Up the block, around the corner, it all bleeds together until I don’t even know how far I’ve walked anymore.

Fortunately, with the way this city is, I know I’ll come across something familiar soon and, eventually, I’ll make my way back home.

I look across the street to a diner I’ve never seen before, tucked so acutely into a back corner of the city that I’ve never had the pleasure of making its acquaintance, and I decide to say hello to a cup of coffee and a slice of pie and whatever walks of life still reside within its walls.

If there is one thing to be said about this city, it doesn’t matter what time of day it is or where you’re at, New York is prime for the best kind of people-watching in the world.

I jump the curb and stroll across the street, and when I push open the door, a tinkly bell rings above me.

The young girl at the front cash register looks up with a pleasant smile that turns more scandalous when she gets a look at me.

I’m gifted in this department—I’ve always gotten this kind of reaction. But I’m grateful for the luck and do my best not to let it go to waste.

“How many?” the brunette asks, standing up straight and pushing out her chest. She’s well below my age limit, though, so I avert my eyes as politely as possible. “Just me, thanks.”

She grabs a menu from the shelf with a smile then and waves me on to follow her, and I don’t miss the way she puts a little extra sway in her hips as she leads me to a booth.

I round her when she stops at the table and carefully avoid brushing up against her body—which she’s placed in a way that almost ensures I do—and settle into the booth.

“Do you have everything you need?” she asks with a flirtatious little bat of her eyelashes.

I nod and then look down at my menu. “Yes, thanks.”

I can feel her there staring at me, but I don’t look up until she’s gone. My smile has a way of saying things for me—a feature I mostly cherish—but in this case, I have to be careful with it.

I’m all about women—every flavor of them, but I do have limits.

And just barely eighteen is way too low for my standards.

Impressionable, young, and too naïve has never been and will never be on my agenda.

The young girl finally makes her way back to the front, and I peel my eyes away from the table to look at the space around me.

Reflective silver plating covers the top half of the walls and, right below the ceiling, neon signs make a border around the space.

Little flying pigs line the wall where the plating meets the tile below it, and the booths are covered in a shimmery silver and black vinyl.

Most are empty, save an older man three booths to my right and a curled mass of blond hair three booths in front of me.

I’m just about to look back at the menu when I notice the curled-up blonde’s familiar bag, and the quote Tell your dog I said hi stares back at me from above the front pocket.

No way… Not even I’m that lucky…

She shifts to the side and leans into her hand, picking her hair up out of her face and tossing it over her shoulder before yawning.

The exquisite, petite, and very recognizable lines of her pretty face damn near punch me in the stomach.

Holy hell. I guess I am that lucky.

Ruby Rockford. Here, in the middle of the night.

I guess this night isn’t going to be so bad after all…

Headphones in place again, she’s concentrating hard on the textbook in front of her and sipping on a cup of coffee or tea. I can’t tell which, but when a waitress finally comes over to greet me, I get an idea.

“What can I get you, honey?” the older woman asks through a mouthful of pink chewing gum.

“A black coffee and a slice of apple pie for me…and…”

The waitress raises her eyebrows. “You wouldn’t happen to know what she’s drinking, would you?” I ask, pointing discreetly to Ruby.

“Hot chocolate.”

I feel myself smile at the unexpected answer.

“Send her another one from me?”

The tired woman pops her gum between her teeth, nods, and heads for the back.

And me? Well, I go back to studying Ruby like a little voyeur. She’s still fully focused, and a small line creases the space between her eyebrows. Her eyes are down, but the length of her lashes stands out even from ten feet away. And the way she’s wrapped up in her oversized sweatshirt makes me want to explore what’s underneath it even more.

She’s not my usual type—the obvious sexpot with high heels and a low neckline—but undoubtedly, she’s still somehow sexier.

Tags: Max Monroe Billionaire Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net