Page 4 of Sinful Abandon

I shrug with a feeling of disgust. “Not the worst I’ve heard.”

He skeptically eyes me, but I don’t elaborate.

I fix my trench and tie the belt back up. Serves me right for having a jacket with no buttons. Thought it would make for a sexy negligee reveal. Not a peep show for all of Chicago.

I run my fingers along the inside of my palm. This night is not turning out how I expected. I was supposed to be getting boinked by a millionaire in a skyscraper. Not ogled by strangers like I’m a two-bit hooker.

Maybe Jarrod is texting me with his apologies. I turn to my bag, but it’s not on my shoulder. I feel around the inside of the cab, but it’s not here.

“Fuck my life!” I shout into the open air.

“Is there any particular reason we’re fucking life right now?” the man asks.

“Not any life. Just my life.” I run my hand through my hair. “I left my bag in my office. I must have dropped it when…” I start to say but then realize I’m digressing. “I have no money.” I lean forward to the driver. “Let me out. I’ll walk.”

The car starts to move to the right.

The man next to me throws his arm across my body and says to the driver, “No. Keep driving.” Cobalt blues turn to me. “I got this.”

I lean back to get a good look at him. He’s about my age, mid- to late-twenties. He fills out his button-down well, and his fitted gray trousers showcase his strong thighs. His shoes are brown and generic. No Ferragamos on this guy. His messenger bag has a name I’ve never heard of, but it looks new.

Despite his designer-free clothing and lack of expensive cologne, he’s really good-looking. It’s only Sunday night, but he could be out, getting laid by any single gal in Chi-Town. Unless he’s gay, which is a possibility.

“Why the hell would you pay for my cab? You were shouting at me a minute ago. Now, you’re being…chivalrous?”

He lowers that gaze, sending heat and strength directly to me. “I am not about to let a woman in lingerie and a trench coat walk twenty blocks home, alone, at night in the city.”

I scrunch my eyes at him. I don’t trust people, especially ones who do nice things for strangers.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Ryan. What’s yours?”

“Heather. Where are you from?”

“Evergreen Park. You?”

“Where the hell is that?”

I know I’m being rude, but he doesn’t seem to care because he just laughs lightly and shakes his head.

“You’re obviously not from here.”

His hand rises to the lever on the ceiling of the cab. The action makes his bicep protrude through his shirtsleeve that is rolled up to his elbows. I can’t help but notice the lean muscles of his forearm as well.

“It’s a suburb about thirty minutes away.”

His words make my eyes flutter up to his face. I blink for a second as I try to recall what he was saying. Or did he just ask me something?

“Queens, New York,” I say.

The corners of his mouth rise, as do his brows. “You don’t sound like you’re from New York. Where’s your accent?”

Nice of him to notice. I worked hard to get rid of that dreadful Queens accent. With my dad already the drunken version of Archie Bunker, I refused to bear the nasally tone of my relatives, with each word drawn out way too long. Every time I feel the inflection approach the back of my throat, I snap into action and put my perfect diction back into place.

“I got rid of it,” I say matter-of-factly.

This piques Ryan’s interest. “How exactly does one get rid of an accent?”