Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“What do you mean, is that even a thing anymore?” I can’t stop from sounding incredulous. “You can get sick from undercooked meat!”
He lowers his head to get a better look at me, peering at me over the frames of his sunglasses. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not going to eat undercooked meat.”
Why I’m bothering to lecture a complete stranger is beyond me. But here I go, talking at a grown man, one who can make his own decisions. If he wants to eat the chicken and pay the consequences, that is on him. He’ll have to learn the hard way that chowing down on skewers of street meat might come back to bite him in the ass.
That’s a him problem, not a Harlow problem.
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
Stop talking, Harlow. This is none of your business . . .
Plus, this is New York City; he’s probably more shocked I’m speaking to him and not ignoring his presence like everyone around us is doing. Because that’s what people do here, ignore everyone else.
But I’m from the Midwest, and we don’t ignore people there.
Meddling is what we do—smiling at strangers, opening doors, saying “excuse me” when we cut someone off, apologizing profusely, and sharing wisdom are what we do best.
Mr. Athletic glances back and forth from me to the proprietor of the food truck, a man who’s leaning on the stainless steel countertop, clearly wanting to get involved in our conversation and give his opinion.
He flashes the food truck guy a toothy grin and a wink, his teeth all but sparkling in the sunlight.
Ugh.
“My buddy Reyansh would never do me dirty like that, would you, Reyansh?”
Without another word he turns his back on me, crossing his arms as he waits. The movement pulls at the snug T-shirt, thin fabric straining over his back muscles.
Damn, he’s in good shape.
Like, seriously good shape . . .
The man inside the food truck—Reyansh—smiles widely. “No, Andy, everything cooked perfect.” He does a chef’s kiss, the two men coconspirators against my interference. “That will be fourteen dollars.”
Mr. Athletic turns to face me, grinning happily with a cocky countenance, his coveted skewers now in hand. The pair of them are like two sparklers on the Fourth of July, long and dangerous if not handled properly.
I eyeball them as he rifles through the pockets of his running shorts, finally pulling out a small stack of bills. He counts them with one hand.
Frowns.
Glances up at Reyansh with furrowed brow. “Shit. I only have twelve bucks.”
Reyansh stares down at the guy.
The guys stares up at Reyansh.
Reyansh stares down at the guy.
I stare at them both, my gaze going back and forth between the two of them.
Ugh.
“Are we going to stand here all day waiting for two dollars to fall out of your asshole?” I mumble, digging into the pocket of my laptop sleeve to snag two crisp dollar bills.
“Here.” I extend the bills to the guy with a smirk. “Consider this a gift.”
He reaches for the cash but hesitates, pulling his hand back. “Are you sure?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s two dollars. I think I can manage.”
“I can pay you back.”
“How?” My brows shoot up. “How are you going to pay me back?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Can I Cash App you?”
“The fee will cost more than two dollars.” It actually won’t, but it’s definitely not worth the hassle of standing here while he fishes out his phone and I fish out mine, yada yada. “Dude, just take the money.”
I give the two bills in my hand a shake.
He accepts them reluctantly—slowly—adding the dollars to his small stack before setting the exact amount on Reyansh’s outstretched hand. He gives another glance back at me.
“If you’re sure.” He grins. “Or we could stand here a little longer to see if cash will actually fall out of my asshole.”
I laugh.
“If you don’t get sick or shit yourself, yeah, come find me.” I sound so cocky, tilting my chin up confidently. “I’ll buy you dinner. If you do get sick, you owe me dinner.”
Not that I’ll ever see him again, and we both know it.
But it’s amusing to make fun of him and predict his future, even though I won’t be around to see it.
This is New York City. It’s filled with millions of people—what are the odds our paths will cross again? Even if he does indeed get sick, I’d never know about it; we are strangers in Central Park.
“Deal. You’ll buy me dinner.”
Those blinding white teeth chomp into one end of the skewer and slide a whole hunk off. It disappears into his mouth.
He chews.
Holds the stick in my direction as if to prove how delicious it is.
“See. Chicken is fine.” He chews theatrically, making the kind of obnoxious food noises a person does when something tastes delicious. “Mmm, my God, this is so good.”