SOMETHING

I'm running.

Which isn't the easiest feat in a skintight satin dress, let me tell you.

For the billionth time, I curse Boston's cobbled, winding streets and crummy weather, which are making an already miserable moment even more painful. The sky is doing that half-rain, half-snow, not-quite-sleet-not-quite-hail thing, leaving me drenched and shivering in less than a minute.

I don't care.

I'd rather be out here — I'd rather be in the seventh circle of hell — than spend another freaking moment in the stadium with every set of eyes locked on me and my dickwad, now-officially-ex-boyfriend. And Green Eyes. And the three security guards who swooped in as soon as Ralph went airborne.

I didn't stick around to see the aftermath. I grabbed my jacket, turned on one heel, and bolted — out of the arena, into the cold April night — without so much as a thank you to the man who saved me from public humiliation.

Belatedly, I realize I should've just hopped on the subway — aka "The T" to everyone but tourists — at the Garden and headed back to my apartment, but I must've left my brain behind along with my shredded self-confidence, because now I'm out in the cold with a too-thin spring jacket and I'm not sure whether the moisture on my face is leaking from the sky or my eyes.

Plus, even if I go back across the river to my tiny, fifth-floor, one-bedroom in East Cambridge — the small neighborhood crammed between the MIT campus and Charlestown — I'll never be able to relax. Not when a single glance across the hall will make me think of Ralph, and the questionable things — girls — he did somewhere in my apartment.

Before I deal with that, I need several more beers and at least two bottles of Lysol to scrub every surface where his bare ass potentially rested as he boinked Susie from 3B. I just hope they did it somewhere unoriginal. Like the kitchen floor, which can withstand a thorough dousing of bleach.

And if not...

Come to think of it, I've wanted to move for a while now. And redecorate. And maybe burn every possession I own in a large sacrificial fire.

But that's a problem for another day.

Right now, I need to get inside, preferably somewhere with a change of clothing and a lot of alcohol. And there's only one place close by where I might find both of those things.

Chrissy's.

I duck under an awning and peek into my wallet but, to my disappointment, no cash has magically appeared in the hours since I left my apartment. I know the funds in my bank account are dangerously low — too low to splurge on a cab, even if it means getting there faster and not having to take the subway in my current sodden state.

Alas... I'm broke.

Head tilted forward against the rain, I hug my arms around my torso and trudge onward to the closest T-stop. My Chucks are soon soaked through, the grimy puddle-water seeping through the soles so they make a sickening sluewp! noise with every step I take.

At this point, my night really can't get much better.

Five minutes later, I finally spot the Haymarket station across the street. With a quick glance in either direction, I bolt across an empty intersection and beeline for the entrance. I'm nearly there, so close to making it out of the driving rain I can almost taste it, when a black town car slows to a stop on the curb by my side. My eyes swing involuntarily in its direction just as the darkly tinted back window slides down with an audible buzz.

I open my mouth, fully prepared to tell whoever's inside that I am not, in fact, a prostitute working her corner, and that he can go straight to hell for assuming the worst in someone simply because she may or may not be wearing a tiny, tight dress, now fully plastered to her every curve thanks to the rainstorm.

Not a single word makes it past my stunned-silent lips.

Because sitting in the backseat of what appears to be a very expensive black sedan, his gaze locked firmly on mine, is Green Eyes.

"Hi," I blurt dumbly.

"Hi," he echoes, the hint of a grin on his lips. "Need a ride?"

Mind reeling, I glance from his car to the station entrance, considering my options for less than a second. A twenty-minute ride on a cold, plastic seat in a train-car full of judgmental stares and a lot of uncomfortable commuters? Or... a short trip in a toasty town-car with a stranger who, for all I know, is a serial killer but kisses like he's part Greek-god?

It's barely a question.

He sees the answer on my face before I've voiced it, throwing open the back door and sliding over on the leather seat to make room for me. I don't even hesitate as I slip inside the warm space and settle back against the soft cushions with a relieved sigh.

* * *

Eyes firmly closed, I pull a series of deep breaths through my nose in a futile attempt to collect myself. Now that I've stopped moving, my emotions have finally caught up with me and I'm so full of anger, self-pity, embarrassment, and every other sensation under the sun, I'm not sure what I'm feeling besides overloaded.

I'm all too aware, however, that I'm a hairsbreadth away from losing grip on my last scrap of composure — it's all I can do not to break into a fit of semi-hysterical laughter as soon as I'm out of the rain and settled inside the car.

The gentle sound of a throat clearing startles my eyes open.

Green Eyes.

"Here." He's shrugged out of his jacket without my noticing, and before I can object, he's draped it around my shoulders like a giant blanket. He pauses for a minute before pulling away, tugging it close around my neck so his hands brush the bare skin there. His eyes, steady but guarded, never waver from mine as he settles his coat around me. For some reason, that gesture is more intimate than the two-minute make out session we shared not so long ago.

"Thanks," I whisper when his hands finally drop away, hugging the jacket a little tighter around myself. It's massive and masculine and still warm from his body. I'm grateful as some of his heat starts to sink into my bones.

There's a silent moment, where we just stare at each other without speaking, and all I can think is that somehow, though this must be the worst night of my entire life, for just this moment nothing seems broken or messed up or wrong. Somehow, shut away from the world in this town car, all my problems feel fixable. It's a crazy thought, but I can't get it out of my head as I look at him.

He's watching me, eyes still intense. "You okay?"

I nod.

"That asshole back there... was he your boyfriend?"

I nod again.

A scary look flashes in his eyes.

"Well, it's safe to say, now he's definitely my ex," I correct softly, a small smile on my lips.

The scary look subsides a bit. "Good."

I pause, summoning my courage. "You're going to miss the rest of the game."

"I own those seats for the season." He shrugs. "There'll be other games."

"Oh," I whisper.

And suddenly, we're silent again.

Thankfully, a voice from the front seat shatters the quiet. My eyes fly toward the sound, and I see a black partition sliding down to reveal a handsome, salt-and-pepper-haired man in his late-forties sitting in the driver's seat. His warm brown eyes meet mine in the rearview and I smile when he winks playfully in my direction.

"Sir?" His eyes move to the man sitting beside me. "Where to?"

Green Eyes nudges my knee with his, and I look back at him.

"Gemma?"

A warm sensation slides down my spine when he says my name in a lazy voice, like he's savoring the sound of it on his tongue. I'm momentarily stunned by the fact that he even knows my name, before remembering that Ralph used it at the arena.

"Ye-yeah?" I stutter, feeling a little too caught up in his gaze.

"Where are we going?"

"Oh! Right. Back Bay, please." I blush furiously as I rattle off Chrissy's address from memory.

Green Eyes' brows lift on his forehead, more than likely curious how a girl like me can afford to live in Boston's most expensive neighborhood. He's too polite to ask, so I take pity on him.

"My friend Chrissy's place." I haul in a deep breath. "I don't really want to go home, right now. Ralph... well, he's my neighbor."

His expression flattens and his eyes, if possible, turn even more serious. "He won't bother you again."

His tone is so determined, so sure, I can only imagine what transpired between him and Ralph after I left. I decide some things are better left unknown.

"Oh," I say stupidly, at a total loss for words. "Well... thanks for that."

He's looking at me again, his eyes hyper-alert and full of questions, and it's more than a little unnerving. I can't speak with his eyes trapping mine, so I drop my gaze to my lap and clear my throat roughly.

"And thanks for, you know, kissing me and everything." I start to play with the sun-shaped pendant hanging on a chain around my neck – a nervous habit. "You really saved me, back there."

I can feel him looking at me, but I keep my eyes on my hands.

"Gemma?"

"Yeah?"

He waits until my gaze skitters up to meet his. The ice in his eyes has melted and I see they've gone warm, turning to green pools, though his tone is deadly serious when he speaks again.

"Don't ever thank a man for kissing you."

I don't know what to say, so I just nod as my mind cartwheels madly, searching for some way — any way — to lighten what has suddenly become an all-too-heavy atmosphere.

"So, you don't regret turning yourself into a public spectacle just to help some random girl with a dickwad boyfriend?" I ask lightly, half-joking.

He leans closer, just the fraction of an inch, but that tiny, insignificant shift seems to suck all the air out of the car. "I can't imagine there's any man on earth who would regret kissing you."

I feel heat flaming my cheeks even redder. There's no comeback in the world to appropriately counter that statement, so I just look out the window and pretend not to hear the quiet, amused chuckle he fails to muffle.

The car glides through the wet night, the tires kicking up water as we turn onto Comm Ave. The only sound besides the gentle patter of rain on the roof is the persistent buzzing of Green Eyes' cellphone, which he pointedly ignores after one short glance at the screen. Whoever's calling seems to piss him off — a dark scowl contorts his face as he shoves the cell roughly back inside his pocket without bothering to answer.

I shoot a furtive glance at him, fighting off a blush. He's the embodiment of composure; I'm the epitome of chaos. My hair is dripping steadily, soaking the fabric of his jacket. There's a legitimate puddle forming beneath me on the leather seats. I don't even want to know what my makeup looks like, at this point – if there's any left on my face, that is.

"God, I'm a mess," I mutter under my breath. "I'm really sorry, I'm probably ruining your seats..."

"Gemma." His voice is steady. "Don't worry about it."

"Chrissy and Mark are going to kill me when I show up like this, still pissed off and embarrassed. It's going to stress them out... which is just about the last thing they need, right now. Chrissy's pregnant and it's sort of high risk, I guess — bed rest, the whole shebang. Let's just say, they've got enough to worry about, without adding my drama to the list." I sigh, guilt stirring in my gut. "Am I the worst friend ever for imposing on them? "

He pauses for a beat, staring at me like I've just asked him to run naked through the streets of Boston.

"Never mind," I mutter. "You don't have to answer that. I'm an idiot."

His brow creases in confusion. "What?"

"The way you're staring at me..." I shake my head and trail off. "Sorry, just ignore me."

Comprehension flares in his eyes. "I'm not staring because you're an idiot; I'm staring because in the last hour, you've been pushed around and insulted by that asshole—" His jaw clenches. "—you're soaked to the bone, shivering with cold, and stuck in a car with someone you barely know.... Most people would be happy to impose on their friends, after the night you've had. But you're more concerned with stressing them out than making yourself comfortable." His eyes are fixed on my face in such an intent study, I fight the urge to squirm in my seat, and when he speaks again, his voice is quiet. "I'm staring because you surprised me, and people don't often do that."

I don't say anything; I just stare back at him, at a loss for words.

"And, for the record," he adds, his voice dropping lower, "I don't think I'm capable of ignoring someone like you. Anyone who does... well, they're either blind or stupid."

"Oh," I whisper, shocked and embarrassed by his words.

Without looking away, he calls to the driver. "Evan?"

"Sir?"

"Change of plans. Take us in a loop, along the river. We're going to give Gemma a little time to dry out, before dropping her off."

"Yes, sir," Evan says, steering the car into the exit lane. Seconds later, he pushes a button that triggers the partition between the front and back seats, to give us some privacy.

"You didn't have to do that," I whisper, once we're alone. "I'm sure you have better things to do with your night."

"Not really," he says, shrugging.

"Well... thanks."

"It's no problem."

"I don't even know your name," I say, as my eyes move over his features.

His lips twitch, as though he finds that news vastly entertaining. "I know."

"And, from your expression, I'm guessing I should know your name?"

He shrugs, not giving anything away.

"You've got courtside season tickets and a chauffeur. Only important people have chauffeurs – there's a rule about it, somewhere."

"Uh huh." He grins.

I narrow my eyes on him. "So, who are you?"

"Who do you think I am?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking." I sigh. "Give me a hint."

He shakes his head, amused.

"Oh, fine!" I grumble, staring at him. "I'll guess. Even though I'm terrible at this stuff."

He chuckles softly again, and the sound makes me smile despite myself. Lifting one hand to stroke my chin, I adopt an expression of deep contemplation and pin him with a narrow-eyed stare. My eyes scan his jeans and t-shirt — which, at first glance appeared casual but after another look are clearly well made, likely designer — then move to the watch at his wrist, an expensive-looking silver Rolex that gleams even in the car's low lighting.

Hmmm.

"Well, you're attractive in a clean-cut, rich-dude kind of way," I say, which makes his lips twitch again. "Not rough enough around the edges to be a rock star. Arrogant, but not in that loves-his-own-reflection way that models and actors have."

He laughs outright, when I say that. "I thought you were an artist, not a shrink."

"People watching is kind of my thing," I say, grinning. "Well, that and cannoli from Maria's in the North End. Those are also my thing."

His eyes join in the smile, crinkling at the corners. "I think Maria's cannoli are everyone's thing."

"Ah, so he likes Italian... is that a clue? Oh! I've got it – you're a mob boss."

"No." His grin gets wider. "Though I probably wouldn't admit to it, if I was."

"Okay.... You're a news anchor!"

"Try again."

"You're the mayor!"

"You don't know what the mayor of Boston looks like?"

"Shut up." My cheeks heat. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No, I'm enjoying your guesses."

"Okay." Fighting off a laugh, I force my face back into a serious expression. "You don't have a scruffy beard, so you can't be a Red Sox player, and while you've got some nice muscle action going on there—" I gesture vaguely at his chest and abdominal area. "—you don't look like a Patriots linebacker, that's for damn sure."

"Are you insulting my manhood?"

"Only a little, tiny bit." I laugh. "So, I'm guessing...."

"The anticipation is killing me," he says drolly.

I shoot him a look. "You're either a Kennedy, one of the Wahlberg boys, or Tom Brady's secret younger brother."

"Wow," he says, his eyes wide.

I feel my heartbeat pick up speed. Am I actually right?

That never happens!

"What?" I ask breathily.

He snorts. "You're an absolutely terrible guesser."

"Hey!" I protest, offended. "It's not like I didn't warn you."

"It's all right, I won't hold it against you."

"How benevolent of you," I mutter sarcastically. "I bet you can't do better."

His eyes gleam. "You're an artist."

"That's cheating!" I protest. "You overheard Ralph trashing my paintings at the game."

A dark look moves over his face when I mention this. "True enough, but I would've known you were an artist anyway."

"How?"

"You've got paint splatters on your shoes and there's a smear of green by your left elbow."

Oh, great. That's not embarrassing, or anything.

"Damn."

He laughs. "Do you do that around everyone, or just me?"

"Do what?"

"Blush like that."

My cheeks get even redder. "Oh, around everyone," I lie shamelessly.

His grin gets bigger, like he knows I'm full of shit. "Uh huh."

"You know, I think I'm feeling better," I say decidedly, folding my arms across my chest. "You can take me to Chrissy's, now."

"Don't be embarrassed. It's cute as hell." He leans closer and my stomach clenches in response. "Most women I meet are so busy being sophisticated, they forget to be real."

I stare at him. "Maybe you've been hanging around with the wrong women."

"Maybe," he agrees softly, reaching out to brush a wet strand of hair off my cheek. As soon as his fingers make contact with my skin, my mouth parts as a breath of air slips out. I'm nearly in a daze when he adds, "But I'd be no good for you, Gemma."

Pulling back, I stare at him. I'm so startled by his words, I forget to be embarrassed. "And why is that?"

"You're much too sweet for me."

"I'm not sweet. I'm tough."

"Said the girl who doesn't like contact sports and, last time she went to the gym, sprained her va—"

"Ah!" I yell, cutting him off. "Okay. No need to go into details."

He grins again and my stomach squirms at the sight.

"You're cocky. And gloating. Some might even say annoying," I tell him, my eyes narrowed on his smiling face. "I've decided I don't like you."

He leans even closer, and my heart starts to pound in my chest. "Oh, you like me," he whispers. "That's exactly the problem."

"You only date women who don't like you?"

His eyes glitter. "I don't date at all, Gemma."

"Oh," I whisper, my mind reeling at all that his words imply.

Everything about this man, from the way he kisses to the way he looks at me to the sexual energy practically pouring off him, screams he's not one to go without female company for long. So, he may not date, but he certainly....

Makes love?

No, that's not the right term.

He...

Fucks.

This is a man who fucks.

The thought alone is enough to give me heart palpitations.