I could still feel the stranger’s eyes on me,crawlingall over me, when someone stepped into my line of sight, blocking him completely. A sleeve brushed lightly against mine, close enough for me to notice but not panic. I blinked, startled, and let my eyes drift upward, following the line of a dry-cleaned coat lapel, the faint shadow of stubble along his tense jaw ...
It was him.
That American boy.
The lawyer.
“What, are you stalking me?” I asked quietly as I looked up at him.
He kept his attention down, on me.
“Stalking implies I knew you’d be here,” he replied, annoyed he even had to explain himself. “I didn’t.”
Well, that was disappointing.
I mean, not that I expected some grand declaration of undying obsession from a man who looked like he ironed his shirts twice before leaving the house, but a little intrigue wouldn’t have killed him.
I tugged my coat tighter. “Lucky coincidence then?” I offered dryly.
He nodded slowly. “If anyone here qualifies as a stalker, it’s the guy who called youmami,” he said, almost as if he were annoyed it had happened.
I decided to have fun with it. He had called me a damsel in distress earlier, hadn’t he? Maybe it was petty, but seeing him bothered, even slightly, was oddly satisfying.
“What?” I asked innocently. “I thought he was being sweet.”
His jaw tightened enough to let me know he wasn’t a fan of my answer. “Yeah, sweet. Nothing says romance like unsolicited nicknames.”
I shrugged. “Some girls might call that charming.”
“Some girls,” he repeated. “And which are you?”
I tilted my head, feigning thought. “Oh, I’m the kind who doesn’t need a lawyer to lecture her about subway etiquette. Thanks though.”
The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close. “Subway etiquette. That’s what you’re calling it.”
“What would you call it?”
He glanced toward the hoodie-wearing stranger, now pacing awkwardly at the far end of the platform, pretending very badly he wasn’t staring our way. “I’d call it bad judgment. Yours, mostly.”
“Ouch,” I said softly. “And here I was, thinking lawyers weren’t supposed to judge.”
“Lawyers judge professionally.”
“So does half of New York,” I shot back lightly. “Congratulations. You fit right in.”
He didn’t appreciate my answer—I could tell by the way his eyes fell down the length of my body. He was judging my coat, the leopard-print bag I probably should’ve retired years ago, and my smudged lipstick.
I was a mess, and he knew it.
The silence stretched as if he wanted me to feel it.
Mission accomplished.
The train pulled into the station in a rush of air and noise, breaking whatever awkward tension had settled between us. I stepped into the car quickly, relieved to be swallowed by the crowd. But relief lasted only a second, because a moment later he followed, dropping down into the empty seat right beside mine.
He took up a lot of space too. With his legs spread wide, his knee brushed against mine when the train lurched forward.
Normally, I’d say something—politely at first, then not so politely if the message didn’t land. But with him, I didn’t say anything.
