Chapter 11
Sammy takes the invitation to sit without hesitation, settling his glistening tan body in an upright chair that’s nowhere near as comfortable as my chaise. The Squid clasps his hands in his lap and stares at his fingers, but I could swear he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye. With his wet hair dangling into his face and his shoulders bowed, he looks like he’s about to be chastised. A tantalizing scent, like fresh air after a summer rain, drifts to me, and I wonder if the pool water dampening Sammy’s skin has amplified some enticing cologne. I mark my spot in my book, toss it onto my bag, then sip my drink as I study him.
I let the Squid squirm.
At first, I’m not sure why I asked Sammy to sit down. There’s no reason I should give this man the time of day.
Even if I did have a mind-melting orgasm from merely thinking about him.
But a guy can be hot and still be a creep.
So no, it’s not Sammy’s sex appeal—massive as it is—that had me demanding he stay put.
There are two reasons.
Reason one: Cat Byrne.
My coworker just called out my name within hearing range of Sammy, knowing he’d pick up on it. I know the Pyro doesn’t go around sharing dancers’ info with whoever asks, and I’m pretty sure she’s been keeping her mouth shut about me to Sammy for months now.
I get the feeling that sharing my name was her way of telling me the Squid is nothing to be worried about.
Reason two: Even with my name, and me lying here in a bikini that my magic tells me he likes very much, Sammy was fully prepared to vacate the premises. To respect my boundaries even though I’ve stepped into a space I bet he often occupies.
“Do you come here a lot?” I ask, my voice neutral. “To Damien’s house?”
Sammy leans his torso forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, continuing to stare downward rather than at me.
“All the time. I’ve known Damien since high school. He’s a Squid. I’m a Squid. I’ve wrapped my tentacles around him and refuse to let go.” The corner of his mouth curves in a smile.
“So, you’re clingy?” I ask.
Sammy barks a laugh before roughly dragging both his hands through his hair. “Yeah. Yeah, I kind of am. I find my people and grab onto them and never let go.”
Interesting. Sipping my seltzer, I consider the idea of having someone so devoted to me. When I was growing up, I didn’t have many close friends. Not a lot of parents wanted their kids to play with the girl whose mom took her clothes off for a living. Plus, I was the quiet, read-a-book type. Even when I wanted friends, I had trouble figuring out the best way to go about making them. I’m friendly with people. There are some librarians from my master’s program I have a group text with. I joke around and gossip with the other dancers at the club. No super-close friends, though, and the only person I would say is devoted to me is my mom. Still, she’s devoted at a distance, and that works for us.
But having someone hold onto me sounds…kind of nice.
“You have your slimy Squid arms wrapped around anyone else here?” I’m suddenly curious as to who Sammy metaphorically clutches close.
He chuckles and straightens, eyes scanning the gathering. “Those three.” Sammy points across the way to where Cat stands between Aspen and the Squid who shoved him into the pool. The man is closer to the Pyro’s height and has sun-touched brown hair and a tan complexion slightly darker than Sammy’s. “Cat, Aspen, and Rafael. I’m all up in their business. But they don’t seem to mind, since I helped them get together.”
“Get together?” I know Cat and Aspen are a thing but?—
“Thruple. They need all three to balance it out. Or else Cat would probably kill Rafael. Don’t get me wrong, she loves the guy, but it’s a Pyro and a Squid. Fire and Water.” Sammy snorts out a chuckle. “Things get steamy.”
I watch as Cat gazes up at Aspen, laughing as they talk, and the other guy, Rafael, presses a quick, affectionate kiss to her shoulder. She has two devoted partners. Meanwhile, I haven’t dated anyone in years because I struggle to figure out if I actually want a romantic connection or if I just want the ease of an immediate power source.
“Who else?” I ask Sammy, needing to be distracted from my thoughts.
He tilts his chin toward a young woman who’s appeared beside the grill, poking Damien’s shoulder. “Marisol. Merry Berry. She’s Damien’s little sister, but she feels like mine, too.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
Sammy shakes his head, eyes back on the ground. “Only child. A spoiled one, too. But you probably already guessed that.”
Oh yeah. I can bet Sammy’s parents gave him everything he ever desired. That he never heard the word no.
“Any more?”
Sammy shakes his head again. “Not here. But I’ve thoroughly tentacled my cousin Auggie and his girlfriend Quinn. My parents. And…that’s it.”
“What about me?” The question slips out, and I tell myself it’s defensive curiosity, and not hope.
Sammy closes his eyes. “If you don’t want me around, I won’t be. I swear, I’ll leave you alone.”
I hum a note in the back of my throat. “So only into consensual tentacle-ing then?”
Sammy’s eyes fly open and meet mine, though he probably can’t tell, since I’m still wearing my sunglasses. Still, he sees my smirk, and he answers with a hesitant grin.
“You’re making my affection sound dirty, when I’m keeping this discussion completely innocent,” he accuses, delight evident in the curl of his lips.
I don’t think anything can be considered innocent when Sammy is shirtless and wet. But I don’t tell him that.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I murmur before going to take another swallow of my hard seltzer, only to realize the can is empty. Sammy must notice too because he holds out his hand.
“Here. I’ll recycle that and get you a refill. Want some water, too?”
“Sure,” I say, cautiously, worried about softening too much toward him, but also not wanting to get out of my chair yet.
Sammy jogs off with my can and an air of purpose. Meanwhile, I watch the way his wet swim trunks grip his firm backside.
What is wrong with me?
Before I have time to figure out the answer to that question, Sammy is back with two different seltzers and a Solo cup full of water and ice cubes.
“Make sure to stay hydrated.” He sets the cup on the table beside my chair. “Which flavor?” Sammy offers a raspberry and mango. I opt for the one I haven’t tried.
He cracks open the other, then points to his seat with a brow raised in question. I nod, and he settles beside me again.
“You’re not allowed to tentacle me,” I tell him and enjoy the way he chokes on his swallow and has to cough to clear the liquid from his throat. I wonder if Squids can drown, or if the water would just reabsorb into his body.
My mother raised me with the knowledge of magic, how different beings in the world can wield it. But I only know the basics, and I’m betting she missed a few mythical beings when she listed them off. Most of our magic lessons focused on healing magic. Every medical spell I know is because of her and our family grimoire.
Once Sammy stops coughing, I continue with what I was trying to tell him.
“But—while I’m at this get-together—you can sit with me. And we can have a normal conversation. If you want.”
He nods vigorously. “I do want. I do very much want. That. I want that. To talk to you.”
I turn fully on my side to stare at the Squid. From the way Sammy acted at the club—well-dressed, confident stride, cocky smile, handing out hundreds—I figured he’d be a smooth talker.
But the guy can’t seem to form a proper sentence.
It’s kind of endearing.
“Then we can talk,” I say. “Full name and occupation.”
“Sammy—Samuel, but people only call me that when they’re pissed at me—Reyes. Sexy architect.”
I press the cool can against my mouth to hide my smile. “Does that mean you make buildings sexy?”
“Hell yeah.” He waggles his brows at me, the hairs a few shades darker than his golden-brown hair. “Everyone wants to fuck my buildings.”
My jaw aches from biting down on a laugh. “I don’t know if I’m curious or terrified to see what you come up with for the lot across my street.”
“Better brace yourself.” He fiddles with the tab on his can and keeps his voice casual. “Can I ask your full name?”
This is it. A show of faith.
Please don’t let me regret it.
“Ava Bellarose.”
He doesn’t say my name aloud, but I watch his lips shape the letters.
We’re quiet for a stretch until I bravely offer, “And do you want to know my occupation?”
“Oh!” He sits up straight and shifts and inch closer. “Yes. Sorry, I thought…” He thought I was a stripper, but he’s probably remembering now I only work one or two shifts a week. “Please tell me about your job, Ava Bellarose.”
Sammy smiles as he says my name, and I don’t think that should be allowed.
After another sip of my mango alcohol for courage, I say, “Ava Bellarose. Academic Librarian.”
Well, that’s it. I’ve given this man all the information he needs to fully fuck up my life. My name, my occupation, plus he knows where I live. Is this how those victims on the true crime podcasts started out? Giving in to the urge to share the identifying details of their life with a nosey, handsome Squid?
“You’re…a librarian.” There’s something odd about Sammy’s voice, and when I study his expression, it looks as though he’s recovering from an unexpected slap to the face.
“Yes.” I double down and frown at the man. “Do you have a problem with librarians? Did the library mob murder your dog?”
A smile cracks through his bafflement.
I swallow hard when I taste peanut butter on my tongue.
“Oh my gods!” I sit up fast and fling my arm out to shove his chest. Not hard, just enough to try shaking him out of whatever thoughts he’s currently thinking. “You’re turned on. You think librarians are hot!”
Sammy groans and covers his eyes. “I’m sorry. Gods. I just have this mental image of you in a pencil skirt reaching for a book on a high shelf, and when I ask you if you need some help, you shush me for talking too loudly.”
Well, that’s specific.
“And that does it for you?” I don’t need to ask. The lust is spilling off him.
“Yeah.” The look he gives me is all wide-eyed and pouty, silently begging for forgiveness. “But I know your job is much more involved than that. Can you tell me about it?”
As Sammy sits in front of me, drenched in lust as the sun dries his honey-brown hair into haphazard curls, I have a sudden urge. A craving to lean in, press my lips against his neck, and whisper that I do have a few pencil skirts, and sometimes there are books on high shelves I struggle to reach, and there is a section of the library that is a quiet zone where he’s not allowed to talk.
But there’s another part of me that wonders if Sammy Reyes would want anything to do with me if he knew the real me. The woman who isn’t always covered in glitter and swinging around a pole. The witch who isn’t in a skimpy bathing suit poolside.
Would Ava the book nerd with a preference for tea and introversion have any appeal to the charming Squid?
There’s only one way to find out.
“Fine. You want to know about the job of a sexy librarian? Then let me tell you about the sensual topic of information literacy…”