Page 7 of Chasing Danger

Being stared at could be just as bad as being avoided. Some people were weirdly fascinated by my scars and treated them like an invitation to gawk at me like I was a zoo exhibit.

Yet, this man’s stare didn’t feel like that, either. If anything, he made me feel like a work of art, and he was trying to memorize every detail.

It took everything I had not to drop the cup when I finally handed it over.

“Impressive,” the man said when he looked at the cup.

I didn’t even remember making the artwork on top of the drink. My hands had moved automatically, bringing to life whatever image was in my head. I was just as surprised as he was when I looked down at the design. A phoenix. Of course. Whenever my mind was left to wander, my thoughts always returned to fire.

The man smiled. “I knew you were an artist.”

How had he known that?

I hadn’t said anything about it.

Had I?

Since first laying eyes on the man, I barely noticed the words that had spilled out of my mouth. Surely, I wouldn’t have wasted his time by blabbering on about my useless hobby.

When I asked him how he knew, the man made an obviously flirtatious comment about my hands.

Yes, the man was flirting. I wasn’t reading too much into it.

The only question was, why?

He couldn’t actually mean it. Even without my scared face as a deterrent, a man like this would not be interested in me. I was a poor little nobody up to my eyes in debt, and this man radiated power and money. His suit fit him too perfectly. This was not an outfit that he just pulled off the rack. It was obviously designer, and definitely bespoke. He didn’t wear much jewelry, but the few pieces he did wear made a statement. His watch, alone, could probably pay my over the table salary for half a year.

No. A man like this would not be interested in me. He was probably just bored and decided to entertain himself by making me hot under the collar.

So, distracted by my racing thoughts, I tripped over my words and ended up mashing two phrases together in the worst way possible.

“Uh, I mean…” I stuttered as he looked at me with one curious eyebrow cocked at a deadly angle. “You’re welcome. It’s my pleasure.”

There. That was two full sentences I’d managed to say without messing anything up. I wasn’t a complete embarrassment.

His eyes practically glowed with inner heat as he looked me up and down. “Not yet, it’s not.”

Then, with a few casual Italian words tossed in amongst his English, he disappeared out the door.

Not yet?

What was that supposed to mean?

Did it actually mean anything, or was he just being cryptic for the sake of it?

I stood behind the counter, dazed and confused from the whirlwind interaction, until my phone alarm shocked me back into action.

Fuck.

If I didn’t hurry, I was going to miss my bus.

Rushing through the rest of the clean up, I ran down the street after locking the door behind me.

I could not afford to be late. Not today.

CHAPTER 5

D’Angelo

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