Page 4 of One Christmas Night With You
“Oh my god, it’s you.” She gasps.
“Me?” I ask, my tone confused.
“You, you stole my cab.”
I scrunch my nose and shake my head. “I have never met you in my life,” I say, trying to remember if I have indeed met this woman before, but I feel like I’d remember.
“Earlier today, you slammed into me with your big muscles and ruined my purse.” She holds up a black purse, and I wince. Oh shit, I do remember her.
“I’m sorry about the purse, but I didn’t steal your cab.”
“You did,” she says sternly.
“I didn’t,” I answer back like a petulant child.
“Look, I’m having a day, please don’t add to it. Just admit you were wrong, and we can move on.” She slams her takeout cup on the table in front of me.
Oh, and she’s a brat.
Something about that excites me, and it shouldn’t, because it’s clear there is quite the age gap between us.
“We are all having a day, princess. Doesn’t give you the right to be an inconsiderate brat, and no, I won’t apologize. That cab was fair game,” I grumble.
I wince at my rudeness. I am better than this, but after today, my patience is thin.
She chokes out a laugh. “Excuse me. What did you just call me?” She folds her arms across her chest and pouts, proving my point further: this girl is a spoiled brat.
“Excuse me, miss, I need to get to my seat,” a male voice shouts from further down the carriage. The girl looks over and glares.
“I called you a brat because you’re being one. Now, go sit down. You are blocking the aisle.”
“I would if some jackass wasn’t sitting in my seat.”
“Who’s the jackass?” I ask, looking round the carriage.
“You,” she says, pointing at me. “I booked this seat, and you’re in it.
“You can’t book these seats,” I say with irritation in my voice.
“It’s first class. Yes, you can. Now move or be moved.”
“Are you threatening me,” I ask, giving her a challenging stare, and when she gives me one back, something ignites inside of me. I like the way this girl stands her ground, even if she is irritating the hell out of me.
“Maybe,” she says, straightening her spine.
“You’re the size of a Polly Pocket; what are you going to do?” I say humor lacing my tone.
“Girlie, move your ass. Some of us want to take a seat this side of Christmas,” the guy yells again.
She startles as the train pulls away from the station, her hot coffee splashing into my lap.
“Son of a bitch,” I yell. “Watch what you are doing, woman.” I swipe my hands over my now-wet black jeans. Yeah, she needs to go.
“Move,” she says, waving her hands, gesturing for me to shuffle over.
“Has no one taught you manners?” I mumble as I reluctantly move to the next seat, so I am now pressed against the window. At 6ft 5 with a broad chest, I am a big guy, which is why I picked an aisle seat.
“Has anyone taught you?” She’s quick to say back as she takes the seat next to me.
