Chapter 5: Princess and the Player: Chapter 5

Fatigue ripples over me as I press my back against the wall inside Café Lazzo, my favorite restaurant near my apartment. It’s been two weeks since I lost my job. My cold has worsened, and my throat is hoarse. Thanksgiving came and went, a busy time, and I’m hoping that’s why I haven’t gotten any callbacks from the parlors I checked in with.

I tug my black toboggan down over my forehead, covering my messy bun. I’m sloppy with my glasses, ripped jeans, and faded peacoat. Shivering, I tighten the scarf around my neck. I just want to get my pasta, go home, and starfish on my bed.

“Order up for Francesca!” comes from the server at the takeout stand.

“Here!” I rasp out as I work my way through the throng of people waiting for their own takeout. Sadly, this restaurant doesn’t deliver, and their butternut squash soup and crab ravioli have been circling in my head for days. My mouth waters, and I’m almost to the counter—

A man steps in front of me, cutting me off. “Kendra, sweetheart, how are you?”

Kendra, the server who called my name, blushes at the man, then titters that it’s good to see him and that yes, she watched his game and is “so devastated” about the loss—and don’t worry; her poodle is feeling better after his surgery.

I wave at her. Look! Me, me!

He blocks her from my line of vision and leans in over the counter. I take in his clean-shaven, chiseled profile as he lowers his voice. “I’m glad your dog is good. Hey, my friends and I ordered twenty minutes ago. Could you check on it for me? You’re looking gorgeous today, by the way.”

“I’ll check your status.” She bats her lashes, then darts to the takeout window.

I tap my three-inch stacked Converse, waiting for him to notice the angry girl next to him, but he’s too busy watching the swing in Kendra’s hips.

I scan the Pythons sweatshirt he’s wearing, and it dawns on me. Of course! It’s him.

Jesus. Is he everywhere?

Tuck Avery. Professional footballer. Lives in the penthouse of my building. Tawny hair, angular face, big muscles. Arrogant.

I ease the aluminum container of napkins from the bakery case closer to me, then knock it to the floor. A grunt comes from him when it bounces and lands on his foot.

I blink. “Oops.”

He bends to pick up the container, then frowns as he rakes his eyes over me. “Did you throw this at me?”

Apparently, I’m not quite a ninja.

Someone behind me, a male, murmurs an affirmative: “Yeah, she did.”

My adrenaline spikes, and sweat builds on my face. Part of me wants to play it off as an accident, but . . .

“Um . . . yes?”

“What’s wrong with you?” he snaps as he places it back on the bakery case.

My heart thumps like a war drum in my chest as I push out my words in a gravelly voice. “She called my name; then you cut me off before I reached the counter.”

Have I mentioned I’ve passed him in the lobby of our building? He never speaks, just keeps his head down and stalks away. He doesn’t want to mingle with the peons who live below him.

“Welcome to New York. Get used to fighting for a spot,” he mutters.

“Right, right. I’ve lived here for years. Not everyone is rude. You think you can do whatever you want because of who you are. Princess.” I grunt.

The takeout area goes dead quiet. I hadn’t realized we’d drawn attention, and I lick my lips as I look around.

“I could have you arrested,” he says. “That”—he points at the napkin dispenser—“was assault.”

“Fight, fight, fight! Kick his ass!” a guy calls from behind me.

Tuck sends him a death glare, then leans into my personal space. His scent wafts around me, spice with a hint of peppermint. Like a sexy Christmas. It’s a cologne I recognize, something yummy and expensive, but I can’t focus as my stomach flip-flops with nausea. It’s not my usual “I’m anxious” queasy. It’s a new one, and it’s decided his cologne is disgusting.

“Phones are recording this,” he hisses. “Do you want to be known on Twitter as the girl who attacked me?”

“Are you hurt?”

“I asked you a question.”

“You aren’t hurt.”

“Are you a doctor?”

Fuzziness dances in my head as I clench the edge of the counter to stop myself from swaying. A bone-deep exhaustion washes over me. Swallowing, I glance at the server. “Kendra, you said Francesca. I’ll take my order now.”

She darts her gaze from me to him.

“Kendra?” I ask, my voice rising sharply. “Now.”

She fumbles around, then hands over my order.

“Thank you.” I leave and make my way through the crowd.

I push open the door and step out to a drizzle on Fifth Avenue. I lean against the brick wall, letting rain fall on my face as I take deep breaths. What is wrong with me? I’ve never acted so childish—

“I can’t believe you” comes a male voice.

Holy cow . . .

He’s followed me!

I turn, and there he stands, arms crossed. A streetlamp creates a golden halo around him, and I blink. He really is beautiful. Tall. Chin-length wavy hair. Diamond-cut cheekbones. Perfect full, bitable lips.

As if angels carved him themselves.

Too bad he’s a devil.

I hold up my takeout bag. “I have pepper spray.”

He points at the passing pedestrians. “I’m not going to hurt you with people around.”

“Would you if we were alone?”

“I don’t hurt women,” he says, lids lowering. “But you do test me.”

“Same page,” I mutter.

He tucks his hands in black joggers as he shifts from one foot to the next. “I would have been gone in a couple of minutes, you know. Patience is a virtue.”

“Should I let Bradley Cooper be rude to me just because he’s hot and a superstar? No.”

“I’m hot?”

“No,” I sputter, then rub my face with my free hand.

“Are you all right? Inside you seemed—”

“I’m fine.”

He cocks his head, his expression softening. “You sound terrible.”

“I have a cold, so you better stay back.”

His gaze goes behind me. “Watch out; you’re about to get mowed down by a pack of tourists. They never look where they’re going.” He takes my arm with a gentleness I didn’t expect and eases me out of their trajectory into the mouth of the alley outside the restaurant.

“Oh. Thanks.”

We watch them pass by us as the rainfall increases, and I groan as wetness creeps into my shoes.

“Hang on a second.” Moving around, he unzips the duffle on his shoulder and pulls out a white umbrella with the Pythons mascot, a coiled black-and-gold snake with its mouth open to strike. “I’m always prepared. My ankle can feel the change in pressure. I fractured it a while back, and it always knows.” He pops the umbrella and waves me under it.

My leftover anger deflates like a flat tire as I step beneath the cover.

“Did the napkin thing hurt your ankle?” I mumble.

“Nah. I was messing with you.” Our shoulders brush as he turns to face me, and I tense at our proximity, a tingle of something strange dancing down my spine.

Our gazes cling for several heartbeats. There’s something about him I can’t look away from . . .

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I admit grudgingly, focusing on his sneakers as I try to suss out why there’s a sense of familiarity about him. It’s more than just seeing him around Manhattan. I shake my head to clear the fog from it.

“Regrets, huh?” he says.

“I’m not normally a violent person.” But my moods have been off the charts lately. I snot cried during a toilet paper commercial yesterday. It had puppies frolicking around in toilet paper; I don’t even like dogs.

“I must have really gotten under your skin,” he murmurs. “Let’s start over, yeah? I’m Tuck. And you are . . .”

I catch my reflection in the puddles, knowing what he sees: a short nondescript girl, my hair tucked up in a hat, old glasses with raindrops on them, and no lipstick.

“Francesca. I told Kendra, like, five minutes ago.”

“Missed it. I was distracted by your fiery attitude, but now you won’t even look at me.”

I move my gaze up, and he’s grinning. “Hi there,” he says softly.

“Hi.”

“Was that so hard?”

“No.” I shrug, then say, “I hope no one got us on camera. I don’t want to be on Twitter as harming New York’s favorite wide receiver.”

“Meh. Maybe they did; maybe they didn’t. But we’ve patched things up. Beautiful name, by the way. Are you Italian, Francesca?” He says my name slow, tasting the syllables.

“Maybe,” I say, then sigh. “Look. I’m sorry. Really. I thought it would drop on the floor and get Kendra’s attention. That’s all.”

“Truth? I spotted you making a beeline to her, and I was in a hurry. So . . .” He grimaces. “I cut you off on purpose. Now you know.”

“Rude jerk.”

“Don’t hold back.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m friendly with Kendra and knew if I beat you, I might get my food quicker. I’m used to getting what I want when I want it. So you’re right. I’m an egotistical asshole.”

“I never said egotistical asshole.” I smile. It’s hard not to. Maybe it’s the way his eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles. Or the line of dimples.

He chuckles, and the sound of it reminds me of—

My thought is lost as the door to Café Lazzo opens and a man ambles out. Wearing a Pythons sweatshirt and joggers, he’s tall with frizzy blond hair that falls around his shoulders. “Yo. Kendra said our food will be ready in five. You all right out here?”

“Yeah, we’re cool. My attacker adores me,” Tuck calls out to his friend.

“I’m adding narcissist to your list,” I murmur.

“That just hurts, Francesca,” he says on a laugh as he glances down at me.

“You should make a list of my flaws.”

He searches my face. “Hmm, I’d start with . . . striking.”

Oh.

“Nice throw in there. I’m Jasper,” says the friend as he walks to us.

“Francesca. I didn’t throw it. I eased it to the floor. Were you the guy saying ‘Fight, fight, fight’?”

“Guilty.” He winks. “I saw the whole thing.”

“He lives for drama,” Tuck says dryly as he shuts the umbrella as the rain eases up. “So where are you headed, Francesca?”

“Um, actually, I live at Wickham. I’ve seen you around. In the lobby . . .” I stop at the wary expression growing on his face.

“What a coincidence.”

I shrug. “Most of the tenants know you live in the penthouse. You’re famous. And the doorman is lovable but a bit of a gossip.”

“Really. What’s the doorman’s name.”

What the . . . “You don’t believe me?”

“What’s his name?”

“Herman,” I say, frowning. “He’s worked at Wickham for over twenty years. He’s married to Catherine, and they have five grandchildren. I live on the twentieth floor with a view of Central Park. Happy now?”

“This little kitten just hissed at you, bro,” Jasper says with a smirk as he holds up a fist for me to bump. I ignore him.

A woman breezes out of the restaurant, getting our attention. Even the people on the street do a double take. Tall and willowy with honey-colored hair, she struts to us wearing a baby-blue sweater dress and thigh-high heeled boots. In her midtwenties, she checks me out with arched brows as she sweeps over my attire. She sniffs, her nose wrinkling as if I’m a dead fish. She hands over the bags of food to Jasper, and he takes them with an eye roll.

She places her hand on Tuck’s arm possessively and tilts her face up.

“You left me alone to get the food, darling,” she says.

“I assumed you could handle it, Courtney,” he says. “It’s already paid for.”

Her hands brush at his hair, arranging the strands around his face as if she’s done it a million times. “Of course.” She glances at me, then back to him. “I just worry about you chasing after a random stranger. You never know what they’re after. The city is full of crazy people.”

She thinks I’m, what, going to mug him? Rub my stink on him? I’m barely functioning here.

She leans into him. “This girl, who is she? She threw something at you and verbally abused you. She could have hurt you—or me. Remember Lollipop? Stalkers can be anyone and anywhere.”

I let out a huff. “I’m not a stalker. Hello, I left the restaurant. He followed me.”

“Courtney—” Tuck starts, but I cut him off as I step back from the couple.

“Trust me,” I say with an unladylike grunt. “Your boyfriend is safe from me.”

Tuck scowls at me, takes her elbow, and leads her several feet away from us and back toward the restaurant. They lean their heads together, whispering.

“Forget her,” Jasper says as he sidles up next to me.

“Who is she?”

“His ex. They’ve been on and off, and she’s trying to hook him again.”

“No, I mean where have I seen her?”

He grunts. “She’s the Calvin Klein girl.”

“Oh.” That’s it. I’ve seen her on billboards.

He pauses, peering at me. “Have we met before? It might be Wickham, but I’ve only lived there a few months.”

I shake my head. “You like tattoos? I used to work at East Coast Ink.”

He replies that he’s never been as I glance over at Tuck and Courtney. She’s thrown her arms around his neck, and they’re kissing. My gaze is drawn to him, the golden color of his hair, the breadth of his shoulders . . .

He puts a hand on her shoulder, making the arm of his sweatshirt move. A black leather cuff with gold stitching on his wrist catches my eye.

I frown. It reminds me of—

My body stiffens.

Player has a black leather cuff . . .

Nah, nah. No freaking way.

Player had longer hair and heavy scruff!

Player is a construction worker in my head. He works with his hands.

Not Tuck.

Still . . .

That zap of awareness under the umbrella.

His laugh.

His “Sweetheart.”

And the cuff. What are the odds that two tall men with the same hair color have the same one?

I look back at Jasper, and my eyes bulge. Blond guy who named his penis Cupid!

Oh my God. I groan. No, no, no.

Player lives in the same building as me!

There are millions of people in this city, and yes, I’ve looked for him, but never once did I think I’d find him! It was a fantasy, something I used to get me through breaking up with Edward.

“What?” Jasper asks. “Your face is red. You okay?”

I manage a “Fine” as my head replays the highlights of our night like a hazy movie reel.

The first time we had sex, it was slow and sweet; the second round followed, rushed and intense as he picked me up in his arms and pressed me against the wall; the third time, his body caged over mine as he took me from behind; the last round, we lay face to face, my leg over his thigh, his hands worshipping every inch of my skin as if dedicating it to his memory. He called me his little brave princess. He said my eyes were unforgettable, that he’d know me by the scent of my skin. By then I could barely recall my own name. All I knew was how it felt to have him inside me, the smell of us together, the sounds we made.

Having sex with a stranger wasn’t unusual for me.

In fact, one-night stands were my preference until Edward came along.

I went to Decadence to find someone to make me forget his betrayal.

And Player did. Very, very well.

Even now, my body melts at the way he twisted his hips inside me, at his fingers on my clit, at his devilish stamina—

Dammit. This is so confusing. I was into Player, and Tuck is Player.

Tuck is an ass who has a sorta famous girlfriend.

Huh. Maybe that explains the end of the night.

After the last round, he withdrew, a cloud of tension hovering over him. While I stayed in bed, silent and watchful, he dressed as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. He raked his hands through his hair over and over as he stood in front of the door for several seconds, then left without a word.

It hurt. Maybe it shouldn’t have. I’ve slipped away from lovers before, but it felt like another rejection.

“Sorry?” I come back and realize Jasper had been talking.

He grimaces. “You’re ignoring me. I asked if you came to this restaurant a lot. Maybe that’s why you seem familiar—”

I nod jerkily. “That’s it. Totally.”

“Wanna walk back together? It’ll be nice to have the company, and she gets on my nerves.” He glances over at Tuck and Courtney. They’ve stopped kissing and are talking.

As if he senses my gaze, Tuck turns his head, and his eyes hold mine. His gaze dips to my lips, and my heart jumps in my throat as the electricity sizzles and pops. At least it does for me.

Tuck takes a step in my direction, making me start from my daydreaming.

“Francesca? Hello?” Jasper asks.

“I’ve got some errands—sorry. Enjoy your dinner; bye,” I rush out the words as I turn and take off down the sidewalk in a fast walk.

I get a block away from my apartment when the smell of the crab ravioli assails my senses and makes me gag. I clutch my stomach, make it to an alley, and hurl. My arm brushes my boobs when I wipe my mouth, and I flinch at the flash of pain.

Frustration hits. Ugh. Do I have some awful disease? I’ve been avoiding a doctor, thinking this cold would resolve on its own, and I need to keep my expenses down until I get a job, but . . .

Fatigue, moodiness, nausea, sore breasts . . .

The flu doesn’t last this long, right?

I gasp.

I have an implant for birth control, plus I always use condoms, but I haven’t had a period since . . .

No way.

I toss my takeout in the trash and jog all the way to the canopy of my building. My nerves are stretched thin as I picture Tuck and company catching up with me. I’m almost to the door when nausea hits again, and I bend over and hurl into the landscaping. Herman calls out a “Hello,” and I toss up a hand and dash for the entrance. I make it to the elevator, step inside, and bang the button for my floor. I’ve seen Tuck in this elevator once, but I suspect he uses the express one in the garage most of the time. It goes straight up to his place without stopping. Tonight, though, he’ll probably come in through the lobby. I stab the button for my floor again.

Mr. Darden, also called “Darden” when I’m not speaking to him directly, steps in with me. Well dressed with gray hair and glasses, he leans on a gold-tipped cane. Cece says its real gold.

I shouldn’t be able to afford Wickham, but one of the counselors at the group home said that the owners gave rent breaks to kids who lived in foster care. I filled out the application, wrote an essay, and got in at a discount. It’s a tax break for the owners of the building. Darden was born and raised here and was part of the board of directors that made the final decisions on who got in.

Closing my eyes at the motion of the elevator, I lean back against the cold metal and take deep breaths as I force myself not to gag at the metallic scent in the small space. I once read that pregnant women have supersmell. I chew on my lip. No way. Impossible. I am not preggo.

“No hello, Miss Lane?”

I pop one eye open and push up a smile. “Hey, Mr. Darden. Sorry. Good to see you. How are you?”

He grunts. “Forget that. You look homeless in those clothes. No wonder you can’t find a job. Kids these days. No work ethic.”

I stick my tongue out at him. “It’s only been two weeks. I need more time.”

“You’re a tattoo person.” He says it like I’m a serial killer. “Such a waste of a great mind. You should be selling your art. Open your own gallery.”

Ah, that’s the dream, but it requires money.

“I do sell my art. Don’t you own one?” I tap my chin. “Yep, that’s right. You requested a honey badger—very odd, and not my usual. I believe it hangs in your guest bathroom. Probably to frighten people away.”

“It was a pity purchase.” He points his cane at me menacingly. “I’m glad you’re out of that parlor. You’re too talented for those heathens.”

“Don’t be such a snob,” I say; then another bout of nausea rises as the elevator lurches. I groan, and his scowl deepens.

“What is the matter with you? Are you sick?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” If I keep saying it, then it’s true. Obviously.

He harrumphs. “I know what fine means, Miss Lane. I was married, and it never meant anything good. We’ve been neighbors for twelve years, and you never say you’re fine.” He grumbles under his breath, and I catch a “Damn that Edward” and “What a bastard.”

A ghost of a smile crosses my face. He comes across as grouchy, but he’s much more than that.

The elevator stops at our floor, and we step out. My nausea seems to settle as I walk with him to his apartment, trying not to hover when he wobbles a little. My place is next door, although his is three times as big.

“How’s the hip doing?” He had replacement surgery several weeks ago.

He grunts as he unlocks his door. “I’m old and wake up every day with a new ailment. I’m fine.”

A small laugh comes from me. “Do you need anything? I can bring over some popcorn, and we can watch the nature channel. Your favorite.”

“Not tonight.”

I search his craggy face, looking for signs of tiredness, but he waves me off and steps inside his apartment. “What are you going to do about a job, Miss Lane?”

Ignoring his question, I smile. “Let’s have game night soon. How about Monopoly?”

“Don’t distract me, Miss Lane.”

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again . . . you’re not my mother, Mr. Darden. Good night.”

He exhales as he scrutinizes me. “See a doctor. I don’t want to catch anything when you come over.” With a sharp nod, he closes his door.

I open my door and step inside my small yet elegant three-bedroom apartment. Built in the twenties, most of the original architecture was maintained: arched doorways, thick baseboards, wainscotting, and a stone fireplace—now painted a rich cream. My wing of the building was renovated years ago with beautiful hardwood, marble tile, and an updated kitchen and bathrooms.

I stop in the foyer, kiss my fingers, and press them to my first painting from art school, a brown wren in the snow. I point my finger at her. “I see your judgment, but I’m not pregnant.”

I drop my satchel on a bench and go to the den. It’s decorated with a modern-style velvet teal couch and two club chairs. Cece made the pillows, and there’s a hand-knotted rug that Brogan found. My art, one of my locket paintings, hangs over the mantel. My bedroom is to the left, and their rooms are on the right down the hall.

Home. My first real one.

Across from the den is a balcony that overlooks Central Park, and I open the glass doors and step outside and lean over to see the street. The rain has cleared, and a full moon gazes down at Manhattan. I inhale a deep breath of the city and smile.

I hear laughter, and my heart jumps as Tuck, Jasper, and Courtney walk up the sidewalk. Jasper picks up pebbles and lobs them at Courtney while she yells at him. Tuck walks behind them as he swings his umbrella, lost in thought. Leaning over farther, I recall how he moved me out of the way of the tourists, then shared his umbrella with me . . .

I picture him kissing Courtney and grunt. Player indeed.

As if he feels my gaze, he stops and glances up at the building toward my floor, and I quickly step back.

“Not kicking that hornet’s nest,” I tell the room as I head to the kitchen and open the pantry. I find a box of Triscuits and munch one slowly, my head churning as I replay my symptoms of sickness one more time.

A long sigh comes from my chest. I’m fine. Totally.