Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Twelve Years Ago, London
Sybil exited her economics class and blinked in the harsh sunlight. The chill in the air bit her cheeks, and she wrapped the cardigan Peter had lent her tighter around her body. Wool, soap, and some kind of warm, spicy cologne tickled her nose, and she surreptitiously sniffed her shoulder to get a lungful. Heat traveled down her body and pooled in her core. The phantom pressure of his lips still lingered on hers.
Maybe she shouldn’t have been so coy with him. No, not coy. Obstructive. If she’d merely been coy, she would’ve given him some actionable hints about her whereabouts. No, she had to tempt fate after the best kiss of her life.
It was his fault. He’d talked to her about fate and soulmates, and he’d pretended to read her palm and then kissed her in a phone booth while they hid from a downpour.
“You’re going to have an epic love story,” he’d said, tracing the line that ran from her index finger to the base of her palm. It tickled and made her want to squirm. “And a beautiful life.” He traced the next line over. “And you’re going to give Peter your phone number so he can take you out on a proper date.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“Everyone has a phone.”
She’d shook her head. “I pay my own bills, and a phone is not in my budget.”
“Where do you live?” he asked, his finger still tracing the lines on her palm in the most deliciously distracting way.
“Nope. I don’t know you, so you don’t need to know where I live.”
“Not even a hint?”
“You believe in fate, right?” He nodded. “Well, if this is fate like you keep saying it is, then we’ll run into each other again. The universe can’t help but put us together, right?”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should’ve given him a hint. She should’ve?—
He was sitting on a bench, drinking from a paper to-go cup.
“Peter?” she said, like he could ever look like anyone else.
He turned his head toward her and smiled. It was like staring into the sun. “There you are. I was wondering when I was going to see you.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked, stopping a few feet away from him. “You can’t expect me to believe you just wandered onto campus.”
Peter stood and closed the few feet between them in two steps. “It’s fate, remember?”
She gave him a look that made most people she’d met tuck tail and run. He smiled again.
“And I saw your university ID last night when you were looking for your Oyster card.”
“So you’re a stalker.”
“I prefer to think I used my outstanding detective skills in the best British tradition of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Dame Agatha Christie.”
“How did you know which building I’d be in?” Sybil asked, and crossed her arms. She tried to push to the back of her mind that she was wearing his sweater in front of him.
“You mentioned you were studying business. A quick-ish internet search gave me the most plausible buildings, and then I picked one. That part was pure fate.” He gently touched her elbow. “This looks really good on you.”
The blush that inflamed her cheeks had to match either her hair or the sweater.
“Did you track me down to get it back?” she asked.
“No, not at all. In fact, as long as we’re seeing each other, you’re welcome to keep it. You can’t keep it indefinitely, though, because it is my favorite.” The roguish smile returned and turned her insides to molten goo. “I wanted to take you on a proper date, remember? I needed to know where to send the pigeons.”
“The pigeons?”
“Since you don’t have a phone. I’m also amenable to telegrams, Morse code, and smoke signals, but I think the old-fashioned post will take too long.”
Sybil rolled her eyes even as her heart fluttered. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Does that mean you’ll go on a date with me?” Peter asked, the earnest, hopeful look on his face baffling her.
It didn’t make sense. He was gorgeous and sweet and funny. If last night was any indication, he was thoughtful and romantic too. What the hell was wrong with him that he was chasing after her so hard? It couldn’t be the thrill of the chase. She wasn’t satisfactory enough prey for that to be true. Did he have a wife he’d locked in the attic? Or a portrait in the attic that was getting progressively older and uglier while he stayed perfect?
Or maybe he just…liked her?
No, that couldn’t be it.
But her curiosity was piqued, and she wouldn’t mind another kiss like the one they’d shared in the phone booth. That had been the kind of kiss she could live off for months. A few more, and she’d be set for life.
“Fine, but only so I can keep the sweater,” she said.
The smile that broke on his face was enough to break her heart. How could anyone possibly be so excited about her? And how disappointed were they both going to be when he realized that she was, well, her ?