8. Helene #3
He crouches, his elbows on his knees, and glances up at me as he slides a book home. “What type do I strike you as being?”
My answer is immediate. “Trouble.”
Dark laughter rumbles from him and vibrates up my legs toward my chest, which threatens to cave in the longer I stare. Men are not allowed to be so handsome, are they? This one is Trouble. The capitalization is majorly warranted.
“Who are you?”
He sniffs, winks, the K-Pop demon of my fangirl dreams in black and jeans. Earrings decorate the whorls of his ears. “I saw you fight yesterday.”
I stiffen. “What?”
Shit. He was at the festival?
“You had good form,” he continues without a direct answer. “Have you ever been trained?”
This guy was there? It makes sense, I guess.
A lot of tourists come to town for the event, to get a taste of small town charm and pomp and circumstances.
This year, the tidal wave of vacationers and sightseers brought in some fine looking men.
At least I get to stare at him even though his answers are a little weird.
“Not unless you count self-defense classes at the Y,” I murmur with only half the truth.
He smirks, his glance long and his eyes dark. “You have. You don’t remember. You will soon.”
I cross my arms over my chest, bristling. “Oh yeah?”
Rather than respond, he shelves the book in his hand and stands. Up, and up, lean muscle and a killer scent. The dude smells like shadows at dusk and pine.
“Really.”
“Since we’re living in a fantasy world, then I’ll probably also remember how to teleport. Right?” I lift my chin to meet his gaze and my eyes narrow.
“If anyone can do it, pretty monster, it would be you.”
The way he stares at me becomes a physical brush, my skin tightening. “Why would you call me that?”
“I can think of two reasons. I’m sure you can, as well, if you put your mind to it.”
I laugh and the sound, too loud and bright, peals through the empty aisles. Resentment simmering beneath the surface mingles with something else, something it’s been too long to recognize right away. Interest. Desire.
“I can put my mind to a few things at a time, thanks to my fabulous multitasking skills, but in this case I think I need a little more to go on than your confidence. A name would be nice.”
He takes a step closer.
Backing up is good. Backing up is smart. Remembering that we’re not alone, and Mr. Barnes is somewhere in this maze of paper and binding is smarter yet.
I hold my ground until the heat rolling off this man’s skin threatens to turn my insides to ash. Or something different.
“I’m not a monster.”
His smile widens. “We’re all monsters. Why would you want to be anything else? It’s more fun this way.”
The walls of the bookstore threaten to cave in on us. This dude is not bulky, or gym bro, but somehow he makes the narrow halls even smaller with his presence.
“Monsters aren’t normal,” I say.
“Are you sure? You fought one yesterday. Well, I might add.”
“You should have been running away instead of watching. It wasn’t a prize fight.”
He chuckles. “It was from my vantage point.”
“Maybe you need a different vantage point, then,” I reply.
His smirk widens. “The view is delicious from the top. I’m content where I am.”
The winsome tousle of his hair, along with his pale skin and sharp features, suit the sardonic twist of his lips. The lines of silver glinting along his ears add something whimsical to a face that is otherwise insolent.
“A contented man wouldn’t be reaching for Dostoevsky.” I gesture toward his choice. “Unless you’re a sucker for emotional damage.”
“It's a given. I like to have at least one horrifying existential crisis before lunch.”
The conversation is cat and mouse, almost flirtatious. I like it...a lot. Which means I'm nothing but a hussy and a hoe because I had a different man in my kitchen last night and a similar reaction.
Not that I did anything with him except feed him meatballs and spaghetti.
And have a few, not so innocent daydreams when he left.
Those don’t count against a person. Do they?
The remnants of my focus tips away when the man steps closer and traces a finger down my face. He brushes underneath my chin, tilting my face up to his.
The air in the room tightens, and the silence breathes. He’s going to kiss me.
I’m going to let him.
Thank god I didn’t go for coffee. Nothing gives the wrong first impression than latte breath.
There is nothing but this man and his fair complexion with its dusk glow, his pine scent, the tingle in my skin from his brush alone. I lift higher on the tips of my toes to share his exhale. Biting my lower lip, I wait, his grip holding me in place with his touch a whisper, a promise.
His smirk widens. “I’ll see you again soon.”
He takes a step back. It wasn’t a question.
So I shouldn’t like it because this dude is cocky and a little arrogant. He didn’t even buy the Dostoevsky.
The sign clatters against the front door to herald his exit.
We always want what we know will damage us. I’m on my way to my own existential crisis with hours to spare before lunch. But why is that so hot?