Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“There. That’s him in a box,” I say. I pick it up and balance it against my hip. “He’ll spend weeks finishing it and then glue it together so it’s permanent. That’s his thing.”
“He sounds like a man who doesn’t do anything halfway,” Rhett says.
“Exactly.”
I smile, my arms full of treasures. It feels like I will be carrying pieces of this city home with me. We head to the counter, and I set everything down, fishing in my purse for my wallet.
What happens next happens so fast that I almost don’t register it. There is a blur of movement at the edge of my vision, then there’s a tug on my hand, and suddenly the strap of my purse is yanked free, and it’s gone, just like that. I gasp, spinning around. A man in a grey hoodie is sprinting towards the door with my purse clutched under his arm.
“Hey,” I shout, dashing to the door. “Stop him! He stole my purse!”
But of course, the crowd outside barely flinches. Times Square swallows noise, and one more shout is nothing.
Before I can even think of what to do next, Rhett has ducked around me. He shoots past the door in a streak of black coat and determination, barreling through the door after the thief. My heart lurches.
“Rhett,” I shout, and he too doesn’t hear me, or if he does, he doesn’t stop.
The shopkeeper shouts something, but I can’t process it. Rhett and the thief turn a corner, and I stumble back from the doorway, clutching at the counter for balance so that I can see the other side of the building through the window. I can see Rhett weaving through the crowd like a predator locked on his prey. The thief darts left, then right, then left again, trying to lose him in the crush of tourists, but Rhett is at least a head taller than everyone else, so he doesn’t lose sight of him. He is relentless. People shout, scattering as the two of them zigzag between them. I can’t breathe, and my chest feels tight. Adrenaline floods my system, making my hands shake.
Then it happens. The thief misses a step, and collides with a man selling balloons. He stumbles, and Rhett seizes the moment. He lunges, grabbing the strap of my purse with one hand and the thief’s hoodie with the other. The guy jerks free, and disappears into the crowd. Rhett stays upright, my purse secure in his grip.
He jogs back toward the shop and comes in, heading straight for me, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts, but he has a big grin on his face. When he reaches me, he holds my purse out.
“I do believe this is yours.”
My knees almost give out. Relief crashes into me so hard I have to grab the counter again.
“Oh my God, thank you. That was dangerous. Why did you chase the guy? What were you thinking? What if he was armed? This is New York. Robbers carry guns and knives, you know. This is a just a cheap bag I bought at a sale in River Island. You could have died for £39.99,” I rant uncontrollably. I realize I’m about to hyperventilate and stop suddenly. I take a deep, calming breath. “Are you … are you ok?”
“I’m fine,” he says gently, looking deep into my eyes. His hair is a little mussed, his eyes a little wild, but otherwise he looks maddeningly composed. “The guy is gone. You got your stuff back. I’m fine. It’s all good.”
I take the purse with trembling hands, and press it against me. My heart is fluttering like a freaking butterfly, and my throat is behaving strangely. What on earth is wrong with me? Why do I feel as if I have been punched in the solar plexus by a heavyweight boxer? It must be the shock. It scared me silly.
Then, without warning, in that winded moment, watching him, adrenaline still humming between us, I realize something undeniable: I’ve … I’ve … Dear God! Fallen for him. Completely. Helplessly. Hopelessly. I want to pull him into a big hug and never let go. Never let him do something so crazy again. There’s no pretending my heart is not hurting for him. I never hurt like this for George. I just felt safe and comfortable.
“Rhett,” I start, but the words catch. Because what do I even say? Thanks for saving my purse, and also, bad news, I’m in love with you. I always knew I could have a future in writing greeting cards.
He studies me for a beat, his expression unreadable, then glances away, like he can’t understand what’s up with me, so he’s giving me space to gather myself. I swallow hard and make a decision. I refuse to let one petty thief ruin this night.