You want me, Chloe Burke. 

“Stop it, please,” I said, pressing my fingers against the window of the display case with a mournful groan. “I’m going to be late.”

You can’t resist me. 

“I know. Trust me, I know.”

Why fight it? 

“Because I can’t afford you. Not anymore. You need to leave me alone.”

The Jimmy Choos sat behind a pane of glass in the shop, mocking me. Sparkling in the early morning sunlight, they almost blinded me with their glittery glory. I wished I could touch them, but although physically they sat only inches away, the chasm between my feet and those shoes felt immeasurable. 

I could never have afforded them, I could barely afford my morning coffee at this point, but I wanted them so badly it hurt. Those shoes weren’t merely an exquisite masterpiece of footwear design. They symbolized everything I’d once had…and everything I’d lost. 

A few short years ago, my life had been so very different. It had been happy and close to perfect, a dream-like existence revolving around nothing more pressing than parties, dresses, shopping, and shoes. 

So many shoes. 

Chic Gucci pumps. Sexy Louboutins. Louis Vuitton power shoes. Manolo Blahnik gladiator boots fit for a warrior goddess. And glittering, sparkly, spectacular heels by Jimmy Choo. Footwear from a fairy tale.

But on this miserable Monday morning, as the cold October wind ruffled my red hair and made me shiver in my old coat, I didn’t feel chic or sexy or powerful. No one would ever call me a warrior goddess, and my life had become the furthest thing possible from a fairy tale. I was someone who may have been almost famous once upon a time, but now I’d turned into a big fat nobody.

I straightened my spine and forced myself to step away. I needed to spend what money I had on other things. Important things. Things I would never have even considered in my previous life. 

Food. Utilities. Lunches for my baby sister. A mountain of medical bills.

I snuck a peek at my watch and cringed. At this rate, I barely had time to grab coffee for my evil boss and make it to the office by nine. If I came in late again, I’d have to listen to Felicity Fuller, the meanest manager in the world, rant for an hour. Maybe even two. Then she would have a bad attitude all day. 

Felicity Fuller. The Queen of Baditude.

Stealing one last, longing glance over my shoulder at the shoes, I took off at a trot to the coffee shop. The line seemed short, but I ended up behind a woman in an “I Love New York” T-shirt who questioned every item on the menu as she fiddled with her camera and adjusted her fanny pack. 

“Can you tell me what’s in a mocha?” asked Ms. Fanny Pack, squinting at the menu. “And what the heck is a mac-chi-a-to?”

Oh, no, I thought, as panic set in. No, no, no, no.

How had she never heard of a mocha? This was bad. Judging by appearances, and by lots of time spent waiting in line at this very coffee shop, I concluded this particular woman probably wouldn’t even enjoy a mocha. I pegged her as a pumpkin spice latte kind of gal. Since that was hardly the kind of thing I could announce to a perfect stranger, however, I waited, tapping my foot impatiently as she went through the entire menu. At long last, she decided on—huge surprise—a pumpkin spice latte. But then, sadly, a whipped cream discussion ensued. 

To whip or not to whip? That was the question. Simple, and yet also remarkably complicated. 

My foot tapping nearly morphed into stomping as the clock ticked on and on. The transaction took close to six minutes, and I didn’t have a single moment to waste this morning.

When I finally got to the front of the line, the barista, a coffee-making angel named Gina, already had my order ready and waiting. She handed me two large cups in a cardboard carrier, a half-caf soy latte for my boss, and a small cappuccino with extra whip and a dusting of cinnamon for me. 

I nearly wept with gratitude. “Gina, you’re saving my life this morning.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Gina her voice full of sympathy. “Running late again, Chloe?”

“As always.” 

I paid for the coffee, giving Gina a generous tip. Although I had very little money of my own, she was an excellent barista, and the most patient person I’d ever met. Also, the poor girl made even less than me—a real travesty. 

She watched me juggle my purse, cell phone, and the flimsy cardboard cup holder with a concerned expression on her kind face. “Be careful. You wouldn’t want to spill coffee on your pretty coat.”

I sent her a parting wave. “I’ll be careful. Thank you.”

My coat, a remnant from the days when I could afford cashmere and didn’t worry about buying something white and frivolous, used to be an item I wore for the color contrast it provided with my red hair. Now I wore it for one reason alone—to keep me warm on a cold October morning in New York City. Fashion no longer had anything to do with it. 

I left the coffee shop, joining the swell of humanity as I dodged pedestrians with practiced ease and moved as quickly as I could in heels. My shoes, another item from the old days, were pink Manolo Blahniks. Scuffed from overuse and no longer in style, they also happened to be the only decent shoes I had left. 

I increased my pace in an effort to beat the light. Sadly, as soon as I reached the corner, it changed, and I skidded to a halt behind a large group of people waiting to cross. This would never work. I had to get to the front of the pack if I wanted to run for it once the light changed.

“Excuse me,” I said as I wiggled through the crowd. I earned dirty looks from some of my fellow pedestrians, but I kept moving. Someone swore when I bumped them with my purse. Another person huffed in annoyance when I elbowed them in the back.

“Pardon me,” I said. I gave them an apologetic look, but I kept moving.

I stepped around an older man with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He wobbled when I brushed against him, a bit unsteady on his feet, and glared at me from beneath bushy grey eyebrows. 

“Sorry,” I said, wincing. Knocking over an old man would be exactly what I needed to make this morning even more of a nightmare.

One step at a time, I eased my way to the curb. I’d nearly reached the front of the pack when a tall, smelly man in a black overcoat bumped into me. He reeked of body odor, sweat, and something oddly minty. Wrinkling my nose at the smell, I squeezed past him, trying to ignore his stench. If I hustled the last two blocks and didn’t get stuck at another light, I might still have a chance to get to work before Felicity began her tirade.

I hovered, toes hanging off the curb. How did these things always happen to me? I’d left my apartment on Park Avenue extra early this morning, after sending my sister off to school and setting up my father by the window in his wheelchair. I’d said goodbye to him and kissed his gaunt cheek, but he didn’t answer. He never answered. It had become our morning routine. 

What should have been a quick subway ride followed by a short walk through the Flatiron District had taken an extra thirty minutes. Why? Because of those shoes. Because of the woman in the coffee shop. Because I had poor time management skills. Because I’d become a living, breathing example of Murphy’s Law. Whatever could go wrong did go wrong. Always. 

I braced myself, muscles tense, as the Madison Avenue traffic crawled past. When the light, at last, turned red, the crowd behind me surged with unexpected force, knocking me right off the curb. I moaned as hot coffee spilled all over my fingers and down the front of my coat. 

“No, no, no.” 

Felicity would only get half of a half-caf soy latte this morning, and I didn’t have time to buy her another. The entire office would pay the price. Arriving late and in a stained coat would be terrible enough. Coming to work without her coffee was a mortal sin.

Taking a tissue out of my pocket, I dabbed at the coffee on my jacket as I trotted across the busy street. Not my best idea. I didn’t watch where I was going, and somehow got my right shoe wedged in a narrow crack in the asphalt. My foot slipped out of my shoe, but I’d been moving so fast I couldn’t control my momentum. I went flying, a redheaded missile wearing only one shoe in a badly stained white cashmere coat. 

Things happened in slow motion as I fell. I still clutched the coffee holder, but it no longer contained any coffee. Both cups had struck the man crossing the street right in front of me. Tall, blond, and wearing an expensive-looking suit, he jolted in surprise when my coffee hit him squarely in the back. And, at that moment, I felt something sharp and painful hit me right in the bum. 

With a loud screech, I plowed into the poor guy, flattening him like a pancake. My butt hurt, and I was covered in coffee, but I hit him with the force of one of those WWE wrestlers as they bounced off the ropes and did some kind of move. Like a screwdriver or a snow plower or something. He landed on the street beneath me, covered in coffee, and with my boobs smashed into the back of his head. I straddled his torso in a weird, spread-eagle stance. I still held the empty coffee carrier in my hand for no reason at all. My red hair fell over my face, obscuring my vision, and my knee dug into his side. 

“Sorry,” I said, as I grunted, struggling to get off him. Everything really hurt, but my bottom hurt most of all. “Ow. What the heck was that?”

It felt like my butt was on fire. I wanted to inspect it and figure out what exactly had happened but couldn’t. Mostly because another man, someone hard and muscular and very large, landed on top of me with a thump and pinned me to the ground.

I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. Coffee covered my hands and jacket, and something warm and wet was on the back of my leg. How had my coffee gotten onto the back of my thigh? That was just another sign of how my day was going. Also, my face felt tender and scraped from where it had hit the pavement, and my bottom hurt—a lot. 

Today was the worst Monday in the history of all Mondays, and it was barely 9 o’clock. That may have been a new record.

A woman screamed, and I became aware of something going on around me. From my current angle, however, I couldn’t see anything except feet. Lots of feet. Feet enclosed in business shoes, tennis shoes, pumps, and loafers, all of them racing back and forth across the pavement in a panic. 

I spotted a pair of Jimmy Choos as a woman sprinted past, and a surge of fear hit me. No one sprinted in Jimmy Choos, especially not in Jimmy’s black suede, perfectly balanced, Love 100 style pumps with 3.9 inch heels. Something had to be going on that would make a woman risk shoes that magnificent. Something serious.

I wiggled, trying to extricate myself from this situation, and it caused the man beneath me to let out a soft grunt. He probably couldn’t breathe because of all the weight on him—and because of my boobs. I’d always been a busty girl, and with my bosom squashed against his neck and head, I feared I may have cut off his air supply entirely.

The person on top of our small pile of humanity, the one with the rock-hard muscles, shifted back and forth as if searching for something, but he still hadn’t gotten up. At this point, I’d had enough.

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me,” I said in my haughtiest voice,  

Expecting some sort of reply, I tried in vain to lift my head, but the man on top of me shoved me right back to the ground. Small pebbles from the pavement dug into my cheek, and I found it a hard to get comfortable with my butt in the air, one man on top of me, and my chest smashed into another man’s head. I was like the squishy middle of a muscley man sandwich. A new thing for me, but I’d reached my breaking point. Done with being polite, I opened my mouth to scream. Fortunately, the person on top of me finally rose to his feet. Two strong arms lifted me, turning me gently onto my side and taking the empty coffee holder out of my hand. I glared at him, planning to give him a piece of my mind, but stopped as soon as I saw his face. 

Dark hair, dark eyes, an arrogant nose, a chiseled jaw. This man had to be the sexiest thing I’d seen in a long time, and I’d made a fantastic first impression. I’d never looked so horrible in my whole life—not even when I’d gone on spring break with my best friend, Georgiana, and slept in a barn. In the morning, I’d awoken covered in hay, reeking of horse poo, and very hungover, but even then, I’d still been in better shape than this. 

I tried to get to my feet, but Mr. Dark and Sexy wouldn’t let me. “Do not move. You’re injured.”

His voice rumbled, deep and husky, and his accent sounded upper-crust English but mixed with a hint of something else, traces of a language I didn’t recognize. 

“Injured? What are you talking about? I’m not injured.”

He took off his dark suit jacket, muscles flexing under his impeccably ironed white shirt, and put it under my head, like a pillow. “Stay still.”

Two other men in dark suits helped the blond man I’d assaulted to his feet and rushed him off. He glanced back at me as they led him away, and I watched him go. I’d seen his face before. Another hottie and probably someone important, and I’d tackled him like a linebacker.

It took me a second to realize Mr. Dark and Sexy had one hand firmly placed on my bottom, right where it hurt most, as he continued to hold me down. People gathered around and stared at me with mouths agape, whispering, and pointing. 

“Did you see what happened?” one man asked, chewing on a piece of gum as he recorded a video with his phone. “She saved his life.”

“She’s a hero,” said the old man with the newspaper. “If it hadn’t hit her right in the tooshie, the guy in the fancy suit would have taken it in the heart.”

The woman from the coffee shop, the one who’d held up the line, snapped pictures of me with her fancy camera as she sipped her pumpkin spice latte. “I love New York,” she said, leaning closer. “May I have your autograph?”

This could only happen to me. Truly. 

Mr. Dark and Sexy scowled at each person in the crowd. “Back off. Now.”

He had the voice of authority, and they listened to him, moving a few feet away. But they continued to stare at me, and he still had his hand on my bum.

I tried to pull my skirt back into place. I’d inadvertently flashed half of the Flatiron District with my lacey lilac-colored undies. Not a good thing. Now I’d arrive at work not only late, covered in coffee and filthy, but I’d also be on YouTube. And I only had one shoe. 

“What happened to my other shoe?”

Mr. Dark and Sexy didn’t answer me. He spoke into his sleeve, like a secret service agent. “The Chessman is safe. I repeat, he is safe. But the suspect has escaped, and I have a girl who has been hit. I need medical assistance. Immediately.” 

He pushed even harder on my butt, and I glared at him. “Get your hands off my bottom. Now.”

He blinked, taken aback by my comment. “I’m applying pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding.”

“Wound?” I craned my neck, trying to see, but couldn’t. “What wound?”

“You’ve been shot.”

“I’ve been what?” A wave of nausea crashed over me, and suddenly, I became aware of the pain. My butt burned and throbbed and ached at the same time. “Hold on a second. Is that blood running down my leg?”

“Yes. What did you think it was?”

“Coffee.”

“Coffee?” He raised a dark eyebrow at me. “Didn’t you feel it when you got hit by the bullet?”

I pushed the hair out of my face so I could glare at him. “Yes, but I was too busy trying to breathe with you lying on top of me to realize it.”

“I was protecting you.” He pushed even harder.

“Ow. And now you’re hurting me.”

“If I don’t apply pressure, you could bleed to death. Please stop fighting. The ambulance will be here soon.”

“Ambulance? I don’t have money to pay for an ambulance. This is a nightmare. Why do these things always have to happen to me?”

As tears poured down my cheeks, Mr. Dark and Sexy gave me a reassuring pat. “There, there. Don’t worry. The ambulance will be taken care of, and the wound looks worse than it is. Redheads tend to be bleeders, but soon you’ll be right as rain. I promise.”

Another wave of nausea came over me, and I did my best not to get sick. At least bystanders weren’t staring at my bottom anymore. Some of New York’s finest had formed a wall of blue around us, keeping the crowd at a more respectful distance.

I sniffed. “It’s not going to be okay. My boss is going to kill me. She’s the meanest boss in the world, and I spilled her c..c..c…coffee. And I’m late for work. Again. And I lost my shoe.”

“I’ll find your shoe, and I’ll let your boss know what happened.”

“She won’t care. She’s awful. She hates me. And that was the last decent pair of shoes I owned. I’ll have to walk around barefoot. Or I’ll be reduced to wearing flats. I hate flats. I hate my job. I hate my boss. I hate my life.” 

I full out sobbed now. I couldn’t stop myself. 

Mr. Dark and Sexy stayed with me, murmuring soothing words as I wept. When the ambulance arrived, he climbed in, his hand never leaving my bottom. 

“We can take it from here, sir,” said the EMT.

“Oh. Right.” 

He shifted in embarrassment as he took his hand off my bum, but insisted on staying in the ambulance with me, which came as a relief. I didn’t want to be alone. As we drove to the hospital, sirens blaring, he reached for me, without saying a word, and held my hand. 

I found it strangely soothing and decided I owed him an apology. After all, he’d kind of saved my life.

“I’m sorry I was cranky. I shouldn’t have treated you that way. Thanks for taking care of me.” 

His lips twitched. “You earned the right to be cranky. Someone shot you.”

“In the butt. It figures,” I said, getting woozy. “I’m always cranky without coffee, but that’s no excuse. You helped me, and I don’t even know your name.”

“Nicolai Mercia,” he said with a small bow of his head. “But most people call me Nico.”

“Oh.” The name suited him, but he could have been a Maximilian or a Bastian as well. Something romantic, and yet powerful and sexy at the same time.

The EMT gave me something in an IV. It took the edge off the pain and made my attitude a whole lot better. 

“I’m Chloe Burke. It’s nice to meet you,” I said, my tone formal. Like we were meeting at a tea party and not in the back of an ambulance. 

“Nice to meet you, too, Chloe Burke,” he said, his lips curving into a smile. 

He was hot. Mega-hot. Everything in the ambulance spun as I tried to process his hotness. Although the sensation probably had more to do with whatever the EMT had put in my IV. It reminded me of the time I’d had too many glasses of Chardonnay at a friend’s wedding. 

Spin, spin, spin. 

It got so bad I could barely keep my eyes open, but I remained amazingly calm. I didn’t even feel concerned when the EMT lifted my skirt to get a better view of my wound. 

Nico, however, averted his eyes. Like he hadn’t just seen every detail of my panties or had his hands all over my bum less than five minutes ago. It made me giggle. 

“Now you’re too shy to look at my undies? You’re such a gentleman.” I squeezed his hand and then paused, confused. “Wait. Why did someone try to shoot me? It doesn’t make sense. I’m nothing. I’m nobody.”           

He cleared his throat. “They weren’t shooting at you. They were shooting at the prince.”

“Prince? What prince?”

The words came out slurred, and if Nico answered, I was too out of it to understand his response. Today had barely started, and it had already become a disaster. I couldn’t afford to get shot. I couldn’t afford to miss work. Knowing Felicity, she’d fire me this time, and I would have to scrub toilets for a living to keep my sister, Ella, from starving. 

“I hate my life,” I said. “I want a redo.”

As the sirens wailed and the ambulance carried me through the crowded streets of New York, I sank into blissful darkness. I’d been right about one thing. This had been the worst Monday morning ever.