Her cheeks tinged pink, but she fisted her hands. “Yes, because I’m certainly stalking a stage crew member in my spare time.”
What made her think he was stage crew, as opposed to an actor? Even after looking down at his admittedly worn slacks, he couldn’t figure it out. Perhaps it was his messenger tote. Had she mistaken it for a utility bag? Then he saw the T-shirt, and he could’ve slapped himself on the forehead. Of course she thought he would be in the stage crew. He was wearing a shirt that quite literally placed him as one. He should correct her. Let her know who he really was. But then again …
Perhaps not.
He shrugged. “I’ll have you know that stage crew are just as stalker worthy as actors. If not more.”
“If you say so.” She cocked her head. “I’ll have to take your word for it. The first one I met knocked me down within seconds, so color me unimpressed.”
He flinched. “Yeah. About that. Sorry that I knocked you on your arse.” He made a sweeping gesture toward her general hip vicinity. His gaze dropped down, and stayed. She had a hell of an arse, after all. “Hopefully it’s not too sore. I’d hate to think of you limping through the streets on my account. Need some help getting home?”
“First you knock me down, then you ask how my butt feels,” She tilted her head, her green eyes lit up mischievously. All signs of her earlier tears were gone. “And now you want to follow me home? I think I’ll pass, but thanks.”
A horn beeped in the distance, setting off a domino effect of honking. New Yorkers had no patience whatsoever. He rubbed the back of his neck and stifled a laugh. He should walk away now. Go home. Get bladdered with a bottle of whiskey. Save his voice for tomorrow. “What? That’s not a normal American introduction?”
She canted her head. “Not really. We usually save the butt talk for the second meeting. And we usually wait to beat each other up until then, too.”
“Blimey. I had no idea.” He grinned. “If we meet again, I’ll refrain from knocking you down, and then we’ll be squared up. Deal?”
“Somehow I think this is a one-time-only thing,” she said, waving a hand toward the back of the alley. “As nice as you seem to be, I think we’re done here, uh … ?”
“Name’s Justin.” He grinned and used his best sleazy-guy voice, holding his hand out for hers. “You look familiar. Do you come here often?”
“Wh-What?” She shot him a startled look and then laughed. She looked surprised at the sound that escaped her, even going so far as to cover her mouth. “Uh. No. I don’t come here often.” She shook her head, but a smile played at her lips. “And I can’t believe you just used the corniest pick up line ever invented on me in a dark alley. That’s a first.”
He bowed. “Well, you’re the first woman I’ve dumped on the ground, so I’d say we make a great team.”
“Yeah, sure.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and averted her eyes. She started to walk past him. “Any who, thanks for the puddle and the wet skirt. It’s been great. Really. A fantastic end to an otherwise horrible day.”
He cleared his throat and tried to think of something to say to get her to stay. Her banter was providing the perfect distraction. And he wanted to make her laugh again. He liked her laugh. “Why were you here? In this dark alley at night?”
She stilled. “Would you believe I was planning to mug you?”
“If that’s the case,” he took his bag off and held it out. “Here you go. It’s yours.”
She flitted a gaze down at it. “No thanks. I changed my mind. Can’t rob people in a wet skirt. It’s just not fashionable.”
He chuckled, and of their own accord his eyes focused on her arse. The wet skirt defined every single curve, leaving little to the imagination. “I didn’t know society rules held out over nefarious robberies.”
“Fashion always wins,” she replied, turning back to him with a smile. “It’s girl code.”
His heart sped up at her soft smile. She really was gorgeous. “Is it also girl code to look so stunning in a wet skirt?”
“No, that’s just me.” Her cheeks went red. “I was here because I went for a walk. I was scoping out the theater and got distracted.”
He stepped closer, his breath held. Reaching out, he swiped a hand across her damp cheek, smearing away the makeup that had escaped with her tears. “You had a little mascara on your cheek.” He hesitated, wondering if he should ask her why she’d cried. He wanted to know, needed to know, but he barely knew the woman. “Must’ve been from the splashing of the puddle.”
She moved away from him and swiped her hands under her eyes with shaky hands. “Yeah. Must’ve been.”
“Hey … ” He watched her, not missing the tight lines around her mouth. Something was wrong with her. He knew it. “Are you all right?”
She flushed. “I’m fine. I’ll be going now.”
He clenched his fists. He couldn’t force her to talk to him or to stay if she didn’t want to. “See you around our alley sometime?”
“I doubt it.” She clung to her purse. “I don’t like plays … or musicals, so I’m not usually here.”
Wait. What? She didn’t like Broadway? “You’re from New York, correct?”
“Yeah. So?”
“I thought it was written in the laws of New York City that all New Yorkers had to like Broadway, or they would be hanged until death in Times Square for all to see.”
She laughed again. “If so, I’m doomed.”
“Don’t worry.” He leaned closer. So close he could smell the soft scent of her perfume. Something flowery and light—like her laugh. “I won’t turn you in to the authorities.”
“Really?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “You mean, it’ll be our little secret?”
“Absolutely.” He got lost in her eyes. There were little specks of amber in the green. He hadn’t seen that from further away. “Our dirty little secret. But only if … ”
She cocked her head. “If what?”
Should he say what was on his mind? Or should he stick to the original plan of a night at home … alone? Her rose-scented perfume filled his senses more completely than the evening’s July heat, and he knew he didn’t want to let her leave just yet. He wanted to make her laugh some more. To chase away the shadows of pain that still lurked in her eyes even now. He might have knocked her down, but now? He wanted to pick her back up.