Torn(61)

Such is the conversation on subway trains in New York City. You’d think I’d be oblivious to it all by now. Most of those who have lived here for decades have an innate ability to silence the staccato sounds of voices, traffic, and the underlying hum that is constantly hanging in the air in Manhattan.

For those of us who are considered fresh transplants, the timbres of the city are still part of its irrefutable charm. I never thought I’d get accustomed to the constant buzz of the traffic when I closed my eyes to sleep each night but now it’s the lull that helps me drift off. I’ve only been here two years but I know that I’d long for the frenzied energy of this place if I ever decided to move back home to Florida.

“I’d like your honest opinion.” I feel the slight pressure of a strong shoulder rub against mine. “Chapter seven is my personal favorite. Have you gotten that far yet?”

I glance down at the thick book resting on my lap. I know, without a doubt now, that he’s talking to me. I’ve already had two, one-sided, conversations today about the book. One was with a woman waiting in line at the dry cleaners. The other was just fifteen minutes ago with the man who runs the bodega by my office. In both cases, I just smiled, nodded and listened to them rattle on about the awe inspiring detective novel I’m lugging around Manhattan with me.

“I haven’t,” I say quietly without looking at him.

No eye contact will make it easier for me to ignore him if he persists. I’m not a rude person but I do know how to protect myself with a perimeter of ignorance. Men give up easily if you pretend they don’t exist. Most men do, that is. This one doesn’t seem to be taking the hint.

“Have far are you?” A large hand brushes against my skirt. “You at least got past the first chapter, right?”

Physical touching is a no-no. I scoot more to my left, trying to gain even a few more inches in distance from him. This train is bursting at capacity with commuters. Part of that is the time of day and the other is the route.

It’s early evening and I’m headed for Times Square, one of the few places in the city I’d be happy never seeing again. It’s too much for me. There are too many people, too much noise, the smells overwhelming and the energy frenetic.

“I’m not trying to accost you.” He laughs. It’s a sexy growl and a few women actually turn to see the source. Judging by the way they linger when they look at him, he’s not hard on the eyes.

“I’m just trying to get to a book signing,” I confess, hoping he’ll leave me alone if I tell him, politely, that I’m not looking to hook up. “I need to get this signed for my boss. It’s a gift from his wife.”

“You’re hoping to meet the author? Nicholas Wolf? I heard the line for the signing is around the block already. People have been waiting all afternoon to meet him.”

“Dammit.” I finally turn to look at his face. “You’re not serious, are you?”

He’s as good looking as I imagined him to be based on his voice. Seriously hot. Like seriously, I will give this man my number if he asks me for it, hot.

Black hair, blue eyes, and just the right amount of stubble on his face are the appetizer. His perfect teeth, rugged jaw and his lips, oh those lips, are the main course. He’s wearing a wool coat and jeans so who knows what dessert is, but it would be delicious. I know it would be so delicious.

“I’m serious,” he says. “If you get in line now, the store is going to close before you’ll get that book signed for your boss.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t get the appeal. I have no idea why Gabriel likes it so much. He told me to read it so I read the first chapter and…” I point my thumb towards the floor.

“Thumbs down?” He cocks a dark winged brow. “You didn’t like it?”

“It’s too wordy. I was too bored to finish it.”

He stares at the book before he speaks again. “I take it Gabriel is your boss? You’re getting it signed for him?”

I nod sharply.

“Give it to me. I’d like to show you something.”

It’s not my book and since we’re moving at breakneck speed inside a subway car, it’s not as though he can grab it and run. I slide it from my lap to his.

“What’s your name?” he asks as his hand dives into a leather bag sitting on the floor at his feet.

I watch his every movement. “Sophia. My name is Sophia. What’s your name?”

He pulls a silver pen from out of the bag and before I can protest, he opens the cover of the book and starts writing.

Well, shit. I bet it’s his number. I’m not going to stop him. I’ll just buy another book for Mr. Foster and keep this one for me.

He closes the cover of the book, slides the pen back into his bag and turns to look at me. “My name is Nicholas. Nicholas Wolf.”