Brooklyn Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance #1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Mira Gibson
artists and also overhearing a select few who were gearing up to show their pieces in The Phoenix Juried Art Competition, had been when he connected her name with her face. He had seen her image online a few times, but hadn’t scrutinized it like he had the articles explaining her quick rise onto the radar of several art galleries. At the time, he had developed a healthy resentment for the name Greer Langley, if keeping a critical eye on the competition was healthy. Now, he couldn’t believe the coolly sarcastic and beautiful woman he had spoken with behind The Haven was the one woman whose burgeoning career he was aiming to destroy.
Hunter followed her, but hung back after she turned right onto Bedford Avenue where pedestrians thickened along the sidewalk due to the countless bars and restaurants that were open and would remain so until the wee hours of the morning.
Weaving through and keeping at a distance to ensure she wouldn’t catch him if she happened to glance over her shoulder, he tapped a clove from his pack of cigarettes and paused only to light it.
He started off again, as soon as he had it lit, but she was nowhere. His heart punched hard in his chest at his carelessness. He shouldn’t have taken his eyes off her. As he quickened his pace, trying and failing not to clip shoulders with any passersby, he realized she must have skirted down a side street.
Hunting for the particular shade of her scarf, which he figured would set her apart from the other women hustling up and down the avenue, he slowed up at each cross street and took a moment to scan down it as far as he could see, all the while kicking himself for letting her go and also the fact that he was indulging such an unproductive urge.
But seriously, he wasn't a psychopath.
He’d certainly never done this before. And he had to wonder the source of his intrigue. Was it based on the Greer he had just met in person, or the Greer he had previously read about, the one he felt was threatening his standing in the art community? Or was it the reality in-between; the possibility that a hot and personable woman could so easily and inadvertently bump him down the food chain he had worked tirelessly and for so many years to climb?
What the hell was she doing with a gun?
Finally, he spotted her about half a block up Lorimer heading east. The wind on Bedford had been mild, but starting down Lorimer he was confronted with a chilling gust that felt like a wall of ice. Despite this, he pressed on and soon Greer paused in front of a wrought-iron gate, which she opened, passing through and latching it closed behind her, before she padded up the stone stoop of an apartment building.
If she had been fast with the gate, she was even faster with her key, scraping it into the lock and getting inside without so much as glimpsing over her shoulder.
He paced up the block and checked the building number as soon as it came into view. The tin numbers were nailed in crooked and read: 467.
Just as he had thought.
It was a long eight blocks before he got to his apartment on Humboldt Street and it was so cold out that when he reached it, the very sight of the converted warehouse he’d come to call home warmed him.
After a minute of wrestling with the dead bolt, which never seemed to cooperate, he spilled into the quiet entryway, slapped the heavy steel door shut behind him, and wasted no time jogging up the two flights of stairs that separated the ground level from his lofty studio apartment.
But as he reached the landing and turned, hooking around to his door, he knew the night wouldn’t be over so easily.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, catching his breath and hoping she would go away.
Ashley Moore was the girl every guy wished would pick up her phone after 2:00 am, and more often than not, she did, especially when Hunter was calling. Unfortunately for him, it had been a slow dawning realization that this was not a one-way street. Ashley had been starting to
Hunter followed her, but hung back after she turned right onto Bedford Avenue where pedestrians thickened along the sidewalk due to the countless bars and restaurants that were open and would remain so until the wee hours of the morning.
Weaving through and keeping at a distance to ensure she wouldn’t catch him if she happened to glance over her shoulder, he tapped a clove from his pack of cigarettes and paused only to light it.
He started off again, as soon as he had it lit, but she was nowhere. His heart punched hard in his chest at his carelessness. He shouldn’t have taken his eyes off her. As he quickened his pace, trying and failing not to clip shoulders with any passersby, he realized she must have skirted down a side street.
Hunting for the particular shade of her scarf, which he figured would set her apart from the other women hustling up and down the avenue, he slowed up at each cross street and took a moment to scan down it as far as he could see, all the while kicking himself for letting her go and also the fact that he was indulging such an unproductive urge.
But seriously, he wasn't a psychopath.
He’d certainly never done this before. And he had to wonder the source of his intrigue. Was it based on the Greer he had just met in person, or the Greer he had previously read about, the one he felt was threatening his standing in the art community? Or was it the reality in-between; the possibility that a hot and personable woman could so easily and inadvertently bump him down the food chain he had worked tirelessly and for so many years to climb?
What the hell was she doing with a gun?
Finally, he spotted her about half a block up Lorimer heading east. The wind on Bedford had been mild, but starting down Lorimer he was confronted with a chilling gust that felt like a wall of ice. Despite this, he pressed on and soon Greer paused in front of a wrought-iron gate, which she opened, passing through and latching it closed behind her, before she padded up the stone stoop of an apartment building.
If she had been fast with the gate, she was even faster with her key, scraping it into the lock and getting inside without so much as glimpsing over her shoulder.
He paced up the block and checked the building number as soon as it came into view. The tin numbers were nailed in crooked and read: 467.
Just as he had thought.
It was a long eight blocks before he got to his apartment on Humboldt Street and it was so cold out that when he reached it, the very sight of the converted warehouse he’d come to call home warmed him.
After a minute of wrestling with the dead bolt, which never seemed to cooperate, he spilled into the quiet entryway, slapped the heavy steel door shut behind him, and wasted no time jogging up the two flights of stairs that separated the ground level from his lofty studio apartment.
But as he reached the landing and turned, hooking around to his door, he knew the night wouldn’t be over so easily.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, catching his breath and hoping she would go away.
Ashley Moore was the girl every guy wished would pick up her phone after 2:00 am, and more often than not, she did, especially when Hunter was calling. Unfortunately for him, it had been a slow dawning realization that this was not a one-way street. Ashley had been starting to
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