covering the ground splash up and soak my tights every time I take a step.
I’m bouncing up and down on my toes, trying to warm up as I wait for a streetlight to change, when a boy around eight years old suddenly runs up to me with a sparkling neon pink marker in his hand and starts scribbling on my tights.
“Hey, back off, little dude,” I warn as I step back out of his reach.
“No way. I can’t. I’m a street artist, and you’re my muse.” He laughs wickedly and rushes at me again, waving the marker tauntingly.
I whirl around, hugging my box as I skitter out of the way, but I roll my ankle and fall down. I drop the box to brace the fall with my hands. The concrete scrapes my palms and rips the knees of my tights.
I glare at the boy. “You evil little troll.”
He points the marker at me. “I can make you look like an evil little troll if you want me to.”
I narrow my eyes at him as I stumble to my feet. Before I can stand up all the way, though, a set of fingers wrap around my upper arm, and I’m lifted to my feet as if I weigh nothing.
“Sorry about that,” a deep, male voice says. “Are you okay?”
I brush dirt and mud off my tights, skirt, and hands, but I only seem to make more of a mess. “Yep, just peachy.” Sarcasm drips from my voice as I elevate my gaze to him. “He’s kind of a …” I trail off.
The guy standing in front of me is younger than I expected—around my age—with green eyes, messy, brown hair, and a scruffy jawline. He’s definitely good-looking, but what’s really throwing me off is the strangest sensation that I know him. And the stunned look on his face makes me wonder if I do.
“Do I know you?” I ask, bending over to grab my box from the ground.
Right at that moment, the wind kicks up and blows up my skirt. I hurriedly tug it down, but I’m sure a few people passing by probably got a glimpse of the granny panties I’m rocking because I haven’t done laundry in, like, a month.
The guy scoops up my box, but instead of handing it to me, he keeps ahold of it. “No … I don’t think so.” He looks away from me as he says it.
He’s lying. I can tell. But why?
“What’s your name, then?” I ask.
His lips quirk. “You really expect me to give my name to some random woman on the street? A woman, I might add, who just flashed half the people walking by?”
I grip the bottom of my skirt, securing it down. “I didn’t do it on purpose. It was the wind.” And fate.
“How do I know that for sure?” he asks. “Maybe it’s your thing.”
“You think my thing is flashing people on the street? Really? Do I look that crazy?”
He eyes over my torn tights covered in marker and my muddy skirt and shirt, and his brow arches in insinuation.
“I don’t always look like this,” I say indignantly. “I’ve just had a shitty day, and he”—I wave my hand at the kid who is now scribbling on the side of a parked car—“made it ten times worse.”
“Yeah, sorry about Trevor. He’s going through a … phase.” He glances down at the little boy and frowns.
“You know that marker is permanent, right?” I say to the sexy stranger.
His eyes widen then he hastily hands me my box and gently pulls the boy to his feet. “All right, little man, hand over the marker,” Sexy Stranger says to the boy.
The devil child shakes his head. “You can’t take an artist’s tool away from him!”
“Trevor,” Sexy Stranger warns, trying to remain calm. “Give me the marker. Public artists don’t go around coloring on cars.”
The boy tucks the marker behind his back. “Some do. I’ve seen it on the internet.”
“Okay …” Sexy Stranger struggles for words. “Well, they don’t color on people’s clothes.”
“I don’t think you understand public art,” the boy says, backing away from him. “I have to color whenever the urge strikes me. That’s how it works.”
What a crazy—albeit smart—little weirdo.
“Need any help?” I offer, even
I’m bouncing up and down on my toes, trying to warm up as I wait for a streetlight to change, when a boy around eight years old suddenly runs up to me with a sparkling neon pink marker in his hand and starts scribbling on my tights.
“Hey, back off, little dude,” I warn as I step back out of his reach.
“No way. I can’t. I’m a street artist, and you’re my muse.” He laughs wickedly and rushes at me again, waving the marker tauntingly.
I whirl around, hugging my box as I skitter out of the way, but I roll my ankle and fall down. I drop the box to brace the fall with my hands. The concrete scrapes my palms and rips the knees of my tights.
I glare at the boy. “You evil little troll.”
He points the marker at me. “I can make you look like an evil little troll if you want me to.”
I narrow my eyes at him as I stumble to my feet. Before I can stand up all the way, though, a set of fingers wrap around my upper arm, and I’m lifted to my feet as if I weigh nothing.
“Sorry about that,” a deep, male voice says. “Are you okay?”
I brush dirt and mud off my tights, skirt, and hands, but I only seem to make more of a mess. “Yep, just peachy.” Sarcasm drips from my voice as I elevate my gaze to him. “He’s kind of a …” I trail off.
The guy standing in front of me is younger than I expected—around my age—with green eyes, messy, brown hair, and a scruffy jawline. He’s definitely good-looking, but what’s really throwing me off is the strangest sensation that I know him. And the stunned look on his face makes me wonder if I do.
“Do I know you?” I ask, bending over to grab my box from the ground.
Right at that moment, the wind kicks up and blows up my skirt. I hurriedly tug it down, but I’m sure a few people passing by probably got a glimpse of the granny panties I’m rocking because I haven’t done laundry in, like, a month.
The guy scoops up my box, but instead of handing it to me, he keeps ahold of it. “No … I don’t think so.” He looks away from me as he says it.
He’s lying. I can tell. But why?
“What’s your name, then?” I ask.
His lips quirk. “You really expect me to give my name to some random woman on the street? A woman, I might add, who just flashed half the people walking by?”
I grip the bottom of my skirt, securing it down. “I didn’t do it on purpose. It was the wind.” And fate.
“How do I know that for sure?” he asks. “Maybe it’s your thing.”
“You think my thing is flashing people on the street? Really? Do I look that crazy?”
He eyes over my torn tights covered in marker and my muddy skirt and shirt, and his brow arches in insinuation.
“I don’t always look like this,” I say indignantly. “I’ve just had a shitty day, and he”—I wave my hand at the kid who is now scribbling on the side of a parked car—“made it ten times worse.”
“Yeah, sorry about Trevor. He’s going through a … phase.” He glances down at the little boy and frowns.
“You know that marker is permanent, right?” I say to the sexy stranger.
His eyes widen then he hastily hands me my box and gently pulls the boy to his feet. “All right, little man, hand over the marker,” Sexy Stranger says to the boy.
The devil child shakes his head. “You can’t take an artist’s tool away from him!”
“Trevor,” Sexy Stranger warns, trying to remain calm. “Give me the marker. Public artists don’t go around coloring on cars.”
The boy tucks the marker behind his back. “Some do. I’ve seen it on the internet.”
“Okay …” Sexy Stranger struggles for words. “Well, they don’t color on people’s clothes.”
“I don’t think you understand public art,” the boy says, backing away from him. “I have to color whenever the urge strikes me. That’s how it works.”
What a crazy—albeit smart—little weirdo.
“Need any help?” I offer, even
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