“Hey. The De Lucas are nice.”
“You’re biased because Caterina was your only friend in math club.”
It’s true; Caterina De Luca and I were the only girl Mathletes at our high school. I only escaped being teased through every meeting because she took me under her beautiful, designer-clad wing and acted like I was her equal. The boys in math club might’ve been geeks whose best friends were numbers, but they understood what would happen to them if they crossed a De Luca. There were times when I would’ve liked to see it happen, but I was content to have Caterina on my side instead.
They left us alone, and our unlikely friendship blossomed between math quizzes and fangirling over Zac Efron and Tom Holland. Unlikely, because girls like Caterina De Luca are usually cheerleader andMean Girlsmaterial, while girls like me… Are not. For starters, my favorite fashion trend is whatever I can find in the thrift store, and my mom never waited outside high school for me in her Range Rover with limited edition interior and wheels that reach my waist.
Then, as predicted by every high school teacher who knew us, Caterina got to take her math knowledge to college, and I work in a nail salon in town. Last I heard, she was about to graduate with an accounting degree, with half of her CPA exams already passed.
I could’ve gotten into college if I wanted to pay for it myself. But existing seemed more important at the time, and I quite enjoy going to sleep at night with some food in my belly, and a roof over my head. Even if the neighbors upstairs practice their satanic rituals after midnight by stomping around thebedroom until four a.m., and my go-to meal is grilled cheese with pickles.
So, I stayed here in Staten Island. Living in my mom’s basement apartment. Saving tips in a washed-out mayonnaise jar, hoping that someday I’ll be able to do something with the money that doesn’t involve paying bills and maintaining a beaten-up old Ford with a handbrake that moves around like a game controller.
Someday.
“Oh my god, Sara, he’s coming over here!”
I peek at the man through my eyelashes, and it takes everything in me not to gasp.
Heiscoming over here. The butterflies in my chest are checking him out too, and oh boy, do they like what they see.
This guy is tall, taller than he looks from across the salon. Like, so tall that if I was standing up to my full height, even in heels, the top of my head would barely reach his collarbone.
He’s got dark hair that’s buzzed close against his skull, and tattoos that climb up his neck, weaving into his short hair in a way that gives me absolutely no doubt that his head is covered in ink too.
Not that I’ll ever know for sure. Since, you know.
The height and all.
Halle squeaks again and then, like the traitor she is, zooms away on her rolling chair.
For a second, I have no idea what to do. I keep my eyes down, staring at the guy’s shoes.
They’re combat boots. Like the kind that soldiers wear. But there’s a whole lot of dirt and a stain that looks suspiciously like blood on one of them, and I gulp.
“Hey.”
Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
His voice is deep. It rumbles through me in a wave that lights up every nerve ending in my body, and I don’t know how I stop myself from crossing my chest and saying a few Hail Marys at the same time. Not that I ever attend church. Or pray. Or even believe in Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. This guy is the kind of hot giant that would make a gal forget her own name.
I look up. It’s like dragging my eyes up the Empire State Building, all 102 levels.
Christ.
He’s got green eyes.Greeneyes like those pictures you see in brochures of the ocean in Thailand, and Bali, and the Maldives. In a face that looks like heaven and hell got together and decided, hey, you know what, why don’t we make someone who is built like a tank and give him the eyes of an angel. Just to confuse the poor little nail technician a little more.
His lips quirk into a smile, and my stomach practically leaps into his arms. “I’m Romeo.”
Oh, fuck me. His name is sexy too. Or at least it is the way he says it like it’s dripping off the end of his tongue. I wonder if he lives up to the name. I mean, it happens, doesn’t it? Names become part of a person’s persona. For instance, if my mom had named me Angelina, I too might have grown up withperfect cheekbones and a pout that would launch a thousand ships.
He stares at me until I realize he’s waiting for me to give him my name too. “Sara.” The way my voice squeaks is a dead giveaway that he’s doing things to my insides that no one should be able to do fully clothed.
“Sara,” he repeats.
He should be arrested for saying my name like that. Or, if I get arrested for public indecency because I’m throwing off my clothes right here and now, I should at least record it to be used later in my defense.
“I’ve seen you here before,” he rumbles.
