She starts to storm away, her shoulder-length silver hair blowing in the wind. "Wait a minute," I growl, jumping out of the car and giving chase.
"You don't get to do that shit and walk away," I yell, and she ignores me, approaching her car and opening her door. I reach out and manage to grip her wrist, and she spins around. I let go of her hand and step closer to her.
"That's a pretty brave thing you did back there. If you'd stayed to face me, I'd convince myself you weren't a little coward." I glare down at her, and her cheeks redden.
"You asshole." She lifts her hand toward my face, but I grab it before she makes contact. The tension between us is so thick it could be cut with a knife. I step closer to her until she's standing against her car, her eyes widening in shock. Is she nervous? Is she afraid? Angry? For some reason, I need to know. Her pupils dilate, and she lets out a breath.
“What is it about you?” The words come out of my mouth in a tone so low I wonder if she hears me.
She kicks my shin, and I stumble back. "Ouch! That hurt."
She's inside her car in a flash. I tap at her window a few times, and she ignores me, staring forward.
I slam my hands on her hood and storm back to my car.
At the Starbucks store I usually frequent, I get out my battered laptop, connect to Wi-Fi, and I know exactly what my next article will be about.
Chapter 4
Kenzie
“You reading that bullshit again?” I roll my eyes at Mac who is sprawled on my living room floor with the paper open on the latestComplete Guide to Nothingcolumn. Whoever writes that column is a turd. I’ve read one or two of those articles. The writer is probably a bored recluse with nothing better to do. I can’t understand what makes papers want to include that kind of bullshit in the first place.
Don't people have their own drama to deal with instead of wasting their time reading about a fantasy world filled with the theatrics one man creates?
“This is a good one,” she insists while chewing on a carrot. "So, this chick strangles the poor columnist in traffic, you see. Then he corners her to confront her, and she begs him to make sweet love to her mouth . . ." She laughs.
"Let me see that," I growl, grabbing the paper from her hand and reading.
What isit with women and their need to be obscenely aggressive one moment and a needy mess the next? There I was sitting in traffic, minding my own business, when a white-haired psychopath, albeit attractive, walks over to my car and assaults me.
I knowwhat you’re thinking, people. This is Mr. N, being overly theatrical to sell a point. But I kid you not. She wrapped her tiny hands around my throat in a chokehold so tight I’m surprised I survived. I stormed after her because, I must admit, she was one fine-looking thing.
And she looksup at me, her eyes all come-hither, closes her eyes, and practically begs me to kiss her, right there in traffic . . .
“White-haired psychopath.Begged him to kiss me. That—”
“Wait, that’s you?” Mac snorts. “How did I not realize that?”
“Ha-ha!” I shove the newspaper away. “How dare he?”
"You strangled the man," she laughs, obviously loving the article a whole lot more. She grabs the discarded sheets and starts to reread it, seeing the writer and me in a whole new light.
“So, is he hot?”
“What?”
“The guy, Mr. N? He has to be hot if you were begging him to take you right there in traffic.” I knew who she meant.
"No! Of course, he isn't,” I lie. "And I did not ask him to take me or kiss me. He's a liar."
She cocks an eyebrow. “You got that twitch in your cheek. The one you get when you're an asshole liar."
I roll my eyes. "Fine, he's hot, but so not my type. And I really did not ask him to kiss me."
“Uhm hmm.”
“Mac, I just broke up with my boyfriend. I’m not going around drooling over other men.”
