Free His for the Taking by Julie Cohen

good, especially with all those crying women to put your arm around.’ She brushed the grass of her skirt with savage movements. ‘Well, Mr Boy Scout, I don’t need your comfort or your trees or your reasonableness. I’m just fine on my own.’
    And with that she turned on the heel of her running shoe and sprinted off.
     
    This time, waiting in the hallway, Nick wasn’t as patient.
    He sat back against the wall, his arms crossed on his chest, his foot tapping on the carpeted floor. Zoe had been gone for over three hours now and his backpack, which contained his wallet, was behind that locked door.
    When she’d run off he’d let her, figuring she’d burn off a little steam and then come back. After half an hour under the tree he’d decided to look in the direction she’d run in, but although he was reasonably competent at tracking people and animals in the wilderness it was totally impossible in New York if he didn’t know where she was headed. He’d jogged a couple blocks, seen a subway station, realised she could be anywhere in the city by now, and slowly walked back to Xenia’s apartment.
    Where he’d been sitting waiting for her ever since, his blood getting hotter and hotter.
    She was impossible, aggressive, capricious, and sarcastic, and she had no right to lash out at him for doing nothing but trying to make her feel better.
    She had no reason to run off and leave him.
    Nick got up and paced the length of the hallway. He was hungry and thirsty and fed up and if she didn’t show up with the keys to the apartment soon he was going to break the door down. Then she’d see what a ‘nice guy’ he was.
    He swore and punched the tastefully papered wall. Why was this woman winding him up so much? He’d only known her a couple of days, and only by chance. He’d tried to help her and she’d thrown it back in his face, and that should be the end of it.
    If the keys to his truck didn’t happen to be locked behind that door, he’d be out of New York, father or no father.
    The elevator dinged and Nick whirled around. Zoe stepped out, and he strode towards her.
    ‘Listen,’ he started, and then he stopped both talking and walking, because Zoe had changed.
    She wore low-slung faded jeans that fit her as if they’d been made for her, and a bright pink T-shirt that clung to her top. The shapeless black jacket had been replaced by a tight brown leather jacket that followed the curve of her waist.
    These were her own clothes, clothes that fit her body. And she had a good body.
    No, not just good. A great body.
    She was slim-hipped and strong-shouldered, but she had just enough curves to make her incredibly feminine. Her waist was slender, her legs long and obviously muscular underneath the faded blue jeans. The firm lines of her limbs contrasted with the soft roundness of her breasts and the lushness of her mouth.
    Nick swallowed, all the angry words he’d been meaning to say deserting him.
    ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You look good.’
    Which was an understatement, as well as a revelation.
    She was carrying a big canvas bag over one shoulder and a carrier bag in one hand; she put them down and scratched the back of her neck as if she were uncomfortable.
    ‘So it’s like this,’ she said. ‘I hate people seeing me crying. So I got mad.’
    He remembered the look of utter humiliation that had crossed her face when she’d looked up from her knees, tears streaking her face. Until this moment, he’d been too angry to think about what it might mean.
    ‘Okay,’ he said.
    ‘I also hate being condescended to.’
    Condescending to her? The most ornery woman in New York?
    Wisely, Nick remembered that Zoe was attempting some sort of apology and he restrained his answer. ‘I wasn’t trying to be condescending.’
    ‘All right. I’ll accept your apology.’
    Nick couldn’t help smiling at that. ‘I don’t think I’ve apologised.’
    ‘Yeah, well, you’re looking sorry.’ She smiled at him and held out her hand.