Strut (Style, #2)

by Jay Hogan

You underestimated the determination of a New Yorker at your peril, and in the year I’d lived in the town, I’d collected a catalogue of bruises and been showered with some of the most creative cursing-out known to humanity and often from the unlikeliest people—read octogenarians with the vocabulary of a pirate on crack.

He’s an Aussie, but we try not to hold that against him.

I imagined that crooked crease that dipped between his brows whenever Hunter was confused. Then I shook my head because knowing all the man’s different frowns pulled at something deep in my chest.

While no one was watching . . . least of all me . . . I’d gone and fallen in love. Well . . . shit.

This damn city. Mayhem, violence, and impossible acts of kindness, all rubbing shoulders with about six inches of personal space per person. You just never fucking knew.

Exhaust fumes and the sour tang of trash lay heavy in the moist air, but they were oddly balanced by the mouth-watering morning aroma wafting from the bakeries close to the station. New York was nothing if not a freaking conundrum.