Page 13 of Empire State Enemies

Out of nowhere, he emits a deep, pained noise, his hand slipping from the countertop as he fights to maintain his stance.

“You okay?” I ask, real concern in my voice now.

“Leave it,” he growls.

“Wow, charming,” I snap back. Without his looks and wealth, I doubt he’d be half as charming. The magazines sure do a number on him.

“I’m all charm, little sailor. You caught me at a bad time.”

“Same here. I’m charm personified, just having a crap day.”

His response is a low, amused chuckle that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.

I swallow hard, my cheeks warming.

He cranks the tap, twisting it with unnecessary force. Before I can react, he’s dousing water on his face with zero regard for the splash zone.

I yelp, jumping back as droplets assault my dress. “Hey, watch it! I didn’t come here for a wet T-shirt contest.”

“Sorry,” he grinds out. Doesn’t sound sorry at all.

Just when I think he’s going to perform a full-on baptism in the sink, he turns to face me. Those deep blue eyes, a bit unfocused, root me in place.

An awkward eternity passes as we stare at each other.

What’s his deal? Is he going to kick me out?

I should fill the silence with something witty, flirty even. But my tongue lies uselessly in my mouth. Besides, the volatility rolling off him in waves means one wrong word likely gets me ejected out of his hotel on my ass.

I contemplate sticking my hands under the dryer, anything to break this tension before I combust.

“Are you an angel?” he asks softly, sounding bewildered.

I blink, wondering if I misheard over the running water. “Sorry, what?”

“You’re an angel,” he insists, eyes fixed on me. He seems completely serious.

I laugh nervously. He’s clearly half-drunk and talking absolute shit. “Angels don’t have sailor mouths like mine. Are you high?”

He just keeps staring, lost in thought. “No, I’m pretty damn low,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.

He looks it, with that grim expression. Part of me instinctively wants to help somehow. But the guy’s giving off some seriously intense, unpredictable vibes that put my nerves on edge.

I gesture toward the sink, where water’s still rushing out mindlessly. “Maybe turn that off before we drown here?”

That seems to snap him back to reality. He shuts off the tap, still looking like he’s carrying the weight of the world.

Then he steps toward me. Slow and careful, like I’m a skittish deer he’s trying not to startle.

His hand glides along the counter, steadying himself as he closes the space between us.

My breath turns choppy and shallow as his expensive shoes bump my cheap Target stilettos.

He’s so close.

Too close.

I could count each individual bristly hair along his jawline if I wanted. See every chestnut-brown strand on his head. The small scar cutting through his left eyebrow that somehow makes him look even more rugged. The laugh lines around his eyes, evidence he sometimes smiles.