“Oh.” I press my lips together. “Maybe another time?”

He rakes his fingers through his hair. “Look, Lexi, I think you’re cool and everything, but when I asked you out, I wasn’t really asking you out. I just wanted some ideas for the wedding. You’re creative, and I thought maybe, if I had your help, I could impress Dana enough to get a promotion.”

Oh. My. Hell.

“You think I’m cool? Seriously? That’s all you have to say?” If I had a penny for every time I’ve been told that, my jobless problem wouldn’t be a problem. “After making out with me in the garage for two straight weeks?”

“I thought we were having fun. I thought you understood that.” He pats my arm. “Look, I have some errands to run. Take care, okay?” With that, he turns on his heels and rushes away like I’m a rabid dog about to bite him. I kind of wish I was so I could have a legitimate excuse to run up and rip him apart.

Instead, I watch him walk away until he stops by Julia’s desk and starts flirting with her.

I look away, vowing to myself no more hooking up with superficial hot guys. From now on, I’m only going to date average looking weirdoes.

Since I don’t have any more change to pay bus fare, I have to walk the twenty-something blocks back to my apartment. Fortunately, it’s stopped raining, but the puddles covering the ground splash up and soak my tights every time I take a step.

I’m bouncing up and down on my toes, trying to warm up as I wait for a streetlight to change, when a boy around eight years old suddenly runs up to me with a sparkling neon pink marker in his hand and starts scribbling on my tights.

“Hey, back off, little dude,” I warn as I step back out of his reach.

“No way. I can’t. I’m a street artist, and you’re my muse.” He laughs wickedly and rushes at me again, waving the marker tauntingly.

I whirl around, hugging my box as I skitter out of the way, but I roll my ankle and fall down. I drop the box to brace the fall with my hands. The concrete scrapes my palms and rips the knees of my tights.

I glare at the boy. “You evil little troll.”

He points the marker at me. “I can make you look like an evil little troll if you want me to.”

I narrow my eyes at him as I stumble to my feet. Before I can stand up all the way, though, a set of fingers wrap around my upper arm, and I’m lifted to my feet as if I weigh nothing.

“Sorry about that,” a deep, male voice says. “Are you okay?”

I brush dirt and mud off my tights, skirt, and hands, but I only seem to make more of a mess. “Yep, just peachy.” Sarcasm drips from my voice as I elevate my gaze to him. “He’s kind of a …” I trail off.

The guy standing in front of me is younger than I expected—around my age—with green eyes, messy, brown hair, and a scruffy jawline. He’s definitely good-looking, but what’s really throwing me off is the strangest sensation that I know him. And the stunned look on his face makes me wonder if I do.

“Do I know you?” I ask, bending over to grab my box from the ground.

Right at that moment, the wind kicks up and blows up my skirt. I hurriedly tug it down, but I’m sure a few people passing by probably got a glimpse of the granny panties I’m rocking because I haven’t done laundry in, like, a month.

The guy scoops up my box, but instead of handing it to me, he keeps ahold of it. “No … I don’t think so.” He looks away from me as he says it.

He’s lying. I can tell. But why?

“What’s your name, then?” I ask.

His lips quirk. “You really expect me to give my name to some random woman on the street? A woman, I might add, who just flashed half the people walking by?”

I grip the bottom of my skirt, securing it down. “I didn’t do it on purpose. It was the wind.” And fate.

“How do I know that for sure?” he asks. “Maybe it’s your thing.”

“You think my thing is flashing people on the street? Really? Do I look that crazy?”

He eyes over my torn tights covered in marker and my muddy skirt and shirt, and his brow arches in insinuation.

“I don’t always look like this,” I say indignantly. “I’ve just had a shitty day, and he”—I wave my hand at the kid who is now scribbling on the side of a parked car—“made it ten times worse.”

“Yeah, sorry about Trevor. He’s going through a … phase.” He glances down at the little boy and frowns.

“You know that marker is permanent, right?” I say to the sexy stranger.

His eyes widen then he hastily hands me my box and gently pulls the boy to his feet. “All right, little man, hand over the marker,” Sexy Stranger says to the boy.

The devil child shakes his head. “You can’t take an artist’s tool away from him!”

“Trevor,” Sexy Stranger warns, trying to remain calm. “Give me the marker. Public artists don’t go around coloring on cars.”

The boy tucks the marker behind his back. “Some do. I’ve seen it on the internet.”

“Okay …” Sexy Stranger struggles for words. “Well, they don’t color on people’s clothes.”

“I don’t think you understand public art,” the boy says, backing away from him. “I have to color whenever the urge strikes me. That’s how it works.”

What a crazy—albeit smart—little weirdo.

“Need any help?” I offer, even though it’s the last thing I want to do right now.

“No, it’s okay,” Sexy Stranger waves off my help then warns the boy, “Don’t run away again. Your mom’s already going to be pissed off at me for that stunt you pulled at the toy store.”

“Art is art! And that display looked much better with my art on it!” the boy shouts then spins around and takes off running.

“Shit,” Sexy Stranger curses then runs after him, calling out to me, “Sorry about everything! I really am!”

I watch him run away, wishing I’d at least gotten his name. Then again, he’s probably married, so what does it really matter?

Sighing, I head back down the crowded sidewalk toward my apartment. I must really look like a crazy mess now because, while I’m waiting to cross the street, some old dude gives me five dollars and promises me that God loves all his children, even the hookers and sinners.

By the time I trudge into my apartment, I’m cold, wet, tired, and my eyes are nearly swollen shut from sobbing. I flop down on my bed, ready for the day to be over, like somehow overnight, my life will restart, and everything will be okay again. I know that’s not the case. I’ve been fired enough times to know I’m going to spend a couple of weeks applying to jobs and being called in for interviews, all while worrying if I’m going to make next month’s rent.

Grimacing, I kick off my shoes and drag my butt out of bed to grab my ancient laptop off my desk. While it’s booting up, I slip on a pair of boots and jog across the street to order a sinfully delicious slice of pizza with the five bucks the guy gave me. On the way back inside, while I’m stuffing my face with greasy goodness, I pick up my mail.

I haven’t gotten it in a few days because I lost the key and just found it last night. The box is filled with a ton of magazines and junk mail. The only thing of importance is a letter from my landlord.

I tear it open and my heart nearly stops. “An eviction notice? What the hell?”

I’m never late on my rent. I feel like banging my head on the wall. Could this day get any worse?

Chapter 3

After making a call to the landlord, I find out the bank returned my last month’s check because of insufficient funds. When I check my bank account, I discover a long list of charges not made by me.

“I can promise you,” I tell the very snide operator on the phone. “I didn’t spend two hundred and seven bucks at Gary’s Extravagant and Extraordinary Sex Toy Adult Shop.”

“I understand your frustration ma’am,” she replies in a dry tone. “And, like I said earlier, we’re looking into it, but it might take seven to ten days to process a refund.”