Page 7 of Wingwoman
“Dad, I saidmaybe—”
“Thanks, Lovebug. She’s going to be thrilled.”
“Dad! I didn’t say yes yet!” But he had already disconnected the call. I sighed, looking up at the orange streaked sky. That was one thing I had to give the state of Texas over New York. Its sunsets were incredible
I hiked the grocery bags higher onto my arms, starting to walk up the cement path toward my front door as the bottom of the heaviest bag gave out, scattering my eggs, cheese, and deli meats across the sidewalk outside of my dad’s apartment.
“Son of a bitch!” I cursed, clamping the almond milk against my thigh and rescuing it from the same ill fate as the eggs.
“Here, let me,” a low, gravelly voice said from behind me.
I thought I’d been alone in the parking lot in front of my dad’s condo. In fact, I was certain of it. I never pull in somewhere without checking my surroundings and yet, there was a man so close behind me that I could smell the minty gum on his breath.
Panic clenched jaw, my heart racing as basic instinct took over. I screamed and without thinking, swung the almond milk behind me, connecting the carton square with the stranger’s jaw.
The cardboard container split. Almond milk rained down the man’s face and shirt, some of which sprinkled onto me. But the milk container wasn’t the only thing to bust open.
When my breathing slowed and my heart rate returned to normal, I blinked and the man in front of me came into my vision.
It was Josh Gabriel.
The singer.
The man from the bar two nights ago.
“What the fuck!?” he shouted, his hand covering a bleeding, split lip.
Well, hell. Who knew I had such a strong right hook?
“Oh my God.” The nearly empty carton slipped from my fingers as I covered my own mouth in horror. “I’m so sorry… you–you scared me.”
He took a step back and away from me as I tried to hand him a napkin from my purse.
“I-I can be a little jumpy. I’m so sorry…”
“A little jumpy? You went Tarantino on my ass.” I cringed. Yep, note to self… a milk carton can draw blood in a pinch.
“On the upside,” I said, “it's good to know all those cardio kickboxing classes I’m taking are good for more than just a tight ass.”
A smile twitched from behind his hand, still pressed to his mouth. Thank God he was smiling. Some semblance of a smile, at least. People in need of an ambulance or a lawyer don’t tend to crack smiles. “Are you okay?” I asked.
He sighed, pulling his hand away from his lip and inspecting the crimson blood staining his fingertips. “I think I’ll live.” Then his attention moved down to his shirt, which was saturated with almond milk. “My shirt on the other hand…”
“Send me the bill for the dry-cleaning,” I said. But as I stood there apologizing amidst my scattered groceries, my gaze jerked back to Josh’s.
Wait a minute. Whatwashe doing here? There was no way a major pop star and country singer lived in the same mid-level condo community as my father.
A sudden fear clutched my chest and once again, my heart thrummed as I dove a hand into my purse, clutching my keys. These bad boys could draw more blood than a milk carton, that was for sure. “What are you doing here?” I asked suspiciously and peered around the empty sidewalk, looking for signs of anyone else who may be able to help me or hear me scream.
He didn’t seem to notice the shift in my demeanor, which was good. That could work to my advantage. Instead, he was unbuttoning his shirt, one pearlized button at a time. Then he slid the saturated material off his tanned, flexed shoulders. I swallowed hard, my muscles clenching into a bundled knot of nerves.
Good. God. That was a lot of muscles.
Tanned muscles.
Flexing muscles.
Gulp.
