Stranger
1055 Words
The closet was agonizingly small, cramped with canvases, mops, and gallons of paint thinner. There was barely enough room for me, let alone a man of his size.
He was pressed entirely against me. My back was flat against the wooden door, and his chest was flush against my front. I could feel the hard lines of his torso, the dampness of his suit, and the rapid, steady thud of his heart.
I opened my mouth to gasp for air, but his large, calloused hand immediately clamped over my mouth.
“Shh,” he breathed, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
His other hand slid down, his long fingers wrapping firmly around my waist to pull me flush against him so we wouldn't knock over the metal buckets behind him.
Footsteps stopped right outside our closet door.
"Check the back," a gruff voice echoed through the gallery.
My heart beat so violently I was sure they could hear it through the door. I squeezed my eyes shut, my whole body trembling. The stranger's grip on my waist tightened. His thumb brushed soothingly against my hip bone—an unexpectedly gentle gesture from a man who looked like he could snap someone's neck with two fingers.
"Nothing," a second voice said, terrifyingly close to the thin wood separating us. "Wait. Look at the floor. Water drops. And there's a fresh smudge of cerulean paint on the counter."
Tension spiked so hard in my veins I thought I was going to pass out. The stranger shifted his weight, his free hand dropping to his waistband. Even in the dark, I knew exactly what he was reaching for. A weapon.
"Leave it," the first voice commanded. "The GPS tracker pinged two streets over. He dumped his jacket. Move."
Moments later, the chimes rang again, and the heavy door clicked shut.
Silence descended on the gallery, save for the rain.
For five agonizing seconds, neither of us moved. The stranger's hand slowly fell away from my mouth, but he didn't step back. He stayed close, his chest heaving gently against mine.
Then, he reached past me and pushed the door open.
Light flooded in as we spilled out of the closet. The sudden crash of adrenaline leaving my system made my knees wobble, but I managed to catch myself against the wall.
He didn't look shaken at all. He casually adjusted his ruined shirt, his face an impenetrable mask. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, answering it without checking the caller ID.
"Did you handle it, sir?" a tiny voice leaked through the speaker.
"I'm fine. Clean up the mess on 5th Avenue," he ordered coldly, hanging up.
He looked at me, his gaze dropping from my messy hair, down to the paint on my apron, and finally to my trembling hands.
"Thank you," he said, his voice was smoother now. "Name your price."
I blinked. "What?"
"For saving my life. I assume you want money. Everyone does." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a slim, black leather wallet.
My eyes drifted past him. Sitting on the front counter, right where I had left it, was the gold-embossed wedding invitation. Derek & Nora. It was still mocking me. Laughing at my misery.
I looked back at the stranger. He was gorgeous. He seems rich giving the air he carries, and he radiated a dark, dangerous power that made the air around him crackle. Right now, I didn't care if he was the devil himself. Hysteria took the wheel of my brain.
"I don't want your money," I said, my voice suddenly steady.
He paused, one dark eyebrow arching in surprise. "Then what do you want?"
I walked over to the counter, picked up the invitation, and held it up.
"My ex-boyfriend is marrying my cousin this Saturday at the Plaza Hotel," I said, my chest heaving. "He thinks I'm a pathetic, heartbroken loser who is going to show up crying, or worse, not show up at all. I saved your life. You owe me."
The stranger stared at me. For a second, I thought he was going to laugh. Or shoot me.
"I want you to be my fake boyfriend," I demanded. "Just for one night. You put on a nice suit, you hold my hand, you look at me like I'm the only woman in the room, and you help me ruin his existence."
Silence stretched between us. The Vivaldi track ended, leaving only the sound of the rain.
Slowly, the corner of his mouth curved up into a devastatingly wicked smirk. It was a smile that promised absolute chaos.
"A wedding," he mused, his eyes darkening with amusement. "You shoved me into a closet, and now you want to take me on a date. You are either very brave, or completely insane."
"Do we have a deal or not?" I challenged, crossing my arms to hide my shaking hands.
He picked up a pen from my counter, took a sleek black business card from his wallet, and scribbled something on the back. He slid it across the glass to me.
"Buy a new dress, tesoro," he murmured softly. "I'll pick you up at eight on Saturday."
Without another word, he turned and walked out of the gallery, disappearing into the torrential rain as if he had never been there at all.
I stood frozen, staring at the empty doorway. My assistant, Jordan, who had been hiding in the basement inventory room the entire time, slowly crept up the stairs, clutching a heavy bronze sculpture like a weapon.
"Fressia... oh my god, are you okay? Who were those men? Who was that?" Jordan babbled, rushing over to the counter.
"I'm fine," I exhaled, picking up the black business card. "And I think I just found my date for the wedding."
I flipped the card over. There was a phone number scrawled in sharp, aggressive handwriting. Above it was a name.
Inker Thiago.
Jordan peered over my shoulder to read it.
The heavy bronze sculpture slipped from his hands, crashing onto the floor with a deafening thud. When I turned to face him, all the color had drained from his face, leaving him looking like a ghost.
"Fress..." Jordan whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "Do you have any idea who that is?"
- Writer
