Free Heartless by Winter Renshaw

and make a mad dash down the hall. Flying down three flights of stairs, I nearly knock over a middle-aged man carrying a bag of groceries.
    “Sorry,” I call out, but it’s too late. I’m already outside, feet on the pavement, running in ballet flats toward the brightly lit CVS sign a block away.
    Inside, I’m bathed in fluorescent lighting and an overwhelming amount of aisles, but fortunately a smiling face points me toward the makeup section. I grab a bottle of drugstore makeup remover and make a beeline for the checkout line.
    It’s a mile long, wrapping all the way to the photo department. I never knew a drugstore could be this busy on a Wednesday night. Sighing, I check the time on my phone. It’s already been six minutes, and it’s going to be at least ten more judging by the length of this line.
    Mumbling under my breath, I grip the bottle of makeup remover and sit tight. The line moves ahead, and I’m washed in relief that things might not move so slow after all. Grabbing a magazine from a nearby rack, I flip to the middle to read about the latest Gwen and Gavin drama and fully concur with the rest of America that it’s his loss. I flip through two pages before realizing the line still hasn’t moved. By the time I glance up, I see the light above our checkout lane is flashing and the cashier is paging a manager. A red-faced, scowling patron stands with one hand on her hip and a fist full of coupons in the other.
    “Jesus,” I mutter, checking my phone again.
    “Got somewhere to be?” A man’s voice buzzes into my ear from behind.
    Whipping around, my heart drops to my stomach when I see the Lexington Avenue Asshole.
    “You’ve got to me kidding me.”
    “I need to know if you’re stalking me.” He slips one hand into the pocket of his dark wash jeans, and the intensity of his stare burns straight through me.
    My jaw hangs. “Seriously?”
    “I know it was you,” he says, “with the journal on Monday.”
    I shrug, frowning. “Yeah? So? Doesn’t mean I’m stalking you.”
    “It doesn’t?”
    The line finally moves up again.
    “You’re everywhere I go,” he says. “It’s a little disconcerting.”
    I shove my magazine back into the rack, crossing my arms across my chest. “Who’s to say the feeling isn’t mutual? I had no idea you were going to be at my future brother-in-law’s pizza place Monday night. I had no idea when I agreed to fill in for my friend that you were going to be co-hosting Smack Talk. And how was I to know that you were going to be standing behind me in line at CVS when I just so happened to need a bottle of makeup remover for the client I’m currently working on?”
    He glances around. “What client?”
    My face pinches. “She’s up the street. Anyway, almost feels like you’re the one doing the following.”
    “Yeah. I followed you to Smack Talk,” his words are coated in sarcasm.
    “Pure coincidence,” I shoot back.
    “And the rest isn’t?”
    I shrug, taking a step away. “This city’s awfully big for us to be running into each other every five minutes, just saying.”
    He drags a hand through his beard, which does a shitty job hiding that smug smirk he’s wearing.
    “Can we go somewhere and talk?” he asks, head cocked. “Really quick. Won’t take much time. I just think we need to straighten this out.”
    “There’s nothing to straighten out,” I say. “Just stop following me.”
    His chin dips to his chest, and he drags his hand through his dark hair before locking eyes with me. His are a vibrant shade of aquamarine, and they briefly distract and disarm me.
    “Five minutes,” he says. “I just need to know you’re not a crazy stalker.”
    Sighing, I look him up and down. “Fine. Because I need to know the same thing.”
    The line moves ahead again, and suddenly I’m next. The group of people a couple spots in front of me must have all been together, thank God.
    “Good. Meet me at Gilberto’s. It’s on the corner, two blocks