Page 21 of Synced to Us

It’s ready within minutes. I shimmy away from Dee through the cluster of waiting patrons to grab my goods. Dee hangs out by her luggage.

Coffee and foil-wrapped food in hand, I spin to—

“Oh shit,” I shout.

Dee’s head meets my forearm mid-arc.

Of course, beaning her in the face isn’t enough. No, the coffee lid has to go flying with the force of my smack, and hot liquid splashes all over her arm and shoulder.

She screeches, her hands flying up as she backs away.

“Are you hurt?” I follow her retreat. “Did it burn? What can I do to help?”

“You’ve done enough!” she cries, swiping at her face. “I need to use the bathroom. Where’s the ladies’?”

“No time. Napkins. I need to get napkins. Excuse me!” I bellow to the crowd in order to get through and swipe a wad of tissues.

It takes three Tarzan steps to get back to her and I start dabbing at her face. “Fuck, so sorry. I didn’t think you were so close. I thought you stayed by your luggage.”

“I—” She bats at my hand so she can peel off her jacket, but I can’t help but keep patting her clothes with napkins. “I thought I’d help by taking your food—stop, Wyn—since you were handling my bags, and—Wyn, enough! I got it. I got it.”

She rips the sodden napkins from my hands and dumps her soiled coat over the top of one of her suitcases.

A few drops of coffee have spread on the cream of her blouse, the lace scallops of her bra blooming like a secret garden through the translucent silk.

I clear my throat while fighting my better sense for something else to look at.

“You look fancy,” I say to the offended jacket. “Can I pay for the dry cleaning?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dee brushes her hair back to dab at the stain near her breasts. “It’s fine.”

I figure I’ll do better eyeing the spreading stain on fabric that costs more than my entire outfit than thinking about the soft skin that probably feels better than any of expensive silk covering it. “Really, I can pay.” An announcement sounds, barely making it over the thrum of activity in the concourse. “Shit, that’s our train. We gotta bounce, gorgeous.”

“I’m covered in your coffee. Can’t we—?”

“Nope.” I send her an apologetic look before I hook her through one arm and pull her giant bags along with us.

I half skip, half sprint us to our platform, joining the rush of passengers and gladly using the bulk of Dee’s baggage to push us to the front. Once on the platform, I’m back to the hopscotch shit until we reach a front car.

“Ladies first,” I say while I maneuvering Dee in front of me.

She stumbles from my side, her hair tangled and flying in all directions, her cheeks flushed, and the collar of her silk shirt unbuttoned and stained brown. Dee’s chest heaves, her collarbone glistening with coffee and cream.

I stare at her. Fuck, she’s hot.

“Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for me,” Dee snaps, smoothing back her hair and misreading my dumbfounded expression for thinking that she can’t handle a little roughing up. I’m starting to feel bad about my earlier ‘elitist ass’ comment. Dee was a high-class call girl, but I doubt she just landed at the top. She probably had steel her mind and get her hands dirty in order to get where she is today. That’s no joke.

“I’m fine,” she adds when I don’t stop staring.

“I know you’re fine, gorgeous.”

Her hot chocolate eyes turn molten when they meet mine. I swallow at the impact. Remember to blink.

Dee straightens her shoulders and takes a breath. She lifts her chin and grabs the assisting rail, stepping onto the train with all the grace and confidence of a departing, rumpled-up queen.

I follow her into the aisle, and then nearly barrel into her when she halts.

“Where are the available seats?”

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