Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
A hand closed around my ankle, pulling back.
A shrill sound escaped me—high and feral—as I yanked it back toward my body, then kicked back with everything in me.
I heard a thud behind me.
But the movement had me sprawling down, scraping my chin.
A whimper crept out of me as I got back onto all fours, then pushed up to a crouch.
Then I was running again as I rounded The Pool—possibly the most serene area of Central Park, with its still water and picture-perfect greenery.
I saw flashes of people up ahead, but unfortunately knew better than to expect them to be my savior.
I’d once watched a woman get pushed up against the wall by a stranger, his hand slipping under her shirt as she screamed for help. And people ducked their heads and kept walking. It was the girl’s own instincts—a ruthless knee to the groin—that saved her.
I had to get out of the park.
If I got out of the park, I could find safety.
In a cab. In a restaurant or store.
So I ignored the screaming in my thighs, my lungs feeling like I’d run through a fire, my whole body slick with sweat.
Past the pond.
Up ahead, the tree-lined exit.
I had no idea if the man was still behind me, if he was gaining on me. I just knew I had to get out onto the street.
With one final push, I surged through.
There was no grand gate at the 102nd entrance. No open lawn. Just the park edge buffered by green and a residential street stretching out before me.
I flew forward.
Past a dog walker with two Golden Retrievers who wiggled as I whizzed by.
Then I saw him.
A dozen yards forward at most.
The same dark hair, wide shoulders, great suit, handsome face, stormy blue eyes.
He was turned to look down the street, so he didn’t know I was there until I was right on top of him.
“Blair?” he asked, registering me as I flew behind him, grubby hands grabbing his suit jacket as I hid behind him.
“Someone was following me,” I panted.
“Where?” he asked, stiffening.
“Park,” I gasped, pressing my forehead into his back as I tried to calm my breathing and pulse.
“Do you see him now?” he asked, voice tight.
I didn’t want to look. But I leaned out from behind him, my gaze scanning the streets, looking for the blue shorts, the white tee, the baseball cap.
“No.”
“Okay. Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”
Nico turned, forcing my hands to fall from his jacket.
His blue eyes took me in—wet hair falling out of my ponytail, my face no doubt red and streaked in sweat and dirt.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, hand lifting toward my face, then falling again.
“I fell.”
“Alright. I live right around here. Want to come to my place so I can get you cleaned up?”
I was nodding before I could think better of it.
All I wanted was to be somewhere safe, to get a moment to cool off and calm down.
“Come on, honey,” he said, placing a hand at the small of my back, but not actually touching me. “I’m around the corner.”
He led me toward a towering luxury apartment building, and we rode silently up to the second to last floor.
I would never admit it aloud, but I’d spent more time than was appropriate wondering what the man’s home might look like.
I couldn’t help it.
I was just wired to think of things like aesthetics.
I’d imagined a whole art deco decorated apartment for the man who rang me up at the bookstore a few weeks back.
I had imagined something sleek, modern, maybe having a bit of a little bachelor pad aesthetic.
I was pleasantly surprised to find his place was a masterclass in timeless masculine elegance.
His living room was color-drenched in a dark true gray that he paired with warm brown leather couches and chairs, and lighter-colored herringbone hardwood floors.
The living area melted into the kitchen that featured black cabinets and exposed brick walls.
The whole space was effortlessly classy.
Much like the man himself.
I didn’t love his art. But I had to admit that it suited the color scheme and seemed to be originals, not mass-produced prints, which was nice.
“Come on. Let’s wash those hands,” Nico said, leading me over toward the sink.
He moved behind me, trapping me with his big body as he reached around me to get the water warm, then pulled my hands under the stream.
I flinched at the sting but didn’t pull my hands from his as he carefully applied soap, then rolled pieces of pebbles out of the cuts.
“Here, sit,” he said, pulling out an island seat and pressing me into it. He handed me paper towels for my hands. “I’m just going to get my first aid kit.”
He came back and gently coated my palms in antibiotic cream, then cleaned and treated my chin.
Finished with that, he cleaned up. Then brought me a glass of water and a bottle of a blue sports drink.