Chapter 8
Sloane
“Hello?” I say, again, when the line remains silent.
“Um,” I hear him cough like he’s clearing his throat. “Yes. This is Mr. Rei—Riven. You can call me Riven.”
“Hi, Riven. I’m Sloane Keenan with Obsidian Press. I was calling to see if it would be possible to meet with you for an interview.”
“I … are you one of my students?” he asks, sounding confused … or curious. Maybe a bit of both.
“Um, well. No, not really. I attended several of your lectures on music psychology, and I have a few questions for a piece I’m working on.”
“Oh. Of course.” He pauses again. “I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you on that. But I’m sure we could set something up. I’d be happy to help. I’ll shoot you a text … or, um, an email if you’d be more comfortable with that.” He almost sounds nervous, and it makes me smile.
“A text is fine. Thank you for your time, Mr. Reilly.” I use his name formally, even though he permitted me to address him by Riven. I don’t want to misconstrue what this is, which is strictly professional. No matter how sexy Mr. Reilly is, I have a job to do.
I spent the next hour or so formulating some questions for the meeting. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a complete nut job after hearing my thoughts. I’m twirling my pen between my fingers when my watch alerts me that I have a text message.
Unknown: Sloane, hi. This is Riven Reilly. I’m looking at my calendar now. Would this afternoon work for you?
Sloane: Mr. Reilly, hi. Yes, absolutely. Can you meet me at Books and Brews in Hollowcrest?
Shit. I just realized I have no idea where this guy lives. I save his name in my phone and start typing again to ask if he’d prefer somewhere else when I get an answer back.
Mr. Reilly: Yes, 5 pm?
I check my watch, noting that it’s currently three thirty pm.
Sloane: See you then. Thank you again, Mr. Reilly.
Mr. Reilly: Please, call me Riven.
I don’t respond, but I will not be doing that.
First-name basis can only mean trouble, especially when he looks like he does.
Nope, I am so not going there. I refuse to go there, no matter how much my brain keeps trying to play out the professor and his student trope in my head. Ugh, stupid romance books.
“Alex. I’m gonna head out a little early. Got a meeting with someone to get a perspective on my music theory,” I say, throwing my purse over my shoulder and walking toward the door.
“Yeah. Go get ’em, Sloanie,” he says back, not even looking up from his wire-rimmed glasses. Oh, Alex. Gotta love the guy. He’s a cutie in his little dorky way, but I cannot help but internally cringe every time he calls me Sloanie.
? ? ?
I pull up to my place at three-fifty pm.
I live in a cute little apartment tucked between an old, forgotten bookstore and an antique shop.
If you walk too fast, you might even miss it.
Stepping inside feels like walking into a secret, quiet, and worn place.
The outside brick is original, painted a deep smoky gray that glows warmly under the afternoon sun rays.
Inside, the windows are tall and narrow, draped in sheer black curtains.
My living room and kitchen connect on an open floor plan.
One wall of the living room comprises a bookshelf, the dusty shelves littered with true crime, horror novels, poetry books, and some old texts from college.
The wall with the window holds a writing desk filled with strewn files, Polaroids, and red yarn that forms a chaotic constellation of my most recent investigations.
Upstairs, my unmade king bed sits in the center of my bedroom.
The sage green duvet cover lies haphazardly to one side.
On the inside wall, I have my bookshelf that’s filled primarily with dark romance and fantasy.
Some trinkets adorn the shelves, and flickering, flameless candles are assembled throughout.
I have a wicker chair in the corner with a throw blanket tossed atop, and a sliding glass door on the far-left wall.
I walk over to my bathroom, which is located on the right.
I quickly freshen up, wearing long black slacks over a pair of nude heels, with a modest business casual navy top.
My red hair is pulled back in a matte nude claw clip, with a couple of strands hanging free to frame my face.
I’m wearing my clear, square-frame glasses instead of my contacts today.
I lightly reapply my deep mauve lipstick, take one last look in the mirror, and head downstairs.
I climb into my deep green ‘93 Volvo 240 wagon and head for Books and Brews. The car was handed down to me from my mother, and I’ve maintained it myself.
It might not be the most flashy thing, but she’s durable, and she’s timeless.
Books and Brews is a cute little coffee shop by day, brewery by night, that triples as a bookstore.
It’s one of my absolute favorite places to go in downtown Hollowcrest, and it’s about ten minutes from my apartment.
The vibes are immaculate, and there’s a pretty decent area to conduct meetings like this one.
I drive up and park, get out, and head for the door.
I walk in, the smell of fresh espresso and cinnamon consuming my senses.
I breathe in deeply with my eyes closed, pausing to take it all in.
When I open my eyes, I spot Mr. Reilly sitting at one of my favorite tables in the far corner of the room.
The lighting inside Books and Brews is low and golden, spilling from vintage lamps and scattered sconces throughout.
The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves that house books of every shape and size that range from the battered classics to the brand-new BookTok hits.
The area is consumed by large leather armchairs that huddle in the corners, the upholstery weathered by time.
A few tables and chairs are littered between spaces.
Today, the crowd consists of the usual locals and students lost in their studies.
A soft, melodic indie tune is playing overhead.
I steal a glance at Mr. Reilly before making my way to the counter to order.
Damn, is he something to look at. He’s leaning back in a chair that appears way too small for his large frame, his posture one of relaxed nonchalance.
He’s beautiful in that I’m probably dangerous way.
He finds my lingering gaze, and I glance away before awkwardly motioning to him that I’m gonna grab a coffee, asking if he wants one.
He waves his hand to say no, and I head to the counter.
I peruse the large chalkboard hanging over the wall, pretending to read through the list of this week’s featured flavors.
As a creature of habit, I order my usual iced shaken espresso with sweet cold foam.
I grab the coffee and head over to the table in the corner.
Please don’t trip, I think to myself. How humiliating would it be if I spilled my coffee all over this guy the first time I ever spoke to him?
I make it to his table, coffee perfectly intact.
I set the coffee down on my side of the table and extend my right hand.
“Mr. Reilly. Nice to meet you.” Wow, his hands are huge compared to mine.
His handshake is quite constricting. It reminds me of the time Van had me pinned against that door by my throat.
I shiver and pull my hand away, running it down my pant leg and taking the seat across from Riven.
I bring my straw to my lips, taking a sip before looking his way.
This time, when my eyes find him, I really look.
His beauty from the back of an auditorium and from across this coffee shop is nothing compared to being this close to him.
He is … breathtaking. He’s wearing a short-sleeved black Henley with three buttons at the top.
The shirt is loosely tucked into a pair of fitted black slacks, outlining his lean, muscular form.
I don’t miss that the first two buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned, and I definitely don’t let my eyes linger to look any further.
His midnight-black hair is tousled in that messy way that makes you want to run your fingers through it.
His jawline is something written about in those dark romance novels, and the way that he’s clenching it now does things to me.
His lips are pouty and plump, and I imagine what they’d look like when they’re used and swollen.
He must notice my wandering gaze, because he smirks.
Is that a dimple? Damn, why do the hot guys always have a freaking dimple?
I shift in my seat, suddenly nervous. I avert his gaze for only a second before my eyes flick back to his.
And it’s those eyes that do me in. They’re heterochromatic in the most primal sense of the word. One is slate gray, like the color of a puffy storm cloud right before it rains. The other is as black as onyx, and the beautiful contrast makes me swallow hard.