The night I saved a billionaire’s life, I was mostly thinking about trash bags and my aching feet.
The back alley of Harbor & Grind smelled like burnt espresso and week-old muffins. The November air bit straight through my cheap black T-shirt, and the thin fabric of my apron did nothing to help. My sneakers squelched through a puddle that was at least thirty percent mystery latte and I muttered a prayer to the god of laundry.
“Of course the bin is full,” I grumbled, hefting a bulging black bag. “Why wouldn’t it be? Why not make Emma’s life a little more interesting?”
I hit the metal lid with my hip. It didn’t move.
“Seriously?” I tried again, harder. The bin stayed defiantly closed.
Coffee grounds were seeping out of a rip in the plastic, warm and sticky on my wrist. I swallowed down a burst of hysterical laughter. Twelve-hour double shift, a manager who thought overtime laws were just light suggestions, and an electricity bill sitting on my kitchen table like a ticking bomb. This was my interesting life.
Headlights washed across the alley, throwing my shadow long and thin against the brick. I squinted as a sleek black car eased into view on the side street, tires whispering against wet asphalt.
Definitely not one of our regulars.
I ignored it. People in cars like that didn’t come through the alley. They parked out front, took smug photos of their latte art, and left three coins in the tip jar like they were donating to charity.
The bag finally surrendered with a wet sucking sound, tumbling into the bin as I put my whole body into it. I was still catching my breath when a voice sliced through the night.
“Hey! Wait—Liam, watch it!”
It came from my right, urgent and male. My head whipped toward the street.
The black car’s engine revved. Not ours. It came from the opposite direction, a gray sedan tearing down the cross street, too fast for a side road, its headlights a blinding smear. And there, in the direct path between both cars, half a step off the curb with his phone held up like a shield, was a man in a navy suit.
He wasn’t looking.
He was looking at his phone.
For half a second, my brain froze—taking in the expensive coat, the loosened tie, the glow of a screen, the way his profile was lit: straight nose, dark hair, completely oblivious.
Then the sedan hit a pothole, jolted, and the driver laid on the horn.
My body moved before my thoughts caught up.
“Idiot!” I shouted, already sprinting. I vaulted the puddle, my sneakers slipping on the slick concrete. My shoulder slammed into the suited man’s chest, hard, shoving him back toward the alley.
The sedan screeched past, so close I felt the gust of displaced air slap my face. The driver yelled something that was more raw sound than words and leaned on the horn again, the shrill note bouncing between the buildings.
My palms scraped rough brick as we staggered into the alley. His phone flew out of his hand, clattering to the ground and skidding in a sad little arc.
For a moment, there was only the ringing echo of the horn, the tick of my pulse in my ears, and the fact that I was practically plastered against a very solid, very male torso.
