10 Days to Ruin

"Somewhere to be?" I ask.

"No," he says. "Just trying to figure out how long I can hide in here before I have to go mingle with the vultures again."

It's my turn to laugh, though hopefully, I sound like less of a barking seal than my new friend here did. "You don't strike me as the kind of guy who's afraid of social obligations."

His scowl darkens. "It's them who should be afraid. If I have to endure one more conversation about Upper West Side brownstone renovations or the guest list of the mayor's New Year's Ball, I'm going to put a fucking bullet in someone's skull."

Again, I'm fairly sure he's making a joke, the same way I told Gina yesterday that if I have to fetch one more nonfat iced mocha latte with extra whip for Sportswriter Steve, I'm going to commit seppuku on the Brooklyn Bridge.

But also, I can't quite forget that he did just literally discuss murder on the phone, so the joke hits a little too close to home for comfort.

"Well," I say as nonchalantly as I can, "I wouldn't want to keep you from your duties for the evening. Sounds like your hands are full, and besides, I've really only been dying to talk about this new backsplash that my neighbor had installed in her..."

He holds up a hand to stop me. "Don't. Not even as a joke."

"Noted," I say, miming zipping my lips. "Backsplashes are off the table."

But as I make the motion, the man's eyes lock onto something. That furrow in his brow returns, carved deeper than ever.

I'm confused, until he says in a stern growl, "You're bleeding."

I look down and, yep, turns out that inconvenient speed bump in my evening hasn't magically disappeared. I feel the familiar lurch in my stomach, the seasick tingle of blood rippling down to the tips of my fingers and toes.

I wobble a bit. The man's hand flies out to steady me once again. "It's really not a big⁠-"

"Hush," he orders, and I immediately fall silent like he just mashed the mute button on the Ariel Ward remote control. "Sink. Now."

Just like that, I'm a marionette in his grasp. He pilots me and my legs obey as we drift toward the sink together.

I'm suddenly powerless to do anything that he doesn't tell me to do. Can't wait, can't think, can't argue, can't flee. I can only receive things, isolated little sensations that come and go like passing clouds.

His hands are big.

He smells nice. Kinda minty.

He's tall, too. Very tall. Some might say too tall. Not me, though. I wouldn't say that. I'd say he's a very good height.

"Let go."

I follow his gaze down to realize I'm death-gripping my own pinky finger. It's going a weird purply-white at the end from lack of circulation. I let him uncurl one digit at a time until I've given up the grasp and he's got my sliced hand cradled in his palm.

He turns on the sink with his free hand and checks the water a few times until it's warm enough. He looks at me. "Don't scream. They'll think I'm doing something I shouldn't be."

Before I can ask who "they" is and question whether maybe they'd be right and whether this whole situation is in fact a bad idea, he passes my hand under the faucet.

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from screaming. White-hot pain flashes through me-but only for a second. Right on its heels is a warm ease.

I can unclench. I can breathe.

"I don't like blood," I explain sheepishly once I open my eyes again.

The man is looking at me, appraising, calm. "Could've fooled me."

I bite my lip so I don't laugh. "I'm a better reporter than I am an actress, I swear."

"Is that so?" He arches a brow. "Let's see it. I'll give you an exclusive."

Frowning, I look him up and down again. "Please don't hate me for asking this, but should I know who you are?"

"You wound me." He touches his chest playfully for a second, then shrugs. "Or maybe you flatter me. I'm used to fawning people blowing smoke up my ass. 'Willfully ignorant' is a nice change of pace."

I wrinkle my nose. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"

Chuckling, he stoops down, opens the cabinet beneath the sink, and withdraws a first aid kit. How he knew it was there is beyond me, but he did it so casually that it's like he just expected the world to provide him what he needed and so it provided. I have to blink and knuckle my eyes until the amazement recedes.

"No," he replies as he unclasps the kit and starts to pull out bandages, gauze, and disinfectant. "A compliment would be me telling you that you look fucking stunning in that dress. Calling you ignorant was merely an observation."

I slap his chest with my good hand. "Ass!" I cry out.

"Now, it's my turn to ask if that's supposed to be a compliment."

I'm not sure whether I want to laugh, scream, strip, or escape. It's just that something about this man is too smooth to be real. He quips, but it's not quippy; he rescues, but he's no white knight; he reaches into empty cabinets and retrieves first aid kits that, logically, simply should not be there.

And yet they are.

My mouth opens and closes while I try and fail to process the gray-suited enigma who's currently pouring hydrogen peroxide over my cut. For a professional wordsmith, I'm really coming up short on insightful things to say here.

He doesn't seem to mind my goldfish impression, though. He just loops gauze around my finger, followed by a bandage. His touch is surprisingly tender.

"You still haven't told me who you are," I manage finally.

"No," he agrees, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I haven't."

"Do I have to beg?"

"I wouldn't mind if you did."

"But would it work?"

"Only one way to find out."

His eyes crinkle at the corners, the only sign that he might be smiling. That mouth remains a cruel slash of bourbon color nestled in the forest of dark beard surrounding it.

"Does this whole mysterious stranger act usually work for you?" I ask, aiming for sardonic but landing somewhere closer to breathless and giddy.

"I wouldn't know." His eyes meet mine, and there's that dangerous glint again. "I've never tried it before."

"Liar."

"Absolutely." He crowds me closer, still holding my hand. His hips kiss mine just as the small of my back kisses the sink behind me. "But you knew that already."

I should back away. I really, really should. Everything about this man is a red flag. Charisma is a red flag. Cleverness is a red flag. Being that stupidly good-looking is like a whole flagpole's worth of red flags.

But I've spent my whole life running from dangerous men, and something about that gets exhausting after a while.