Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

LENA

The moment my boot hit the train’s metal floor, I spotted him—and everything inside me hit pause.

Damn it.

There he was again. Sitting across from my usual spot like he owned the entire car. I stopped cold in the doorway, weighing my options: awkwardly sit across from Mr. Thunder-Face or retreat like a coward.

I chose retreat.

Backing out a little too quickly, I smacked into a man behind me. His coffee wobbled, and he yelped, “Hey! Watch it!”

“Sorry!” I threw the word over my shoulder, not daring to make eye contact, and ducked my head as I jogged down the platform. The red lights on the train doors began to pulse, and a shrill alarm went off. I lunged into the next car just as the doors hissed shut behind me.

I leaned against the wall, sucking in air and reconsidering every doughnut I’d eaten this month. Once I could breathe again, I scanned for a seat. Several were open, but I ignored the sideways ones—those always made me feel like I was spiraling. I dropped into a forward-facing spot beside an older man reading the Wall Street Journal.

“Sorry,” I murmured, settling in. “Sideways seats mess with my head.”

He glanced up, gave me a polite nod. “I get it.”

I popped in my earbuds, let out a long exhale, and closed my eyes. Just five minutes. That’s all I needed to reset from the chaos.

Then came the tap.

I cracked one eye open. The man beside me gestured at someone standing in the aisle.

I turned—and felt my stomach sink.

“Lena,” said a voice I’d hoped never to hear again. “I thought that was you.”

Of course it was him. Mitch. The chipper, oversharing, crotch-scratching blind date from hell. My sister’s worst matchmaking offense to date.

“Hi, Mitch,” I said with a tight smile. “Long time.”

“I’ve been trying to text you! Must’ve taken your number down wrong.” He scratched at his thigh, and I had to force myself not to stare. Some things just stay with you.

“Oh, yeah. That explains it,” I said weakly.

“You heading to work? Maybe we could grab coffee on the way?”

Before I could respond, the guy next to me lowered his newspaper, glanced between Mitch and me with a subtle raise of his brow.

My lips curved before my brain could catch up. “Actually… I can’t. This is my boyfriend, Matt. We, uh, just got back together.”

“Right,” I added, nudging the stranger with my shoulder. “Right, babe?”

The man didn’t miss a beat. He folded the paper neatly, turned to Mitch, and placed a casual hand on my knee. “Sorry, pal. She’s taken.”

Mitch’s face crumpled a little, like a kicked puppy. “Oh. Okay. Didn’t realize.”

Matt leaned in, voice low and firm. “Move along.”

“Matt,” I scolded, playing the part. “No need to be rude.”

“Not rude,” he said with a shrug. “Just honest.”

Then he kissed me.

Not a polite, get-lost kind of kiss. This one had tongue. Heat. Intent. For a fake boyfriend, he was awfully committed.

I shoved him away. “What the hell was that?”

Mitch was already retreating, hands in his pockets, face red. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Take care, Lena.”

“You too,” I called after him, groaning under my breath.

I rounded on Matt. “You seriously just kissed me? Who even does that?”

He shrugged again, this time pulling a phone from inside his blazer. “My wife’s calling. Could you pipe down?”

My stomach dropped. “You’re married?”

“Was that not obvious?”

“Oh my God,” I muttered, standing up.

He didn’t move his legs to let me pass, so I climbed over him in the most undignified way possible.

Before he could answer his phone, I snatched it, brought it to my lips, and said, “Your husband’s a cheating piece of garbage.”

I tossed the phone into his lap and stormed off down the aisle.

Because of course this was my Monday. Just another entry in the never-ending saga of my ridiculous love life: blind dates that belonged in horror stories, fake boyfriends with real wives, and a knack for picking the worst seat on the train.

I ducked into the next car and finally found an empty forward-facing seat near the back. Peace, at last.

I dropped into it, closed my eyes, and let the gentle rocking of the train soothe my nerves.

Maybe tomorrow I’d take the bus.

A low, sharp growl of a voice cut through the calm like a blade.

“For Christ’s sake, Alan—just handle it. That’s your job, isn’t it? Or am I the only one doing any thinking around here? You don’t get paid to dump problems on my lap. Come back when you’ve got a plan that doesn’t insult my intelligence. God. Even my cat has better instincts than this.”

Charming.

I turned toward the voice, already guessing what kind of man it belonged to—and bingo. Couldn’t have been more textbook. A walking cliché of power and ego wrapped in tailored arrogance. He looked like someone who never heard the word “no” in his entire life—and if he did, he probably bought the person just to fire them afterward.

His face was sculpted like some tragic Greek hero carved out of marble and misery. Jet-black hair, swept back like it was in a constant audition for a cologne ad. His jawline could slice through glass. I almost rolled my eyes straight out of my head.

And yet…I couldn’t look away.

His body language screamed control. He sat with a careless confidence, a designer navy blazer folded across his lap like a royal mantle, and a crisp pinstriped shirt clung to him just enough to hint at the body underneath. A pair of polished black shoes—easily worth more than my rent—rested like thrones for his feet. I could just tell he was one of those guys who sat through shoe shines scrolling through emails like the workers were invisible.

The kicker? He wasn’t even speaking anymore and still looked like the human version of a Monday morning hangover. Brow furrowed, jaw tight, a pulse thudding at the side of his neck. He shoved a hand through his hair with a level of aggression usually reserved for street fights.

I took it all in with shameless interest. He was unreasonably hot—even if he radiated the same emotional warmth as a marble statue. There was something magnetic about his anger. A predator on the edge. A lion in a glass cage. The kind of man women wanted to tame and men wanted to be, though neither stood a chance.

His sleeves were pushed up, and a high-end watch—probably worth a semester of college—sat snug against his wrist. He kept twisting it back and forth like it was a nervous tic. I wondered how often other people fidgeted around him like that.

Then his phone buzzed again.

He lifted it with a sigh, his voice dropping into a gravelly tone that went straight to my stomach. “Yeah?”

My legs crossed instinctively. I was an absolute sucker for that husky, smoky kind of voice—the type that came with a warning label and a guaranteed heartbreak.

He shifted his weight, jaw clenching tighter. “No. He waits, or he reschedules. I said I’ll be there when I’m there.”

Pause.

“Then what’s your name? Lauren? Linda? I don’t care. Just pass on the message and don’t call again unless it’s on fire.”

He ended the call and muttered something under his breath that sounded like “useless” or “incompetent” or maybe both.

Guys like him fascinated me. They floated through life on silk pillows, born at the top of the ladder or lucky enough to cheat their way up. One glance at his finger told me he wasn’t married, though something about him suggested he didn’t stay alone for long. I could already imagine his life: overpriced coffee, luxury offices, sharp suits, women he didn’t learn the names of. Sex like business meetings. Fast. Efficient. All about the close.

I was betting he didn’t give as much as he took. Still… I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t test that theory—just once. Just to know what it felt like.

Then again, he wasn’t looking for someone like me. No way.

He probably dated tall, bony socialites with trust funds and beige wardrobes. The kind of women who walked like swans and smiled like it was rehearsed. Me? I was built like a woman, not a runway hanger. My curves had opinions, my mouth even more. I wore combat boots, not stilettos. My black hair spilled past my waist, the ends dyed electric blue—today, at least. The color changed depending on my mood. Blue was peace. Red? War.

He’d never look twice at someone like me. Not unless I was carrying his dry cleaning.

Still, it was fun to imagine.

That was, until the train screeched to a halt, jerking me from my thoughts. Mr. Iceberg Face stood up in a rush, and suddenly the air was full of something expensive and arrogant. His cologne was thick and dark and… wow. Even his scent was obnoxiously attractive.

And just like that, he was gone—striding through the doors with that signature storm cloud hanging over his head.

I exhaled. Probably for the first time in five minutes.

What a prick.

What a dangerously beautiful, entirely infuriating prick.

And what a perfect beginning to my Tuesday.