Dance Around It (Strip in the City, Book 1)

11 • A Freak Accident

It was in that awkward moment when my purse decided to slip off my shoulder and join my yoga mat on the sidewalk, spilling its contents all over the ground.

I watched in horror as three super-size tampons and a bottle of Gas-X rolled into the street, along with my dignity.

Dear god. Why?

West apologized profusely as he set me back on my feet and raced to save my giant tampons and gas pills from oncoming traffic. It was the first time I wished a man wasn't so chivalrous.

I fumbled with the clunkier contents of my purse, shoving my wallet and phone back inside and hoping this whole interaction wasn't getting put on social media.

I'd go from boob tape girl with the great Pilates ass to girl with a heavy flow and IBS.

I heard West's tap shoes clicking up the sidewalk but couldn't force myself to lift my chin and meet his eye. Not while he was holding onto a fistful of tampons. But, low and behold, his beautiful face appeared as he crouched down next to me.

"Here, let me help," he said, reaching for the small black can of pepper spray I was also reaching for.

"I don't need your help," I managed, sounding close to tears. I couldn't look at him, not in all his zero-pore good-smelling perfection, while I was once again looking like a hot mess.

Gently, West covered my shaking hand with his own, and heat rocketed through me. It wasn't just West's good looks that made me nervous. It was the fact that he somehow managed to find me in the most compromising situations when my guard was down, and I didn't know how to act.

"Hey, it's okay," West said in his deep voice, then gave my hand a little squeeze. "I've chased after worse things than a few tampons."

Dear lord. He did not just say tampons. Never in my twenty-eight years had I heard a man utter that word—not even Tommy.

Under the stress of the moment and West's touch, my hand did this involuntary twitching thing it sometimes did when I was nervous, and my fingers pressed on the trigger button. All of a sudden, a line of pepper spray came shooting out of the canister—hitting West directly in the face.

"Oh my god!" I screeched at a frequency so high only dogs could hear.

It took West a full second to react to being sprayed in the face with pepper spray. In my panic, I tried to wipe it off with my sweaty gym towel, but it was too late. The damage was done.

His eyes turned bright red, and tears began streaming down his face. Now it was my turn to profusely apologize. I pulled West to his feet and wrapped my arm around his trim waist, trying to keep my yoga mat from smacking into him as I slung it and my purse over my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry! That was a freak accident."

West's hands were covering his eyes, and all he managed to croak out was, "I'm fine."

"You're not fine!" I screeched again. "Don't act like Mr. Macho. You're wearing tap shoes, for fuck's sake. Just tell me what I can do to help."

West's shoulders slumped. "Milk. I need milk."

"Milk?" I repeated, already dragging him towards the street and raising my hand in the air. "Taxi!" I shouted and caught the first one passing by. Maybe the universe felt guilty and wanted to send me a bit of luck.

"Milk helps the burning. Trust me."

I tucked West inside the cab, careful to make sure he didn't hit his head, before sliding in beside him.

"70th and Central Park West!" I shouted at the driver, who was already merging into traffic. "Park Apartments."

As we made our way towards Central Park West, I leaned closer to my tap-dancing pepper spray victim, feeling guiltier than I'd ever felt in my life. "I don't have regular milk, but I have coconut milk creamer at my apartment. Will that work? Or should we stop and get 2%?"