1

MIA

Brooklyn in July is a war crime on my nostrils.

Hot asphalt, rotting garbage, and the tang of days-old sweat radiating all the way from the dude currently eye-fucking me from across the street.

I keep my gaze locked straight ahead, fingers tightening around the strap of my duffel bag.

My scrubs stick to my back like a second skin. They’re damp from twelve hours of running codes, stitching gashes, and swallowing every catcall of “Hey, sweet thing” that various drunk assholes keep hurling my way as I try to hurry home for Eli’s bedtime.

Sweet thing. The words slither down my spine, oily and familiar.

Brad used to call me that.

Brad, with his whiskey breath and knuckles like sandpaper.

Brad, who’d whisper, “C’mere, sweet thing” right before⁠—

Nope. Not today, Satan.

I blink hard, shove that unwanted memory back into its coffin, and pick up my pace.

My sneakers slap against cracked concrete, dodging potholes and piles of dog shit. The dollar store on the corner blares reggaeton. Overhead, a dying neon sign whines like a wasp.

A group of teens loitering outside the bodega whistle as I pass. One of them yells, “Damn, ma, you workin’ out or you workin’?”

I do manage to keep my middle finger holstered, but it’s a very close call.

One of these days, I really might let it fly. Tonight, though, I don’t have time to pick fights with teenagers juiced up on vape pens and testosterone.

I’m almost there.

Almost home.

It’s four blocks to my apartment, which means four blocks to Eli. Four blocks to the brief seconds of peace I’ll get burying my face in his sweet, perfect curls.

Then I have to change out of these stained scrubs, bolt back out, and hustle my way to my second job at a bougie med spa in Tribeca, where rich ladies pay eight hundred bucks a pop to get their labia steamed.

No judgment from me, though. I’m glad for the rich ladies.

Mama’s got bills to pay.

I round the corner onto my street—and grit my teeth.

Because there’s a car parked behind mine, blocking me in.

Not just any car. A black Maybach, polished to a liquid shine, prowling in front of my building like a panther in a junkyard. My beat-to-shit sedan—Rhonda the Honda—sits trapped behind it.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I mutter.

I scan the block in search of suspects. At first, I come up empty.

But then—there. Across the street.

A man in a gleaming black suit that looks utterly out of place in this decrepit armpit of the city is pacing the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear. His shoes gleam like obsidian under the streetlight.

The rest of him is just as easy on the eyes. Stormy gray gaze. GQ stubble. Abs that look like you could grate a whole Parmesan cheese wheel on ‘em.

I’m lactose intolerant, but I’d still take a bite out of him.

Or at least, I would—if I had time for that kind of thing.

Which I don’t. My son needs his bedtime story, dammit.

I march over, duffel bag bouncing against my hip. “Hey! You the genius who parked in my spot?”

The man doesn’t look up. Just holds up a finger.

Wait, it says. I’m doing important things.

That’s strike one.

“Excuse me? Sir?” I step into his path.

He side-steps me, still talking. “—said to fucking find her. What part of that was unclear?”

There’s strike two.

I plant myself in front of him, arms crossed. “Listen, Prince Charming. You’re blocking my car, and I’ve got twenty minutes to kiss my kid goodnight before I’m late for work. Move. Your. Shit.”

For the first time, he actually deigns to glance at me. Those light eyes rake over my scrubs, my frizz-popping ponytail, the sweat stain blooming on my collar.

His mouth twitches.

Not a smile—a dismissal.

He turns away.

Oh, hell no.

Strike three.

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool.” I yank my phone out, dial the number on the tow yard sticker plastered to the nearest hydrant, and unleash my sweetest customer service voice. “Hi! There’s a massive, illegally parked car blocking my driveway on Sutter and Rockaway. A Maybach. Uh-huh. You can’t miss it. You’ll be here in five minutes? Perfect. You just made my day.”