9. Artemis #2
That realization should have unsettled me more than it did.
Just this morning, I’d been tied to a chair in a creepy van.
I should have been jumpy, hyperaware of exits and threats.
Instead, my body had apparently decided Arthur was a safe variable and relaxed, which was generous of my nervous system, if deeply suspicious.
“Is this the most impulsive thing you’ve ever done?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Once I bought a forty-dollar artisanal candle when I had, like, two hundred dollars in my account because the label said it smelled like ‘moonlit ambition.’”
“And did it?”
“It smelled like pine.”
He seemed genuinely delighted by that. The sound he made was small and surprised, like he didn’t laugh much. I had no idea why that tugged at my heart. I cataloged that reaction as concerning and moved on.
“And you?” I asked, emboldened. “What’s your most impulsive decision?”
He thought a moment. “Jumping from a high place. I didn’t think, just jumped. Probably foolish.”
“Like bungee jumping?”
“More like… leaping from a cliff to reach a passing—” He stopped abruptly. “Boat.”
“A boat?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what you were going to say?”
“Obviously.”
“I believe you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
I laughed, and his eyes softened—as if my joy was something rare he didn’t know how to handle but wanted more of.
He glanced at me then, just once, like he was checking a gauge. “You’re still all right?” he asked. Casual tone. Not so casual eyes.
“I’m fine,” I said.
Hour five.
The road had smoothed into a long, steady stretch of highway, the sky bruised in the colors of late afternoon. Arthur kept driving with careful precision, his eyes on the road, hands on the right positions.
I shifted in my seat. “Would you mind if I turned on the radio?”
He glanced at me, brows knitting. “The… radio.”
“Yes. The thing that plays the music and the talking and the ads that make you question capitalism.”
He considered this, as if I’d asked permission to let a small animal loose in the car. “If it helps you.”
That wasn’t an answer to my question, but I’d take it.
I turned the dial.
The sudden burst of sound filled the car—guitars, drums, a very enthusiastic voice belting out a chorus—and Arthur jumped.
His shoulders jerked, and his head snapped left, then right, scanning the dashboard like the car had just spoken to him.
“What was that?” he demanded.
“The radio,” I said slowly. “The thing I just asked about.”
“It activated without warning.”
“I warned you. With words. And then I turned it on.”
He went very still. “It is… aggressive.”
“That’s pop music.”
“Sounds more like shouting.”
“The singer is expressing feelings.”
He stared straight ahead, jaw tight. “It does not sound… contained.”
I sighed. “It’s supposed to sound like that.”
“It’s loud.”
“I can turn the volume down.”
He shook his head. “No, I would like to… understand it.”
He listened intently, a mask of concentration settling on his face. The singer veered into the chorus again, but this time his flinch was less noticeable.
After a moment, he said, “I believe she’s angry with a man.”
“They usually are.”
He absorbed this and even tilted his head as he continued listening. After another thirty seconds, his shoulders relaxed.
“Hm,” he said. “All right. Continue.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
He shot me a curious glance. “You sound happy.”
Happy. The word landed with more impact than it should have.
I swallowed. “I… guess I am?“ I blew out a breath. “I’ve always wanted an adventure,” I admitted. “Something more than just the ones I found in books. Something real."
His jaw tightened, not with disapproval—but with something that looked a lot like recognition.
“You deserve one,” he said.
My heart stuttered. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
Oh boy. His voice was dangerous—too warm, too sincere. I turned away before he could see how deeply it affected me.
“Do you ever think,” I said, mostly to myself, “about how meeting your favorite author would be a terrible idea?”
Arthur glanced over, intrigued. “Often.”
That surprised me. “Really?”
“Yes. Admiration works best at a distance.”
I laughed. “Okay, then. Which British author would absolutely ruin your life if you met them?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Byron.”
I burst out laughing. “Of course you’d say Byron.”
“He would be insufferable,” Arthur continued calmly. “Brilliant and charismatic, but utterly irresponsible. One would follow him into ruin simply to see what happened.”
“That’s not an argument against him,” I said. “More a warning label.”
“I’m aware.”
“What about Austen?” I asked. “Safe choice? Or secretly devastating?”
He thought that over, his lips twisting to the side a bit. “Devastating. She would observe everything without saying a single word. Then write about you in a way that exposed your worst traits with surgical precision.”
“Oh, absolutely, not unlike Taylor Swift,” I said. “You’d spend the rest of your life wondering if every polite smile was an indictment.”
“She would destroy me,” he agreed serenely.
I paused. “You do know who Taylor Swift is, right?”
Another pause, longer this time.
“No,” he said. “But I’m already wary.”
I grinned.
“Dickens would just trauma-dump at you for six hours, then ask for money.”
Arthur actually laughed at that. A real laugh. It did something alarming to my chest, and I was grateful when he spoke.
“What about you?” he asked. “Who would undo you?”
“Virginia Woolf,” I said instantly.
He nodded.
“She’d look straight through me,” I went on. “Say something devastatingly kind. Then I’d spend the next ten years questioning my entire inner life.”
“Worth it,” he said.
“Completely.”
We fell quiet for a beat, the radio playing along softly now that I’d turned it down a notch.
Then he added, casually, “Shakespeare would be intolerable.”
I gasped. “How dare you?”
“He would speak entirely in metaphor,” Arthur said. “Never answer a direct question. And if you challenged him, he’d put it in a play and make you a fool forever.”
“That’s his right,” I said. “He earned that.”
His mouth curved. “You would defend him.”
“I would,” I said. “But I wouldn’t trust him.”
“Wise.”
Our eyes met for a second too long, sparking something in the space between us.
Then the radio crackled and the moment broke, leaving behind that warm, fizzing feeling like we’d just shared a secret.
Arthur took the next exit without warning. I blinked at the road signs slipping past and finally asked, “Um… where are we going?”
He gave me that warm, steady half-smile that always made my stomach behave in ways I did not consent to. “To feed you,” he said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “You must be starving.”
I sputtered, because he wasn’t wrong, but still. “I thought you were in a hurry?”
He shook his head, eyes back on the road, tone calm but almost amused. “I am,” he said. “But I’m not going to neglect my lovely passenger.”
My heart tripped so hard it nearly threw itself out the window.
The café looked like it had been plucked straight out of a cozy mystery novel.
Small bistro tables that would absolutely blow away in a slightly ambitious breeze were arranged on the sidewalk.
Behind them, flower boxes lush with greenery stood under every window.
It even had a chalkboard sign promising the soup of the day, and a white-and-blue striped awning over the door.
It was perfect.
Arthur parked the museum-piece Mercedes—carefully—then opened my door before I could even reach for the handle. He would, of course. Being chivalrous suited his personality.
“Thank you,” I murmured, trying to hide the fact that my knees had gone suspiciously warm at the gesture.
He gave a small nod, and for a moment we just… looked at each other. Then he cleared his throat, and I pretended the air between us didn’t thrum faintly.
Inside, the waitress greeted us with a tired smile that brightened instantly when Arthur returned it. His whole face softened and his eyes warmed. Seeing it, I felt myself melt like a chocolate bar left in a glove compartment.
Green flag. A whole forest of green flags.
“Table for two?” she asked.
“Please,” he said with that quiet politeness that made even the word please feel meaningful.
She seated us at a booth near the window. Arthur waited for me to sit first, then slid in across from me with smooth, old-world grace on a man who absolutely should not look that good in soft afternoon light.
“Would you like to see a menu?” the waitress asked.
“Yes, thank you.” He turned that gorgeous smile on me. “Should we share an appetizer?”
My traitorous stomach somersaulted again. “Uhm, sure.”
He looked genuinely pleased. “Excellent.”
He ordered the bruschetta with roasted tomatoes, then thanked the waitress with sincerity that almost made her blush.
I tried not to stare.
When the appetizer arrived, he waited until I took the first bite.
Who was this man?
The silence that followed was comfortable, but not empty. It was the kind that made room for things you hadn’t planned on saying. I swallowed, nerves prickling, then looked up at him.
“I’m… sorry about your father,” I said softly. “It sounded difficult for you when you mentioned him earlier.”
His expression shifted slightly. Not pain exactly. More like a careful recalibration.
“Thank you,” he said after a moment. “My feelings about him are… complicated.”
“I get that.” I hesitated, then added, “I don’t speak to my parents anymore. It wasn’t a healthy relationship.”
He didn’t ask why. Didn’t push. Just nodded once, slowly and deliberately, taking me at my word.
“I’m sorry.” Somehow, he made it sound like he meant it without expecting anything in return.
My heart tugged a little. Just a fraction.
We shared a quiet look across the table, mutual understanding without excavation. Boundaries intact. No pressure. No prying. It felt… safe.
Halfway through the meal, I excused myself to the restroom.