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TWO

NATALIE

On any given day, in a matter of seconds, Manhattan can become a death trap.

Both sides of 34 th Street are packed with New Yorkers, already inching onto the pedestrian crossing, into the steady bumper-to-bumper traffic, despite the pedestrian signal still being red.

That’s Manhattan. People and cars navigate the streets with jarring impatience.

My crappy mood doesn’t match the sunny weather. The interview for the bartending position at the Hyatt went well. But despite my stellar résumé, my frequent job changes are a red flag.

The traffic light turns yellow, and someone is already pushing against me from behind, nudging me into the back of a young man in front of me. He’s holding a coffee, his attention on the phone in his hand. His cologne is seductively bitter. Neatly combed light-brown hair, crisp white shirt, dress pants, and pointy leather shoes—he’s probably a banker or something of the sort. He looks pristine even in the early September heat. Judging by how little attention he pays to the traffic, he is a native New Yorker.

He starts walking, drawing my attention to the green pedestrian light.

By instinct, I step forward.

Just then, the sound of screeching tires makes my head snap in the direction of a red Oldsmobile, which is making a sharp turn on a red light at full speed into our street.

Like ants, the pedestrians split in half, jumping back or jolting forward.

Except for the young man.

Without thinking, I grab him by the arm and yank him back out of the way of the car that misses him by an inch.

His coffee goes flying into the air. The car swipes the curb but, without stopping, speeds away.

“Jeez,” he blurts out, turning to me with wide eyes.

The crowd surges forward, shouldering us, unfazed by the accident that was just prevented. But the strikingly blue eyes of the stranger keep me hostage.

He is charmingly handsome.

“Phew,” Mr. Handsome exhales, his eyes roaming my face. “I think you just saved my life.” He chuckles, his lips spreading in a gorgeous smile.

“Or spared you a hospital bill,” I say.

Someone shoulders me, and I start walking, the man following alongside.

“At the very least!” he says excitedly, as if we have just witnessed a miracle. “Freaking drivers here. Insane, huh? I guess I need a new coffee,” he says as he checks his empty to-go cup, walking with me shoulder to shoulder. “I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” I murmur.

But a coffee sounds good. I don’t have a job. I can’t splurge, or I won’t have money for rent.

“Nick.” Without stopping, the handsome stranger offers his hand for a shake.

“Natalie,” I say as I shake it.

He nods toward a Starbucks. “Come on. Please, let me buy you a coffee.”

He quickly checks his watch, and I have a feeling that this is not an invitation for a date, just a courtesy. But why not?

“There is better coffee than that,” I say. He might not be a native New Yorker after all. I nod toward the PapaBean street stall. “Best coffee around. Ethiopian. Light roast.”

He grins at me. “Oh, yeah?” His blue eyes seem even more vibrant as they catch the sunlight. “Whatever you say, boss. Come on.” He beelines through the crowded street toward the kiosk. “I’ll have whatever she does,” he tells the middle-aged man with a mustache and an apron, and I place the order. “So, Natalie, what are you doing on this fine day? Besides saving lives and trashing my coffee taste?” he says in a smooth voice that could melt chocolate.

That grin of his is contagious, and I smile back. “Actually, I just left a job interview. I’m better at saving lives than keeping a job.”

Nick laughs, the sound of it making my smile grow, even though by any definition, this is a crappy day for me. Not to mention my best friend has been in a coma for three days now.

“What kind of job are you looking for?” Nick asks.

I shrug. “At this point? Anything. Degree, no degree. Qualifications, no qualifications.”

I gave up pursuing jobs for my business degree several years ago. Turns out, bartending at upscale places pays better. That is, if you can keep the job.

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

It’s my own fault that I lost my previous gig at a tapas place for being too abrasive and rude—get that—to the rude Wall Street assholes who made sexist comments. On top of that, Cara hasn’t shown any improvement. She is lucky, the doctor said, though she still hasn’t come to.

Looks like I have to pay rent all on my own this month.

At the thought, my smile falters. I absently study the magazine stand on the side of the coffee kiosk, trying to stay away from negative thoughts.

That’s when I see him .

There are plenty of red-haired men in New York. Forgettable, sure. Just not this face, with the peculiar tick of his right eyebrow, his green eyes staring at me from the cover of the magazine.

I swallow hard, frozen to the spot—it is him.

“Your coffee, young lady,” Nick says next to me.

But my eyes are glued to the magazine, and I slowly pick it up from the stand.

There’s no mistake—the face on the cover of the Tech Weekly magazine belongs to the guy Cara went home with after the club. He has a name—Geoffrey Rosenberg.

MAN OF THE YEAR.

THE CEO OF IXRESEARCH.

THE CRYPTO KING.

AND THE NEWEST ADDITION TO THE

FORBES: WORLD’S TOP 40 UNDER 40.

Cara’s words ring in my ears. “He’s my jackpot.”

And possibly a predator, I add silently.