It was the kind of rain that could ruin lives—or at least really good hair days.
Aria Henfer balanced on a milk crate in the middle of the sidewalk, soaked from head to toe, wielding a paintbrush like a sword and mumbling to herself. Her oversized hoodie was drenched, her curls were frizzing at a pace that defied physics, and her mural—the massive, sunshine-and-flowers masterpiece she'd been working on for three weeks—was one splash of gold away from perfection.
Until chaos struck.
A gust of wind, suspiciously timed like it had a personal vendetta against her, knocked over the ladder she'd leaned a paint bucket on. She turned just in time to see it tip.
And pour.
Directly.
Onto the back of a tall, very expensive-looking man in a grey suit.
SPLASH.
Silence.
Except for the rain.
And then—
"What the actual—" The man slowly turned, red paint dripping down his shoulder like blood in a crime scene. His face was carved from stone. British. Brooding. Wet. And currently coated in cherry-red acrylic.
Aria's jaw dropped. "Oh my God. You moved into my paint trajectory!"
"I—what?"
"You walked straight into it! That was like... that was paint manslaughter!"
His expression didn't change. "You just assaulted a Tom Ford jacket. That's fashion homicide."
"I'm an artist!" she declared, flailing her arms as her brush flung dots of turquoise in all directions. "Art is messy!"
He looked down at the crime scene that was his suit. "So is murder."
She blinked. "Okay, dramatic much? It's paint, not lava."
He wiped a red glob from his lapel and held it up like it personally offended him. "This cost more than your entire outfit."
Aria gasped. "You don't know my outfit's life! This hoodie has emotional value!"
"Does emotional value remove acrylic?"
She squinted. "Are you always this charming, or is it just a rainy day special?"
He opened his mouth, paused, then arched a brow. "Are you Aria Henfer?"
Her stomach sank. "...Who's asking?"
"Your landlord," he said coolly. "Ashraf Ainsworth. Ring a bell?"
Oh no.
Oh God.
She'd heard the name. Seen it on the lease. But never imagined it belonged to this man—a walking attitude with cheekbones and an accent that could turn milk into whipped cream.
"You own this building?" she asked, mortified.
"I own the block," he replied, brushing red paint from his shoulder like it was lint. "And now, apparently, I also own a custom jacket in tomato red."
Aria looked up at him, dripping and defiant.
"Well, lucky you. Now you match my mural."
He glanced at the wall—a swirl of wildflowers, flying children, and pink clouds—and visibly winced. "It looks like a unicorn threw up."
She gasped. "You take that back, Wall Ruiner!"
"Paint Assassin."
"Suit Snob!"
"I'll have my lawyer send the cleaning bill," he said, already walking away.
"And I'll send you a personality in return!" she shouted after him. "Free of charge!"
He didn't turn around.
Aria stood there, fuming, soaked, and still holding her dripping brush like a dagger.
There was no way she'd ever see that man again.
…Except life was a chaotic gremlin with a dark sense of humor.
- Chapter Ended -