Page 18 of Synced to Us

It’s like a flash of afternoon sky against a dark ocean. My fingers curl over the doorknob.

Wyn looks better today. More like himself with an army green bomber jacket, a basic white tee, and faded jeans ripped at the knees. He’s let his blond hair hang loosely just above his shoulders and frame that cut jaw of his. The strap of a crossbody sports bag hangs across his torso, tightening his shirt against the bumps and ridges of what has to be a six-pack.

His head tilts farther, this time with a disarming smile while he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “You gonna let me in?”

Mortified, I cover up my ogling by snipping, “I need help with my bags.”

Wyn strolls inside, his motorcycle boots clomping as he walks. “Yeesh. Are we going away for two days or a year?”

“Very funny. I can take one. I may need help getting them into the trunk, though.”

Wyn cocks a brow. “Trunk?”

“Yeah. You know, that storage thing at the back of a transport vehicle.”

Another amused grin. “Sarcasm noted. But we’re not using a trunk. Or a car.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re taking the train.”

“We’re…” I place my hands on my hips. “What?”

“You know, that place with a station where you hop onto a passenger car that goes toot toot! when it leaves.” He even jerks his arm in an old-timey conductor motion.

I glower at him, then say, “Why didn’t you tell me?” I haven’t taken the train since my first year in Manhattan when I could barely scrape together instant ramen and a Metrocard. “I could’ve hired a company one or we could’ve rented an SUV for the weekend.”

“I’ve always taken the Metro-North, and besides, I like the train.”

I check my thin, white gold Rolex. “But it’s rush hour. On a Friday. Before the weekend.”

“Exactly.” Wyn hauls both suitcases against his sides like they’re full of inflated balloons. “We better hurry if we want a seat.”

“But I—”

Wyn’s already out the door.

“Subway, first!” he calls behind him. “You were just telling me I gotta save money where I can. Unless your elitist ass can’t handle brushing up against us common folk.”

Oh my God, I think dully as I grab my tote, heave it against my shoulder, and shut the door behind me. “Like you have any idea who I am or where I’ve come from,” I mutter, even though he can’t hear me.

The automatic lock engages, sounding too much like my impending doom.

7

Wyn

The trek into the depths of New York City’s underground subway is decidedly hilarious.

Not for me—I take these stairs like a boss, using Dee’s luggage like bumper cars against the upward flow of commuters who get too close.

My double-wide girth makes it easy to slip to the bottom of the steps, and I assume Dee’s behind me the entire time.

She’s not.

Dee’s clip-clopping down the edge of each step in—what are those, three-inch heels? Jesus.

Pedestrian traffic doesn’t stutter, it merely shifts around her like she’s a tiny river rock in the middle of a burbling creek.

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