“This yours?” he asks.
I nod like an idiot. He shakes his head, running his free hand down his face, and then his eyes sweep over me again.
“You have got to be f**king kidding me,” he says, seeming upset.
I look down at myself, wondering how I could’ve offended him. I look normal—or my working-outside-the-house normal. When I’m at home working, I wear baggy sweats I cut off to make shorts or pajama pants that hang off of me along with tank tops or T-shirts. The few days a week I get out of the house, I like to dress up or at least wear heels.
“This cannot be f**king happening,” he growls, and I wonder if he is completely crazy.
“What?” I ask, finally finding my voice. I have to tilt my head way back; even in my four-inch heels, he still towers over me.
“You.”
“Me, what?” I ask, confused.
“Never mind. Who is this?” He presses the button on my phone, the screen lights up, and a picture of Jamie Dornan wearing nothing but a pair of jeans takes up the screen.
“Um…that’s Jamie,” I reply, wondering why he is asking but too afraid to ask him; the look on his face isn’t very inviting for conversation.
“He your man?”
“I wish,” I mumble under my breath and hear him growl.
My head flies back as I search his face; his jaw is ticking, and his knuckles of the hand holding my phone are turning white.
“What does that mean?” he asks.
“That’s Jamie Dornan. He’s playing Fifty. I don’t know him.” I feel my cheeks heat up and look down at my feet.
What the hell’s wrong with me? Why am I not afraid right now? I have been scared of virtually everything my whole life, and now, when I should be running for cover, I’m not scared at all. Just a little embarrassed.
“I don’t have time for this,” he says, and I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I all of a sudden really want my phone out of his hand before he crushes it to smithereens.
When I look up again, I see that he is walking away. My eyebrows come together, and I wonder what he is doing. Then I realize he still has my cell.
“Hey! You can’t steal my phone!” I run after him, grabbing his arm.
He looks down at me then stops short. I’m completely caught off guard when he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His free hand goes into my hair and pulls my head back, and then he kisses me. No, not kisses—he consumes me. My body starts to buzz like someone just plugged me into an electrical outlet, and I start to feel lightheaded. When he pulls his mouth from mine, I gasp, my fingers going to my lips.
“What was that?” I whisper, looking into his eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asks, still holding me close.
“Sophie,” I tell him, my answer spoken behind my fingers.
His body is as hard as a rock against mine; I can feel every muscle, every contour, and it takes everything in me to keep breathing. I realize this is the first time in my life I have ever felt small, my curvy figure never having allowed it before.
“Sophie,” he repeats, standing up to his full height and pulling me with him. I look around and wonder if time has stopped for anyone else. “My name is Nico.”
“Of course it is,” I say, staring into his amazing eyes, thinking that a guy who looks like him would have a name like that—cool and hot, something that rolls easily off your tongue but is hard to forget.
“I’ll see you when I get back into town, Sophie,” he says as he lets me go, making sure I’m steady on my feet.
“What?” I ask, looking around again.
“Here’s your phone.” He hands me my cell, and I’m still a little lightheaded when he starts to walk off again. I watch in a daze as he leaves, but then he turns around to face me from a few yards away. “Sophie?”
“Yeah?”
“Change the picture on your phone,” he demands before he turns and disappears into the crowd.
I stand there for a few seconds wondering what just happened. Eventually, I pull myself together enough to make it to my car. When I get there, I realize that I didn’t even put the top up or take my bag with me because I had been in such a hurry. I turn quickly to look in my backseat, seeing that my bag is still there. I breathe out a sigh of relief, start my car, and head home.
I live in a small, two-bedroom house just outside of Nashville. I bought it cash with the money I got from my mom’s life insurance policy after she passed away. It’s not much, but it’s home. I pull into my garage and hop out, dragging my bag with me. I need a beer…or a shot of something. I unlock my door, and as I step inside, I kick my shoes off so they go flying down the hall towards my room.
After dropping my bag by the door and the infamous phone on the table, I head to my kitchen, open my freezer, and pull out the bottle of vodka I keep there in case of emergencies. I don’t have time to find a shot glass, so I pull a coffee mug down from the cupboard, fill it half full, and shoot it back. Practically coughing up a lung as I try to catch my breath, I fill the glass up again and shakily take another shot. This time, I’m prepared for it, so I hold my breath as the burn fills my chest. I put the bottle away, feeling more relaxed already.
I head to my room, strip off my clothes, and put on a T-shirt. It’s early, so I head to the living room, grabbing my phone along the way. I plop down on my couch, put my feet up on the coffee table, turn the TV on, start up the DVR, and press play on The Big Bang Theory. I sit there for a few minutes in a daze, not absorbing even a single second of my favorite show. I look at my cell in my hand, and clicking on the screen, I look at the picture of Jamie. I don’t know why, but I can’t help but smile as I think of Nico’s reaction to it. The tattooed stranger is hot, slightly scary, but definitely interesting.