Chapter 4
LUKE
My eyes roam my computer screen, looking over the report again as I sit in New York traffic in the back of my car. I’ve read it so many times that I have it memorized, but I can’t help myself.
Savannah Foster, born Savannah Bartlett.
Lives in Brooklyn. Graduated from Cobble Hill Christian Academy.
No secondary education. Parents are John Peter Bartlett, incarcerated, and Angela Foster Bartlett, deceased.
Current employer is Mocha Lisa. No arrests or outstanding warrants, no driver’s license, and zero social media presence.
The report is thin, but insightful. The lack of information tells me that she’s living under the radar. And I don’t blame her. If the infamous serial killer John the Baptist were my father, I’d go into hiding.
I remember when he was terrorizing New York City. It was like Son of Sam all over again. People added extra locks to their doors and windows and upgraded their security systems, but that still didn’t keep John Bartlett out of the homes of twenty-four women.
When he was finally caught, society dragged Savannah through the mud. She was eighteen, so they had no problem sharing her name and face everywhere.
The last thing I want is to feel sympathy for the woman I saw Rory kissing in the street yesterday. They kissed, but that was it. She didn’t go home with him, which I know will make him chase her harder.
I didn’t intend to follow him, but I couldn’t help myself.
Rory is irresistible when he turns on the charm. Women practically hand over their panties at his smile.
But she didn’t, and I don’t understand it.
Which is why I’m out and about on a Saturday morning instead of sleeping in.
I tapped into the NYPD’s CCTV surveillance system and waited for Savannah to leave her apartment. She headed out on foot, and I hopped in the car while I tracked her location. She stopped about fifteen minutes ago and hasn’t moved since.
“We’re here,” William, my driver, informs me.
“Thank you,” I reply, stowing my phone in my pocket. “No need to wait for me. I’ll make my way back on my own.”
William’s expression doesn’t change. He’s used to my odd hours and requests. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He nods his head in understanding.
The sun’s rays warm me as I cross the sidewalk in the frigid air. I would never admit it out loud, but I love winter and all it brings. So the cold doesn’t bother me. I could’ve gone without a jacket today, but I’m not looking to stand out.
Walking between the red marble pillars of the Brooklyn Heights library, I enter through the main doors. The quiet atmosphere in the building is just like any other library, and I have no plans on changing that.
I just want to get a look at Savannah, only a peek, then I’ll leave.
Part of me despises her for choosing the library today, but another part applauds her. Reading is a pastime I wish I could enjoy more often.
There are surprisingly few people here. I find an old man on one of the computers, looking at porn, an elderly woman in a comfortable chair reading a book about World War II, and a group of middle-aged men meeting for what looks like a book club.
I’m not sure what book they’re reading, but I hear mentions of the Cullens and the Quileutes.
After I pass the horror section, I find Savannah sitting on the floor with her back against the shelf, reading a book.
One look.
That’s all it takes.
She can’t get rid of me now.
Her dark hair hangs in natural waves down her back.
Her black leggings encase her flawlessly curvy legs.
The cutout neck of her old Dodgers tee hangs off her shoulder, giving me a better view of her honey skin.
Her full pouty lips are curved in a small smile as she reads whatever story she’s lost herself in.
Only one thing comes from a woman like this.
Trouble.
And I want a taste of Savannah’s brand of trouble. I shouldn’t, but I do.
I want to know what her sighs of pleasure sound like. I want to know what her soft skin tastes like. I want to know how her pussy would feel while she rides my cock.
I don’t realize that I’m just standing there until she sets her book down on her lap and her hypnotic caramel eyes find me ogling like a dumbstruck fool. She’s caught me, but I can’t get my feet to move, and words fail me.
“Yes?” Her voice is melodic and soothing.
Still no words. No sounds.
She’s going to think I’m stupid or that I’m an escapee from a nursing home.
“Are you okay?”
A small cough clears my throat. “What’re you reading?”
Savannah squints at me and answers by lifting her book and showing me the cover.
“Pucking Around by Emily Rath,” I read aloud. “Looks interesting.”
She rolls her lips in, hiding a smile. “Uh huh.”
“Maybe you can recommend a book to me,” I suggest.
A delicate snort releases from her mouth. “You read romance?”
I answer without missing a beat. “Yes.”
A boldface lie. I usually read horror or biographies.
She quirks a brow. “Oh? Who’s your favorite author?”
“Um. I’ve always been a fan of…” My eyes wander the shelves around us, looking for a name. “J. Rose.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, really?”
I continue the charade. “Absolutely. I love how he uses descriptions to set an eerie mood and build suspense.”
Savannah can’t contain her laugh. “J. Rose is a woman.”
“Okay, you caught me. I don’t read romance books.” I slide my hands into my pockets to keep myself from touching her. “I believe the kids are calling it smut these days.” My humor makes her laugh harder, the sound kickstarting my long-dead heart. I would do anything to hear it every day.
When she catches her breath again, she looks at me with a huge smile on her face. “I’m Savannah.” She reaches her hand up to me.
“Luke.” Stepping forward, I shake her hand, and I don’t want to let go. But I can’t be the creepy guy who holds her hand for too long. No one likes that. “Mind giving me an introduction to romance books?”
A demon or an extraterrestrial has taken over my body. I’m not supposed to want to be around her.
“Sure. Have a seat, Silver Fox.” She moves her discarded coat to her other side and pats the vacated space on the floor for me to have a seat.
I sit down next to her, even though the thin, hard carpet puts a strain on my back. “Silver fox? I only have a few grays. That’s a feat for someone my age.”
“And how old is that?”
“Forty-seven.”
She looks away, thinking through her response. “Forty-seven isn’t that old.”
“Thank you. I needed that ego boost.”
Ego boost?
Someone tape my mouth shut before I say something really dumb.
Too late.
She eyes me skeptically but playfully. “For some reason, I have a feeling you didn’t.”
Called out. I’m not usually forward or outgoing, but I know how to be.
Growing up in the Upper East Side, I had to know.
It was expected of me. Confidence was my shield.
I faked it so much that it became a part of me.
I may be quiet, but I’m comfortable with who I am, even if I was always shamed for it inside the walls of my childhood home.
Being bisexual in high society was not an option. My parents made me suppress that side of myself. But Hunter and Rory have never judged me for it, giving me space to truly be who I am. I’m sure my parents are rolling over in their graves now.
Removing my coat, I set it aside and turn toward Savannah. “So, tell me. What do I need to know about romance novels?”
“Well, in most books, the setup is relatively the same. First, you meet the characters. Then, it’s the meet cute—”
“Is that a real thing?” I interrupt. “A meet cute. That sounds made up.”
“You’re joking.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Seriously. What’s a meet cute?”
“You know how couples are always asked how they met?”
I nod my head.
“A meet cute is the story of how they met. Depending on subgenre and author and a million other factors, sometimes the meet cute is funny, or it could be suspenseful or whatever.”
My head tilts. “So, would this be our meet cute? A man finds an intriguing woman in the romance section of the Brooklyn Heights Library, and he gets a lesson on romance novels from her.”
She tries to hide her smile, but there’s no hiding from me. “That is a statement you could make, yes. But maybe we should be friends first.”
“Done. Where do I fill out an application?” My joke lands, making her laugh again, but I’m serious. I’ll do whatever is necessary to be close to this woman.
“No need. You already have my seal of approval, Luke.”
The way she says my name stirs something in me.
I want her to say my name over and over. I want her to say it when she laughs, when she cries, and when she’s screaming out in ecstasy. I want it all.
“Friends, it is.” I scoot closer, eliminating the space between us. She doesn’t flinch or become offended. Savannah seems to sink into the closeness. “Can I ask a question?”
“You just did,” she quips.
“Don’t be a brat, Trouble,” I tease back and give a light tug on a lock of her hair.
She pretends to be scolded and nods her head for me to continue.
“Why romance books? You could escape reality in the pages of historical fiction, fantasy, or mysteries. There are other options. What makes romance your drug of choice?”
“You’re asking a lot.” She eyes me as if I asked her if she prefers to be spanked or tied up.
“You said we were friends, and friends ask friends questions,” I reason.
Her teeth nibble her lower lip in diffidence. “What if you don’t like what I have to say?”
“I highly doubt that’ll happen.”
She sighs, relenting. “Screw it. Why not?” Savannah rolls her shoulders, straightening her back like she’s gearing up to approach a threat.
“Because love is only a happy thing in fiction. In real life, people lie. You become attached, and then they rip your heart out. They make you promises, lull you into a false sense of security, then tear it all away. Why live through that when it’s safer to read it instead? ”
From her answer, I realize that the threat she’s sensing isn’t me. It’s her own fear.