Unwanted Girl. MK Schiller

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      “Yes, but it might rain.” She dropped her voice as if conveying a secret. “I think it will rain actually.”

      “Will it be a soaker, a mist, or a monsoon?” he asked, happy to apply the seldom-used words to his vernacular. The thesaurus hadn’t been a waste of time.

      She clutched her jacket around her. “Definitely a drencher. I don’t think we have to worry about monsoons on this side of the world.”

      “Your forecasts have never been accurate…not once.”

      She bit her lower lip, her expression thoughtful. “Really?”

      “Nope. But in case you’re right, do you have an umbrella?”

      “I don’t have far to go.”

      “Wait here.” He set the bag on a console table and grabbed an umbrella from the hall closet. “Take this.”

      “Oh no, I couldn’t.”

      “You can return it tomorrow.” He held it out to her until she gripped her fingers around it.

      “Thank you.”

      “Be safe.”

      She’d rewarded him with a brilliant, dimple-inducing smile the first time he’d said that, and it became his customary farewell to her in the days that followed. The smile never disappointed.

      “Good-night.”

      “Night,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb until the elevator arrived.

      A minute later, he strolled to the window and watched her exit onto the street, headed north on Bleecker, her coat flapping around her. He reassured himself it was the comfort of routine along with the quality deli meat he craved. It had nothing to do with the delivery girl. Never mind he opted for Chinese or pizza on Wednesdays and Sundays—her days off. Sure, she was a pretty girl, but definitely not his type. He preferred the kind of women he wrote about…buxom blondes and rambunctious redheads with confident personas and hungry appetites.

      This girl was shy, awkward…and for some reason, intriguing. He had no idea why he looked forward to their silly chats, except they made him a little happier. Any ounce of happiness was such a rare occurrence in Nick’s life, he seized it gratefully.

      Nick started the process of shutting down the computer. He’d eat, work out for a few hours, take a shower, read, and go to bed. The same as he did every night. He hesitated at the customary question of Do you want to save changes? There were no changes to save.

      He cracked his knuckles and stretched his back. His fingers landed on the keys like a mocking friend, both beckoning and humiliating him in that order. Except now, the words coursed through his hands with great speed and little consideration as the page filled.

      Sandwich girl, you are a mystery. A sweet, sad smile that never reaches your big brown eyes. Silky hair tucked and clipped away as if forgotten, save for the few rebellious strands struggling for freedom. Would you welcome my advance or retreat into the shadows? I can see your inexperience, an odd fit, wrapping around you like another coat. But there’s something else there, too. A profound strength that exists as if you’re a lone soldier, battling your way through a battered life.

      Nick highlighted the section and hovered a finger above the delete key. Instead, he labeled the document Sandwich Girl and saved it to his hard drive. It wasn’t his best work and nothing he could use in a novel, but it meant something to him. It represented the first paragraph he’d managed in almost two years.

      * * * *

      Shyla Metha watched his window from a darkened corner some distance away. On warmer days, she’d stand in this area for twenty minutes until sufficiently shamed by her lurking. Still, she was drawn to him.

      It wasn’t just his looks, although she couldn’t deny the pull of his broad shoulders, sandy hair that fell somewhere between brown and blond, and dark ocean-colored eyes. The beard was interesting, too, creating an air of mystery around him. Funny, she’d never expected to be attracted to physical characteristics so different from her own, yet she’d developed a dimwitted crush on this boy…man.

      He’d been aloof in the beginning, and she was timid, a combination that never mixed, but one day she’d added a comment about the weather, and he had grinned, the rigid stiffness of his posture easing for a few seconds. Although they came from different worlds, they had something in common. Nick Dorsey was lonely and sad…perhaps even broken.

      She clutched the black umbrella in her hand. Her time was growing short. She’d be returning home when her student visa expired at the end of the semester. Now was the time for risks! Or rather tomorrow when he ordered another sandwich.

      Chapter 2

      Dressed in a charcoal suit, Nick entered the fancy fusion restaurant, wondering why he hadn’t tried to cancel again. Not that Carrie would accept anymore of his bullshit excuses. He adjusted the noose-like knot of his navy necktie as the maître d' showed him to the table. Carrie sat in the corner booth sporting a bright pink dress and even brighter red hair that rebelled against the sedate opulence of the monochromatic colors surrounding her. Unlike him, she enjoyed dressing up. She crossed her legs, pointing the toe of her red-soled, polished heel toward Nick.

      “Do you always have to pick a pretentious restaurant?” he asked before kissing her cheek. He took the seat across from her.

      “When it’s a tax write-off, I do.” She leaned in as if revealing a secret. “The duck here is to die for.”

      “I won’t be dying today,” Nick replied.

      “You look great, Nick. You’ve been working out…a lot,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze his bicep. “You have a license for these guns?”

      “I’m taking advantage of the gym in my building.”

      “What’s your regimen?”

      “I doubled up on my running time. I do reps of one-armed push-ups, sit ups, and chin-ups.” He continued on, detailing his nightly ritual, until he noticed her eyes shifting around the room. “Shit, you don’t want to hear about this, right?”

      “It’s interesting, but honestly you lost me somewhere between progressive overload and muscle confusion. Who knew there were so many terms?”

      “I do,” he snapped. “I’m trying to explain them to you.” Nick sucked in a deep breath, wishing he could erase his harsh statement. Carrie was there for him when he needed someone most, and here he was acting like a complete dickhead.

      “I’m sorry.” He ordered a tumbler of Johnnie Walker Blue from the waiter.

      “Nick.” She leaned into the table, her voice stern but compassionate at the same time. “It’s me, remember? Your best friend?”

      “How are you, friend?”

      “I’m well.” The waiter set down her Chardonnay and Nick’s Scotch. Carrie interrupted in the middle of his specials spiel, requesting another moment. “Are you allowed to drink?” she asked, as soon as the waiter СКАЧАТЬ