Lyfe sat in his seat flipping through the pages of the New York Times, wondering if he would be able to stand Manhattan’s winter. “Fuck it,” he mumbled to himself as he placed his steamy Starbucks coffee to his lips and concentrated on an article about investments. A few minutes later he felt a hard bump, which caused his coffee and newspaper to slip from his hands to the floor. He watched his coffee cup roll along the aisle, leaving a wet zigzag trail behind it, while the newspaper lay drenched on the floor beneath his feet. “What the—?” “I’m soooo sorry.” Lyfe looked up. He didn’t know what pissed him off more: his day being off to a fucked-up start or that the woman staring at him and handing him napkins was absolutely breathtaking. From the apple-butter color of her skin to the thick ebony curls that fell over her shoulders, to the way her three-quarter-length, gray wool car-coat lay perfectly on her defined hips, her whole package was stunning. Lyfe took the napkins from her hand and lightly dusted the specks of coffee that had splattered on him.
