Fractured Fear (The Devils of New York #1)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

SPENCER

S aturday night’s sleep was a joke. A big fucking joke, but no one is laughing.

Well, I’m not. Maybe my demons are.

Thank the powers that be I gave myself Sundays off. I spent the day lounging around in an oversized All-American Rejects tee and my boyshort underwear. No bra. Because no bra equates to ultimate comfort. I watched some Netflix and ate Chinese takeout.

However, the self comfort did nothing to calm my racing heart. Every noise had me ready to grab my bag and go. Even my eyes were messing with me. A few times I thought I saw someone standing in my doorway, but every time I looked, there was no one there. I chalked it up to a trick of the light.

When Monday rolls around, Joey decides after my day of rest that I could take a hit…or twenty. He kept barking at me because I was leaving my left side vulnerable. He proved his point and now I’m sore as hell.

After a soothing shower and devouring the hell out of a quick breakfast, I’m down in Clay Creations doing what normally makes me happy. But right now, I would give anything for a distraction from my inability to come up with an idea.

As I massage my temples with my fingertips, the front door opens and in walks…a man. A very attractive man.

His thick, dark curls hang perfectly, framing his face. His jade-green eyes viciously suck me in; and his strong jaw and sharp cheekbones are what every model dreams to be born with. Flawless couldn't begin to describe his ivory skin. With how much I'm staring I am sure that if there was a flaw, I would have discovered it by now, or it’s covered by his sexy layer of stubble.

He’s wearing a dress shirt, but it doesn’t hide his broad chest and firm muscles. He’s tall. Definitely taller than my five feet eight inches. He’s the perfect height for me to go up on my toes and run my lips down his strong neck.

Nope. We’re not going there.

Iris and Alma tried taking me out one night. They said I needed to have my donut hole glazed. I told them I’d go if they stopped phrasing it like that. Iris brought over a few dresses for me to try on, forgetting she’s a size smaller than me. I ended up wearing the dress that Iris said gave my girls "a killer lift." It was an off-the-shoulder, bodycon, short black dress. Alma curled my hair into waves and Iris applied the perfect smokey eye. I looked hot. Unfortunately, every douche in a five-mile radius noticed as well. Needless to say, the “hooking up” part of the evening was a disaster.

We were at Moonlit when a guy thought that sitting next to me at the bar and telling me that I was “easy on the eyes” meant he had the right to grab my ass. I got up to head to the small dance floor when the asshole made his move. I punched him in the face on instinct. I was embarrassed and ready to leave, but the owner, Jerry, stopped me and ended up kicking out Mr. Grabby Hands. Our drinks were free the rest of the night. Now the three of us go back to Moonlit once a month.

Something tells me this man isn’t the kind who thinks he has the right to touch me.

“Hi, I’m looking for the owner. Spencer, I believe.” A kind smile graces his face. I practically melt, and the instinct to run the other direction when a beautiful man comes within a few feet of me starts to kick in.

The attractive man holds up a flier in his hand. A flier I recognize as one of the many I had printed on neon yellow paper and hung up in various small businesses.

Hayes and I make eye contact, and he smirks. We both know how this is going to go. I’ve found myself in this situation more than once where someone walks in and wants to speak to the owner. No one ever expects Spencer to be a woman, let alone a business owner. Art may seem feminine, but it’s still a male dominated industry. I have had people walk out when they see I’m a human with boobs and not a stocky person who can grow a beard.

I stand from the small eighteen-inch stool and greet the beautiful stranger. “That’s me. What can I help you with?”

He doesn’t look shocked—like every other man does—when I introduce myself. Instead, his eyes trail up and down my frame, taking in my plain black leggings, crusty All-American Rejects shirt, and messy bun. His eyes alight when they reconnect with mine.

Is this man checking me out?

“Zane Kingston,” he states and stretches his hand towards me.

“Spencer Gray. What can I do for you?” I take his hand and do my best to seem unaffected by his touch. His hand is warm and calloused. Deliciously so.

Still not going there. But maybe later.

Wait. WHAT! Down, Spencer!

“I was hoping to purchase some pottery classes for my friend for his birthday,” Zane answers as he pulls his hand away and places it in his pocket, naturally falling into a hot guy pose. I would bet big money he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing.

His answer is not at all what I was expecting to come out of his mouth. It takes a minute before I’m able to reply, “I can help you out with that.” I walk over to one of the work tables and grab my tablet. When I turn, he’s right there behind me. “Oh. Umm. How many classes were you thinking? Does your friend have any experience?”

“He doesn’t. I saw on the flier that you offer one-on-one classes. Who teaches them?”

“I do.”

He flashes his tempting smile at me and says, “Definitely one-on-one classes then.”

My face heats at his implication and I do my best to not look him in the face anymore. If I peek at his angelic features again, I’m sure I’ll do something completely unlike me and ask him to take me upstairs so he can do some glazing on my donut hole.

We get the classes set up for his friend and I stand there uncomfortably waiting for him to leave the studio…and my life. I’m the awkward one. He stands there as if Michelangelo sculpted him from marble and placed him smack dab in the middle of my studio.

“How long have you owned this place?”

Is he making small talk? With me?

“Oh. I–uh—” Of course I can’t even form a single coherent sentence right now.

“I work near here, but I don’t come by this area often.”

I get my shit together and answer, “I’ve owned the space for the last three years, but my abuela owned it before me. I did some renovating which took six months. It used to be one big studio, but I cut it in half and made the gallery next door.”

“Abstract Dreams?” He tilts his head to the side causing a curl to fall across his forehead. My hand itches to sweep it back, but I refrain by white knuckling my tablet.

“Yeah, have you been in?” My question comes out all squeaky.

Real smooth.

“Not yet,” he responds, and I glimpse that smile again.

Stay strong, Spencer. Stay strong. This man is a literal stranger.

Where the hell was he on my ladies’ night out? I would’ve let him take me home in a heartbeat.

Stay. Strong.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Kingston,” I say, making it clear this embarrassing chat is over.

“Please, call me Zane.” Another smile. Does he ever put that thing away?

“Zane. It was nice meeting you.”

He turns to leave, and I involuntarily note his firm ass. You know a man with an ass like that doesn’t skip leg day.

When the door finally closes behind him, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“You okay there, Boss?” I hear from behind me.

I turn and Hayes is doing his best to hold in his laughter.

“Oh, shut up,” I retort and fan my face. I have a tendency to get cherry-red cheeks, and I know I’m turning a shade of crimson now.

I set my tablet down and use both hands to fan myself. Hayes can’t hold it in any longer and busts out a barking laugh. I just shake my head at him and remind myself to be grateful he’s the only one here right now. I would die of embarrassment if everyone was present to witness how I almost jumped into Zane’s muscular arms.

I know Hayes will inevitably tell Iris and then it’ll spread like wildfire.

I’m so fucked.

On the bright side, I’ll probably never see Zane again.

Is that a bright side?

Yes, yes, it is. I have done my best to rebuild everything my ex-fiancé broke, and I don’t need another man to complicate things.