The late-morning sun glinted off the tops of yellow cabs and high-rise windows like a thousand judgmental spotlights. Kiki ducked her head and shouldered through the stream of pedestrians, muttering curses like a half-baked witch trying to reverse a hex.
“Men are the worst,” she muttered as a Wall Street wannabe nearly clipped her with his briefcase. “All ego, testosterone, and surprise kisses that I didn’t ask for. Ohhh, let me kiss you. Like he hasn’t kissed a thousand other women! He’d better not have cooties.”
The last part came out sharper than she intended, drawing a curious glance from a woman dragging a toddler and sipping a unicorn-colored latte. Kiki tugged the hood of her faded blue sweatshirt up over her curls and scowled, as if that could make her invisible. Fat chance.
Her thoughts had been spinning all night like a squirrel on too much caffeine. After The Kiss—capital T, capital K—she’d stood frozen in her apartment like someone had hit pause on her entire existence. Lips tingling. Heart racing. Brain… fried.
Thank goodness Ms. Peabody had yowled like she was summoning the dead, snapping her out of her trance. She’d then wolfeddown her microwaved chicken tikka dish with all the grace of a feral raccoon before collapsing in front of her laptop to do what any sane, rational woman would do after being kissed by a stranger who looked like a Greek god and acted like a smug thundercloud.
She’d researched him on the web.
And oh, boy, had that been a mistake.
“Man-whore,” she muttered as she skirted a group of tourists gawking at a street performer. “An international man-whore with commitment issues and a body that should be illegal.”
According to the search results—and about forty-seven glossy tabloid photos—Nikos Aeto had more women in his dating history than she had mismatched socks in her laundry basket.
Supermodels. Heiresses. Actresses. A sheikh’s daughter. Maybe even a duchess. And not one, buttwowomen with the last name Contessa! All of them looked like they’d just walked off a runway or a Photoshop editing table.
She glanced down at her own outfit. Hoodie. Jeans. A ketchup stain she was ninety percent sure was from last week’s grilled cheese and fries.
Maybe I should’ve washed it,she mused, then dismissed the idea.
There was no chance of him falling for her, which was fine. She wasn’t remotely his type. She wasn’t even on the same planet as the women he usually dated. Hell, she was a different species entirely from the general population.
“It’s just a blip,” she told herself firmly. “Just a weird Matrix-style glitch. A revenge kiss for slamming the door in his face. He’ll ghost. Or I’ll ghost. Everyone will ghost, and we’ll all be happy.”
She paused at a crosswalk, exhaling as loneliness pierced her. Her gaze flicked to the sky. The clouds were thick and rolling, heavy with that September chill that hinted fall was coming but hadn’t quite committed. Wind curled around her like ghostly fingers, tugging at thehem of her hoodie. There were more important things in the world than some guy.
Two more weeks. That’s when she and Brie would make contact again. Maybe they could meet up. After all, it had been more than a year since they’d faced their last threat.
Her throat tightened, the city’s noise fading into a dull, distant hum. She was counting down the minutes until she could hear her best friend’s voice again. Until she could laugh and joke and pretend they weren’t both fugitives from a world that would never understand them, much less accept them. Until she could exhale without watching every shadow for danger—at least for a few minutes.
“It’s safer to be alone, but maybe…” The words were barely a whisper, carried away on a gust of frigid air.
Kiki shoved her hands deep into her pockets, curling her fingers into fists. She wasn’t a victim. Those days were long past. She wasn’t some scared kid hiding in the dark. She was?—
“—a freaking superhero,” she muttered. “A weird, potentially unstable, totally unfashionable superhero, but still a superhero.”
If the creeps ever found her again, she wouldn’t run.
She’d roast them.
She’d throw lightning.
She’d quote Samuel L. Jackson and go full Avenger on their asses.
Okay, maybe notallthat—but she could still do a lot they didn’t know about. Those hidden skills, along with some unexpected luck, had enabled her and Brie to escape—and stay one step ahead of them.
The ache of Brie’s absence pressed against her ribs like an old bruise. They should’ve been doing this together—navigating city streets, griping about men, and hexing the occasional rude barista. Instead, Kiki was weaving through Manhattan like a caffeine-starved goblin to go on a blind date with an egomaniac who probably owned a yacht namedCosmic Orgasmor something justas stupid.
She shot a glare at a jogger who nearly elbowed her, then darted between two slow-moving strollers and turned the corner onto the café’s block.
Almost there.
“You’ve got this,” she whispered, trying to shake off the nerves now skittering through her like a swarm of ants. “It’s just four hours. Maybe less. Maybe he won’t show up at all, and I can fake disappointment to Harvey and Jim.”
She clung to that fantasy like a life raft as she grabbed the café door.
