmured in my most seductive voice. “Are you afraid?”
He turned his face so we were almost nose to nose, and I could’ve swooned at the proximity of his mouth. His lips were so full. So luscious. I imagined biting on the bottom one, sucking it into my mouth. He smelled good, too. I caught a hint of cinnamon and vanilla that made my mouth water to taste and lick him. Those big baby blues, so fiery earlier, now narrowed to slits and shined cold with disdain. Then he jerked away.
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“That’s a lie.” I shifted in my seat, pretending the train moved me closer to him. “You’re scared of me.”
“You’re delusional. Why would I be scared of you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you need to ask yourself that.”
“There’s nothing to think about,” he forced out.
My smile was slow. “Oh, yeah? Then why do you get so…worked up whenever I get personal?” I licked my lips, deliberately egging him on, but I couldn’t help it. If he wanted to move seats, he could. It was a free train. Okay, not really, but the point was, Grouch-face could sit wherever he wanted. He got on before me. He didn’t have to pick the same two-seater as last time.
“I’m not worked up,” he snapped.
I busted out laughing. “Now who’s being delusional? If you were clenched any tighter, you’d need a tetanus shot for lockjaw.” For good measure, I decided to lay it on thick. “And tight is only good in certain situations. Know what I mean?”
There was no mistaking the blaze of lust in those eyes, but he refused to back down. “No. And I don’t want to.” He picked up the paper again just as the train ground to a halt. “By the way, if you don’t leave now, you’ll miss your stop.”
Damn him and his nonchalance. My surprisingly wobbly legs managed to carry me out of my seat and onto the platform. Needing a breather, I leaned against the filthy pillar, something I never did, but today it couldn’t be helped. As the train pulled away, I peered into the car to see my seatmate staring at me through the grimy window, only to hastily retrieve his paper and stick his face between the pages.
Well, well. I’ll figure you out yet, my pretty.
I left the station and joined the streaming masses on Seventh Avenue, running around the slow-walking tourists and early-morning commuters. I refused to be late two days in a row. My manager, Wesley, might appreciate me because I was one of the highest-selling sales associates in menswear, but I wasn’t about to take our relationship for granted, and with two minutes to spare, I clocked in. A quick pee and a touch-up of my hair in the mirror, and I hustled out to my register.
A few years earlier, they’d reimagined the entire men’s section, and I loved working in the brand-new space. I worked on the mezzanine in the Designer and Contemporary Collection, and my discount allowed me first access to sales, plus a chance to cozy up to buyers and sometimes get invited to soft openings, fashion shows, and boutiques. I happily accepted the clothes they sometimes gifted me, which I hoarded like a miser.
“Ethan, how are you? No train problems today?” Wesley greeted me with a pat on my shoulder. “Looking spiffy. Is that Hugo Boss?”
“Yes. Several years old, but it’s holding up pretty well.”
“But the tie is new, isn’t it?”
I smoothed my hand over the thick, silk fabric. “Yes.” I sighed with reverence. “It’s Gucci. I got it a while ago. I took a trip to Woodbury Common and bought five—I couldn’t resist. Saved for six months and ate peanut-butter sandwiches, but it was worth it.”
“She’s a beauty. Can’t wait to see the others.”
He might not be so anxious if he knew there was a method to my madness. I’d been with Wesley for four years, and though he was a great manager and taught me about the business, I was ready to move on, preferably to one of the designer collections. Gucci would be my first choice, but I would take any of the high-end designers—Vuitton, Dior, Saint Laurent. There would be a pay increase as well as a higher commission rate. I had bigger plans than being a salesperson—not that there was anything wrong with it, but I wanted to do more than sell. I wanted to influence how men looked. Despite what Grouch-face thought, I had a business degree in fashion marketing from FIT, and my ultimate goal was to be a buyer for luxury menswear. I lived in the boutiques on the weekends and was a fast learner.
“I’m hoarding them. Can’t afford to put all the goodies out for show at once.” We were heading into a big sale, and it would be chaotic as hell once the doors opened. “What’s today looking like?” Normally I enjoyed the rush and buzz of the customers, but today my mind was still on the Uptown 2 train as I straightened and poofed out a table of cotton sweaters. I restacked the bright colors in the front. Men didn’t always have to dress in brown and beige—a nice, bright blue or green could do wonders. Take Grouch-face, for example. He wore a plain navy suit with a white shirt. Even the expensive tie couldn’t save it from being…boring. If I could style his wardrobe, I’d liven him up.
Who are you kidding? You want to undress him.
How many stops past mine did he travel? Did he transfer cross-town at 42nd or work on the West Side? Why did he keep asking me about Oscar if he didn’t want to talk?
“Ethan? Did you hear a word I said?”
“Huh? Oh, sorry. I was…thinking. What did you say?”
Wesley’s smile was indulgent. “Late night? Did you and Oscar kiss and make up?”
I scowled. “What? No way. I told you we broke up.”
“Oh. I thought maybe you’d reconsidered.” Wesley sounded surprised by the strength of my denial. When I initially discovered Oscar had cheated, I’d poured my heart out to him about how devastated I was and how much I loved him. Wesley must have assumed I’d be willing to try again.
“Why would I?”
“You were together a long time. People make mistakes. And sometimes if you love someone hard enough, they can be forgiven.”
Dismayed, I stared at him, my hands twisting a beautiful sweater. “Forgiven? I never cheated on him. It never crossed my mind. Oscar meant everything to me.”