Eyes on Me

by Rachel Harris

  I had the most amazing alpha readers ever with this book, and Eyes on Me would not exist without Staci Murden, Ashley Bodette, Moriah Chavis, and Megan Wilson. These incredible women read each chapter as I wrote it, giving me their thoughts and insights, their love and gentle guidance, and with each cheer and every nudge, this story took shape. Lily and Stone live and breathe because of you, and words don’t exist to describe my gratitude. You helped me believe in this book, your words encouraged me, and you made it better than I could’ve ever hoped for. Thank you, friends!

  As always, thank you to my author twin, Cindi Madsen, for always being my listening ear and sounding board. Also, all much love to Wendy Higgins, Katie McGarry, Amalie Howard, Angie Frazier, and Suzanne Young for all the hand-holding, support, and laughs along the way.

  Flirt Squad, you rock! Thank you for always believing in me and all your support. I know you waited a long time to meet Stone…I hope he was worth it!

  Holly, Viktória, Emanuele, John, Dimitri, and the entire staff at Fred Astaire Dance Studio Champions—thank you for inspiring me! Also, thank you for bringing dance into my marriage. Weddings and date nights will never be the same. Viktória, thank you for being such a feisty dynamo that needed and deserved to be immortalized in fiction. I hope I did you justice! Holly, thank you not only for being such a wonderful teacher, but for all the wonderful advice and suggestions for this story. You women are my heroes!

  My husband is more than my rock; he’s my best friend, my critique partner, my sanity, and my heart. Gregg, I love you more than life itself. Thank you for constantly showing me that romance is real and that love is worth fighting for. Also, thanks for all the football info! I worked in Drew Brees for you (hehe). SHMILY!!

  Jordan and Cali, my two beautiful girls…thank you for inspiring me. You are both such gifted writers and you push me to be better, too. I love how enthusiastic you are about the written word, and I cherish all our discussions about the books on our shelves. Teaching you every day is my greatest privilege, and being your mom is my greatest honor.

  Finally, thank you, fabulous reader. There are so many options out there, so that you chose to read my words means everything. I hope I entertained you for a short while. Thank you for every email, every review, every tweet, and every post you write. I save them all and pull them back out when I get stuck or need encouragement. Thank you for making my dreams a reality. I’m humbled. To God be the glory.

  About the Author

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Rachel Harris writes humorous love stories about girls next door and the hot guys who make them swoon. Vibrant settings, witty banter, and strong relationships are a staple in each of her books…and kissing. Lots of kissing. An admitted bookaholic and homeschool mom, she gets through each day by laughing at herself, hugging her kids, and watching way too much Food Network with her husband. She writes young adult, new adult, and adult romances and loves talking with readers!

  Visit her online at: www.RachelHarrisWrites.com

  Loved Eyes on Me?

  Then you won’t want to miss

  Rachel Harris’s hilarious and heart-melting time-travel trilogy!

  Read on for an excerpt from

  My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century

  Available now wherever books

  and ebooks are sold.

  Excerpt from My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century

  I am alone in Florence.

  A quick check to my watch confirms I have an hour before I need to be back at the hotel, and I plan to enjoy it.

  A couple of guys zip by me on bikes as I turn down a side street, wandering and exploring, following the crowd and my internal navigation system. I end up at an outdoor market and slow my natural stride to match the lazy pace of the other patrons. Stalls are bursting at the seams with leather jackets, purses, and belts, and I make a mental shopping list of all the goodies I plan to come back and buy. At an outdoor delicatessen, a young boy working behind the counter offers me a sample of biscotti, and it literally melts in my mouth.

  The street sign for the Via Sant’Antonino is ahead, and even though it’s only been fifteen minutes, I decide to head back to the hotel. It’s probably best not to push Dad to the limit on the very first day. Plus, if I come back early, maybe he’ll give me a get-out-of-jail-free card on that family dinner later.

  Fat chance, but hey, it’s worth a shot.

  I round the corner, and a dark army-green tent catches my eye, its front flaps fluttering in the breeze. It seems odd—a tent in the middle of the street—but I continue past until two older women walk by and I hear the word gypsy over the clanging of church bells.

  My ears perk up, and I stop. Maybe it’s Victor Hugo’s influence—Esmeralda, the badass gypsy in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, is my favorite character in the novel so far—or the whole When in Rome—er, Florence—mentality, but I decide to be wild for once.

  In forty-five minutes, I’ll be having lunch and finalizing plans for a lavish, extravagant, overpriced, stupid, unwanted birthday gala where I’ll be forced under a microscope for all the world to criticize. I want—no, need—to do something just for me.

  Something private and very, very un-Cat-like.

  I pull back the flap and enter the gypsy’s tent.

  Inside, it’s dim, with only a few lit candles illuminating the space. The flap closes behind me, but for the effect, it may as well be a steel door—the outside noise is completely muffled. I take a step, and gravel crunches under my sandals, sounding all the louder in this spooky setup.

  I’ve officially walked into the Twilight Zone.

  “Hello?”

  I stretch my hand out and feel a ledge. Opening my eyes wide, I struggle to read the framed sign perched atop some sort of intricate shelving system. It says to place any bags or belongings on the top shelf, and to take off my shoes and slide them into the tray provided.

  I really don’t get how Steve Madden gladiators will interfere with a psychic reading, but whatever. I’m being wild.

  Tiptoeing farther inside, following the trail of dotted candlelight, I continue to be amazed at how large the space seems. It’s a freaking tent, and not even a big one at that, yet I feel as though I could walk forever. One side is completely lined with shelves, and from the flickering flames of the candles, I can see rows of teacups, labeled vials, unlit candles, crystal balls, and stacks of cards.

  As I drift toward the back of the tent, the smell of patchouli incense tickles my nose, and I see a small card table with a black silk sheath draped over it. Resting in the middle is a large sapphire-colored candle, its flame a spotlight on the woman sitting behind it.

  Her entire face is covered by purple veils; only her eyes are visible.

  Creeptastic.

  “What answers do you seek?”

  I jump. Not because I didn’t see her mouth move or the fact that she spoke English. But her voice is not at all what I expected. It’s youthful, cautious, and…Russian?

  I lean closer to get a better look, but all I can see is the layers of veils covering her head and mouth. And those eyes. Even from this slight distance, they are hypnotic. A combination of ancient wisdom and sparkling humor, as if she’s peering into my mind and laughing at what’s inside. My scalp tingles, and a shiver of unease dances down my spine, but I refuse to leave. I’ve already come this far.

  The woman, or I guess I should say girl, lifts an eyebrow, and it disappears behind a veil. I realize she is waiting for an answer, but for the life of me, I can’t remember the question. I blink a few times and rack my brain, my eyes never straying from hers.

  “You fancy a reading, tatcho?”

  Her blunt question and flat, tired voice shake me out of my trance and remind me this isn’t real. If it wasn’t for the occasional funny beep of tiny foreign cars, this could totally be happening in some back room in West Hollywood. Not that I believe any of this hocus-pocus stuff, anyway. The only destiny I believe in is the one I can control. So I shrug a
nd say, “Yeah, whatever you usually do, I guess.”

  The gypsy flicks her wrist, causing dozens of bracelets to clank in unison, and motions to the chair opposite her. She continues to stare at me from behind the table, her head slightly tilted, her hazel eyes narrowed. Finally she nods and walks over to one of the shelves, her layers of bright, multicolored chiffon skirts swishing around her feet. She picks up a teacup.

  I wonder if I should mention that I don’t really dig tea.

  “What is your name?”

  Part of me is tempted to tell her if she were a real psychic she’d know it already, but somehow I doubt that’ll go over too well. “Cat.”

  She pauses mid-sit and lifts her head. “Cat?”

  Her disbelieving tone irks me. I straighten my shoulders, put on my usual mask of aloofness, and say, “Caterina. You need a last name, too?”

  Although I can’t be sure, I think I hear her snort from behind the veil, which just annoys me even more. It’s impossible to get a handle on this girl. The gypsy shakes her head and begins preparing the tea, and I pretend to relax back in my seat. A nervous energy buzzes through my veins. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.

  Holding the pearl teacup by its delicate handle, the gypsy pours hot water from a kettle on a nearby hot plate, and then stirs in a heaping spoonful of tea leaves from a tin. Neither of us speaks while the tea steeps. She just sits across from me, her eyes boring into mine. I try to glance around the tent but continue to be drawn back to her gaze, like she exudes some type of magnetic force field. Eventually my eyes grow accustomed to the dark, and I’m able to see hers more clearly. They are strangely beautiful, like a luminous marble, amber colored with specks of russet, jade, and charcoal.

  It’s spooky. But I’m completely transfixed.

  The spell is broken when she reaches for the cup. She blows on it, holds it out, and says, “You are right handed, so you must take this cup with your left. As you drink, relax and clear your mind. Try not to think. If something does continue to come to mind, however, hold onto it. Meditate on it. Make sure to leave a small amount of tea at the bottom of your cup and try not to consume too many of the leaves. When you’re done, hand it back to me.”

  There seem to be an awful lot of rules just to drink some tea and make up a fake fortune, but I’ll go with it. I take a sip. The tea is hot, and the floating leaves are icky and tickle my mouth, but I drink. I try to keep my mind clear like she said, but for some annoying reason, Jenna keeps popping in. Visions of her laughing and constantly trying to give me a hug assault me, then are replaced with equally disturbing ones of my mother. Fuzzy snapshot images from when she was actually around and then clearer, sharper ones from the big screen. Despite my every attempt to do or think otherwise, my mother continues to appear.

  In my effort to stop the movie playing in my head and push away all the chaotic emotions those two women bring, I nearly drink the entire cup of tea. Luckily, I catch myself and hand it back. Definitely want to avoid incurring any gypsy wrath. I wipe my mouth and pretend not to be eager to hear her response.

  Okay, so maybe I’m the tiniest bit superstitious.

  She swirls my cup three times, then dumps the last bit of the tea into the saucer. She keeps the cup overturned for a few seconds before flipping it back over and peering inside.

  I tap my fingers on the table and ask, “See anything good?”

  The gypsy nods. “Arvah. I see a tent.”

  “A tent? You mean, like the one we’re in?”

  She nods again. “A tsera—a tent—is a symbol for adventure. You may find yourself doing something completely different soon. Perhaps travel is in your future.”

  Hmm. A tent like the one we’re in and traveling in my future. Pretty convenient, considering I’m a tourist. Aloud I say, “Adventure, huh? Like emancipating myself and relocating permanently to Florence?”

  She lifts an eyebrow, and I wave her off. “Kidding, obviously.”

  I get up from the table and realize the tent has gotten smaller. No, that’s silly; my eyes must have adjusted to the dim lighting. Either that, or this chick has some seriously freaky tea.

  I walk back to my bag at the front of the tent and hear her fall in step behind me. As I stretch to reach into the front pouch to get my wallet, I twist around. “How much for the, uh, session?”

  The gypsy’s eyes grow wide, and her brows disappear behind the veil again. I look down, expecting to find a tarantula or some other crazy creepy-crawly to justify her being so freaked, and see the small tattoo on my right hip exposed. I drop my arms and yank down my shirt.

  She bolts toward me, staring intently at the cute top now covering my body art. “May I?” she asks hesitantly.

  I bite my lip and think. I never show anyone my tattoo. Considering my age, getting one wasn’t exactly legal, especially since I didn’t have Dad’s permission. But more than that, it’s personal.

  A reminder.

  But the girl seems so fascinated, and it’s not like I have to share its meaning or anything. If she’s a real psychic, she’ll know. Very slowly, I lift the hem of my shirt to uncover my upper right hip. Her fingers flex as if she intends to brush them over my stomach, and I flinch. Gingerly, she draws them back.

  “The painted pear.”

  The gypsy’s voluminous outfit of veils tickles my arm. We’re the same height, so I have no problem looking into her eyes. The skin around them crinkles, and if I thought she looked intense before, it was nothing compared to this enthrallment. She’s practically humming. I lower my shirt again and say, “Uh, yeah. It’s from my favorite Renaissance painting. Madonna and Child with Apples and Pears?”

  I’m normally not one to turn my statements into questions, but the girl is kind of freaking me out.

  She nods and then claps her hands, and I get the distinct impression that I’m missing something. “The ambrol. The Renaissance. Misto!”

  A muscle in my eyelid starts to twitch as I slowly follow her to the back of the tent where she’s flitting about. I know I should probably just leave, but I can’t stop watching the scene playing out before me. It’s as if someone flipped a switch—all reserved gypsy mannerisms have completely been thrown out the window. Or in this case, out the tent flap.

  The girl twirls and dances over to a shelf containing rows and rows of unlit candles. “It is time,” she says, darting a glance back toward me, a Cheshire cat smile on her face. “I have waited years for this divano.”

  She runs her fingers across the orange candles, then the white, and hesitates over the yellow before landing on the purple and nodding. She grabs a bejeweled jug and motions me back to the table with a wag of her head.

  “Please, stay but a moment more.” Her smile withers when I hesitate with one hand on my bag. “There will be no charge.”

  If living in LA has taught me anything, it’s that nothing is ever free. I check my watch. It’s one thirty. It’ll take me twenty minutes to get back to the hotel from here, which means I have ten minutes, tops.

  But I’m intrigued.

  I walk to the table and sit on the edge of my seat. The girl’s smile returns, and she sets her supplies down. “You may call me Reyna,” she says in a noticeably thicker accent as she carves Caterina onto one side of the candle. I want to tell her it’s Cat—my self-involved mother may have named me after her, but only Dad’s allowed to utter my given name—but what’s the point? This will all be over in a few minutes, and I’ll never see this girl again.

  Reyna writes something else on the other side, but I can’t make it out in the candlelight. Then she picks up the sparkly jug and pours what appears to be oil onto the candle before setting it down on a mirror and lighting the wick. I jump at the sudden burst of light. The dancing flame, along with the reflected glow, causes elongated shadows to fall across the table. Strange shapes appear within the inky outlines, and I struggle to convince myself it’s just my overactive imagination rearing its ugly head again.

  I have de
finitely seen one too many movies.

  Staring into the flames, Reyna chants, “Powers that be, powers of three, let Caterina’s destiny be all that I see.”

  She repeats it two more times before grabbing my hands and closing her eyes.

  Nothing happens, and I assume whatever voodoo stuff she tried to do failed. Surprise, surprise. I go to get up, and then the table begins to shake.

  Reyna’s cool fingers snake up and grasp my wrists.

  I try to wrench them away, but Reyna’s grip tightens as she pulls me forward and throws her head back.

  Suddenly the flame snuffs out and the room goes black.

  Every sense I have goes on red alert as I try to remember any of the moves from the self-defense class Dad made me take. I can see the headline now: Daughter of Hollywood Murdered by Nutcase Gypsy.

  She frees my wrists, and I cradle them to my chest even though they don’t hurt. A queasy feeling churns in my stomach. My skin prickles, and there is a subtle yet undeniable roar in my ears.

  I sense Reyna moving around in the dark, and my muscles clench, ready to bolt. She strikes a match, and a spark ignites. When the large candle is relit, Reyna is standing over me, eyes glittering. I spring from my chair, my hand at my throat.

  “Dude, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  Reyna ignores my gasps for air and nails me with an eerie stare. “Caterina, a great adventure is in store for you. Be sure to keep your mind open to the lessons ahead.”

  She nods toward the front of the tent, almost dismissively. I stand there disbelieving—and to be honest, more than a little frazzled—waiting for more. Surely she’s going to explain what all that was about.

  Or not. Instead of giving any semblance of an explanation for the creepy parlor trick I just witnessed, Reyna just continues to stand there smiling, bouncing on her toes.