Page 23 of Legally Yours

“Oh my God! What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you some kind of creep? I don’t know what about me makes you think ‘cheap hooker,’ but Jesus FUCKINGChrist! I might be the daughter of a garbage collector, but that doesn’t make me trash! Do you always treat women like this? Did you not learn that no means no? Do I need to call the fucking cops?”

Now breathless, I nodded down the street, where a few police cars were parked. Even at this time of night in the middle of winter, the central part of Canal Street was crowded with tourists.

Sterling’s cocky smirk disappeared. He drew a hand roughly through his hair. His ears were turning red in the cold, and all signs of that infuriating arrogance were gone.

“Fuck,” he muttered as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Fuck. No. I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I?”

“That would be a massive understatement.” I crossed my arms and glared.

Sterling met my gaze and swallowed. “I’m just…Shit. I don’t do this sort of thing, Skylar. Normally, I wouldn’t bother, but there’s something…”

He shook his head in confusion. I sighed. I didn’t have the patience to figure out this guy’s mood swings. I heaved my duffel bag back over my shoulder, then continued toward the subway. A few seconds later, footsteps caught up with me yet again.

“Skylar. I’m sorry. Truly. Can we please start over? I’m not a creep or some psycho stalker, despite what you might think. And if you knew me, you’d know that I’m the last person to judge someone based on their background.”

“Oh?” I asked dubiously. “And why’s that?”

“Because I don’t exactly come from much myself.”

I stopped again and turned to him directly. His blue eyes bore no trace of sarcasm—they were wide, guileless.

“Garbage collector’s daughter?” He pointed at me before turning his finger back at himself. “Foster kid.”

My shoulders slumped. Yeah, he certainly had me there. It didn’t explain his crude behavior, but it at least absolved him of being a classist dick.

“Oh,” I said quietly. “Well. Really?”

“Eight years in the system,” he said, his voice strangely upbeat. “Two when I was a baby, six more after I turned twelve. In between, I was stuck in a shitty row house in Dorchester with my fuck-up parents, when they were even around.”

It didn’t escape me the way the “r’s” in “Dorchester” flattened out, the way my classmates from rougher parts of Boston spoke. I had barely heard Sterling break his usually region-less diction. I sympathized; accents were hard to shake.

“Dorchester, huh?” I asked.

Sterling grimaced. “I don’t really like talking about it, but if you insist, I’ll tell you in the car.”

He cocked his head toward the ever-present town car that had apparently been creeping alongside us the entire time.

I frowned. “Well, that solves the rich kid problem, but you’re still a creepy stalker. You had your driver bring you all the way here so you could appear at my bus stop?”

Sterling glanced back at the car with disgust. “Ah, no, this isnotmy car. My driver is still in Boston.”

I said nothing. Of course. He had a live-in driver.

“I called a car from the helipad,” he continued like that was somehow better, oblivious that he was basically speaking a foreign language. “I’ll give you a ride to wherever you’re going—I’m guessing your family’s place in Brooklyn, right? It’ll save you time. And train fare.”

I pursed my lips, still determined not to give in despite the puppy-dog look I was currently receiving. I might have felt bad about the foster care stuff, and he might be as awkward with women as he claimed, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t creeped out. “Um, no, thanks. I don’t get into cars with strange men I don’t know who follow me by helicopter. Subway’s fine for me.”

I continued down the street, dodging around the increasing crowds perusing the late-night tchotchke stands or gawking at the Peking ducks hanging in restaurant windows.

“Skylar, you spent the night at my house,” Brandon argued, fighting to stay alongside me. “We’re hardly strangers at this point, don’t you think?”

“Fine. I don’t get into cars with former bosses who have propositioned me for sex either,” I insisted, hitching my bag over my shoulder once again. “And I like the train.”

“Don’t be stupid. It’s well after midnight. It’s not safe.”

“Mr. Sterling—”

“Brandon!” he interrupted with a groan. “Can youpleasejust call me Brandon?”