“How about that one?” He nods toward the bleachers positioned near the workout zone. Though the seating is a permanent installment due to the numerous lifting competitions held here, most days the stands are just populated with curious tourists and horny locals. Jesse flips his head back, showing off his thick black waves in a blatant bid for the latter. His gaze is fixed on a pair of buxom redheads perched about four rows up. Buxom may be an understatement, but that’s how Jesse likes his women, and I’ll be the last one to deny the guy his guilty pleasures.
“Not interested.”
“You sure about that?” he counters. “Because it’s been at least ten years since the last time you did that.” He points toward the lat pulldown machine I’ve just vacated. Its horizontal bar, normally curved only at the ends, now resembles a giant horseshoe.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“I’m not exactly complaining. The sweet strawberries up there aren’t looking at anyone else now.” He narrows his eyes, assessing me quietly. “But if our resident Samson needs to get something off his mind—”
I slice him short by cracking my neck. “If you call me that again, I’ll tell them you sing Nickelback in the shower.”
He directs his attention toward the bleachers again. “With any luck, that nymph on the right will know that soon.”
“Somebody’s a player today.”
“And somebody’s avoiding the subject.” He fights the late-afternoon sun to pin my gaze with his. “Somebody who hasn’t bent a steel rod like it was a pipe cleaner in a long damn time.”
And by that, he means years. Several of them. Years in which I’ve been content. Satisfied. At times, even…happy.
But never at peace. I’ve given up on that part. On the piece that will lead to peace. The explanation of why I’m so…different. Because I am. I stick to a world of parchment and pages and predictability, on the inside as well as out, for good reason. Stability means control. And control prevents me from doing what I just did to this weight machine.
If that bar had been a human limb instead…like Jesse’s…
I suppress a shudder. How the hell had I let the control systems slip—so fast, so drastically?
I shove down the memories by looking back to the pulldown bar that looks like a failed arts-and-crafts project. “Overused equipment,” I mutter, successfully sidestepping any mention of my distracting student. “Fifty yards off the Pacific…good recipe for corrosion. No wonder I wasn’t feeling a burn.”
“You never burn.” Jesse indulges the grumble for a couple of seconds before a smirk overtakes his face again—just as today’s version of his dream redhead sashays our way.
“Sounds like we got here at just the right time,” she says. The curvy bombshell and her friend look as pleased with themselves as much as they are with us. In breezy dresses and designer sunglasses, they’re likely used to being the hunted, not the hunters. But they seem to like this role reversal. A lot.
I openly ignore their flirtations. I can’t afford another slip in self-control. When I turn it off, bad things happen, and there are two glaring reminders in front of me. The horseshoe on the lat machine and the wheelchair under my best friend.
Jesse flashes a welcoming grin as the girls lean on the bright-blue rail that surrounds the weight pen.
“I’d say any time is the right time for you.”
His line, smooth as whipped cream, has clearly snagged the redhead.
She licks her lips as if some of the stuff got caught there too. “Ohhh, so smooth. That means you’re either an agent or a poet.”
“Scientist, actually. Unlike Yeats or Hughes, I can tell you all about the Betelgeuse supernova, the Cascadia subduction zone, and anything you want to know about the galactic bulge.”
He earns a side-eye. “That’s a new one.”
He mirrors my look. “It’s a real thing, damn it.”
The redhead hitches her glitter-trimmed sunglasses to the top of her head. “You had me at Betelgeuse, gorgeous. So…where are you boys off to after here?” she asks.
“And do you want some company?” her friend chimes in.
My spine stiffens, but I disguise it by wiping fake sweat off my neck. While Jesse’s new friend is nice enough—and I’m sure her pal is too—no way am I up for hours of forced socializing and then awkwardly refusing a trip back to a girl’s place for the night.
I don’t begrudge Jesse’s cavalier approach to sex, but I simply don’t share it. Weirdly, it hasn’t been a huge sacrifice. The mating merry-go-round just isn’t my ride. There’s something much more alluring about courting a woman. Learning her secrets. Winning her treasures.
Hell, maybe Jesse’s right. Maybe I belong on another planet. Or at least in another time.
“Uhhh,” I grit through a smile, hoping it looks contrite instead of constipated. “Sorry. We actually have another thing we’ve got to be at in a couple of hours. A private event. Downtown.”
All of that emerges without a glitch because it’s the truth. Tonight is a big night for Sarah and Reg, who are practically family. We’re not missing it. I brace for some show of disappointment from Jesse, but his scowl never materializes.
“Oh, yeah.” He beams a wider version of his megawatt grin. “The Melora Hall book-to-movie event at Recto Verso.”
I instantly want to kill him as both women look like they want to jump him.
“You’re going to the Melora Hall party?” Jesse’s admirer says.
“Seriously?” squeals her little friend.
“And at Recto Verso, too. I love that place!”
“Right? It’s so cute!”
As the women trade their exclamations, Jesse and I have an exchange of our own, silent but effective.
Cute? he mouths to me.
What the fuck? I answer, flaring my gaze.
We’re on the same page on this at least. Equally proud of everything our bookstore-owning friends have built on Spring and Fifth as well as the praise it’s received for the last thirty years—though “cute” doesn’t really fit. The reason the studio picked Recto Verso for this event was to lend the project some street cred with the literary and film snobs via the store’s trendy-but-intellectual vibe.
“So…we have a request of you ladies.” He lets a few beats build up their obvious anticipation. “They likely won’t accept Venus and Aphrodite as acceptable names on the event guest list…”
“I’m Misty!” the first one exclaims.
“And I’m Kristy!” says the second.
“Of course,” I mutter just for Jesse’s ears.
“Perfect,” he continues, not missing a beat. By now he’s got his phone out of his track pants pocket and extends it Misty’s way. “But just to be sure, put yourself in as contacts. Better include your last names and phone numbers too. Just in case I have to text you with an update or something.”
“Or something.” I’m louder about the repetition, as well as the chuckle I tack on.
“By the way,” he says while the girls add themselves to his device, “I’m Jesse, and this is Maximus.”
“Oh, I know Maximus.” Kristy bats her eyes at me. “I graduated from Alameda three years ago. Getting up early for your French Literature class was absolutely worth it.”
I clear my throat. Grit my way through another tense smile. “Well…I’m glad you benefited from your time at Alameda.”
“As I’m sure we’ll all benefit from tonight’s fun,” Jesse smoothly inserts.
I flash him a grateful glance. I’ve grown into a semi-hermit because I’ve had to. He’s grown into a halfway decent socialite for the same reason.
“Let’s say seven thirty?” he adds. “Festivities start at seven, but who wants to be on time?”
“Seven thirty it is.” Misty beams a wide smile. “We need to go home and primp now.”
“Ohhh, yes.” Kristy nods like a spring-necked dashboard kitten. “Primping is in order.” She winks my way. “Down to every last inch.”
Three
hours later, Kristy is wearing a bigger grin and a lot less clothing. She and Misty nudge their way through the crowd inside Recto Verso. Jesse and I have already staked our claim on one of the store’s back corners, the area Sarah and Reg have set up as an LA-infused ode to their home country. There are a couple of mismatched love seats in front of a marble fireplace that’s never used and a tall cabinet full of British knick-knacks mixed with sparkly Hollywood curios.
We’re happy to grab a spot in front of the mantel’s stone pillars and watch the parade of humanity proceeding toward the opposite corner of the store. Other event guests are clustered among the small reading nooks, book-themed sculptures, and tunnels formed of book “bricks” that lead to the area where Melora Hall is posing for photo ops. The leather spines of the novel collectors’ section provide a sophisticated backdrop for the author, a lovely woman with big green eyes and mocha skin who greets everyone with the same charm and affection.
“Hi!” Misty greets us in a breathless rush—good thing, since the woman probably shouldn’t inhale too hard tonight. Like Kristy, the woman appears to have been poured into her black cocktail dress.
“Well hello there, yourself.” Jesse’s comment is dotted with surprise, likely due to the full-mouth-press Misty’s just leaned over and bestowed. “You look gorgeous.”
“Why thank you, sir.” Misty giggles, but her expression flattens when some flashbulbs pop, drawing her attention to the celebrity across the room. “Oh my freaking God.” She grabs Jesse’s hand and twists it in a thousand directions. “Melora Hall is really here!”
Jesse laughs. I join him. Though I’m counting the seconds until it’s appropriate to slip away and hide out in Sarah’s office for the rest of the night, the excitement in the air is a little contagious.
As if my thoughts have conjured her, a welcome sight of a woman seems to materialize from the middle of the throng. “Just wait until you see the rest of the crowd,” she says in a distinct London clip.
The sound of that accent alone is enough to ease my nervousness. Tonight, Sarah—the woman who’s been running my favorite bookstore for as long as I can remember—is dressed in a pastel pink sweater paired with gray tights and prismatic Doc Martens. There’s a single streak of darker pink at the front of her otherwise silver hair. She’s the only woman on the planet who exudes English schoolmarm and ex–punk rocker at the same time.
“Misty and Kristy, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to Ms. Sarah Reitz-Nikian,” Jesse says. “She’s one half of the kick-ass couple who own this place.”
Kristy smiles. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“And you as well, m’dear,” Sarah answers.
But a similar greeting doesn’t spill out of Misty. We’re all curious onlookers as the woman’s jaw nearly plummets to the floor. “S-S-Sorry,” she finally spurts. “I’m—I’m so sorry. But holy crap, you weren’t kidding about the crowd!”
“What?” Kristy leans over, using the motion as an excuse to slide her hand across my stomach. “What is it, honey?”
“Not a what,” Misty counters. “A who. Oh, holy shit. I think it’s really her.”
“Who?” Kristy pushes at my ribs, seeming to need me for balance as she tiptoes on her stiletto shoes. “Where?”
“Right there!”
“Where? Oh, wait. Now I see. Oh my word!”
Out of pure curiosity, I follow their gawks to the classics section with which I’m so familiar.
I recognize her instantly because the vision of her hasn’t stopped tormenting my imagination for the last twenty-four hours. Not her sweet face. Not her petite body that I have no business sizing up the way I did once we were alone in my classroom.
“I can’t believe it.” Kristy gasps. “It’s Kara Valari. I can’t remember the last time she’s made a public appearance.”
I pull in a hard breath through my nose, struggling for a way to distract the two women who should be focused on the event’s headliner starlet, not the reclusive beauty belonging to one of Hollywood’s most notorious dynasties. Because if I’m wagering any guesses from her unremarkable outfit, Miss Valari isn’t here for a photo op.
“What do you think she’s doing here?” Misty utters with starstruck awe.
Sarah crosses her arms and peers over her shoulder. “Her sister, Kell, is quite good friends with many of the guests tonight, especially Ms. Hall. She’s around here somewhere too.”
I think Kristy might stroke out with this news. She unpeels herself from me and reattaches herself to Misty. They crane their necks in unison, intent on spotting the other Valari in the room.
Well…hell.
This new twist has handed me the best opportunity to escape—but no way is that part of my plan anymore. Not now, with Kara Valari in my sights.
After giving Sarah a friendly hug and heartfelt congratulations about the turnout, I signal Jesse that I’ll be back. Which, at this point, may or may not be the truth.
Using my size to my advantage, I cut a path through the crowd until only a few people stand between Kara and me. Her lip is clipped between her teeth, her brows pulled together in concentration as she stares up at the highest shelf before her.
Seemingly oblivious to the people mingling around her, she lifts herself up on her tiptoes, her fingertips barely making contact with the spine of whatever book she’s after.
I maneuver until I’m there, inches away. And I don’t realize the gravity of what I’m doing until it’s too late.
Chapter Three
Kara
I rip my hand back when he grazes my skin. The hot bolt of awareness inspires a flash of concern first, then melts into something even more unsettling when I realize it’s Professor Kane—well, Maximus—beside me.
His polite gesture isn’t paired with a friendly smile. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he felt the singe of energy between us too. But that’s impossible. Normal people don’t feel things like I do…except he looks like I feel—stunned and fascinated.
He stares down at the book like it offended him before offering it to me. I take it, careful not to touch him.
“Thanks.”
He doesn’t speak for a moment, his blue-eyed gaze boring into me like I’m a problem he can’t solve. It doesn’t help that this place is jammed, forcing us into a proximity that feels too personal. Especially as I find myself taking in details about him I couldn’t appreciate before. The ring of deeper blue around the irises of his eyes. His muscled forearms, visible now with his sleeves rolled up tightly. Most noticeably, his hair falls in messy coppery waves past his shoulders, giving him a wild and untethered look, far from the buttoned-up professor I met yesterday.
The din of the crowd is pierced with the squeal of an excited Piper Blue fan on the other side of the store. Maximus looks over briefly before turning his attention back to me and the book in my hand.
“Required reading?”
I blink a couple of times before I latch on to his meaning. “Oh.” I tuck the heavy hardcover under my arm. “Not really. Just looked interesting, I guess.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Greek rituals are interesting?”
“I’m a classics—”
“Yes, I know. Classics major. You told me that already.” He rests his elbow on the edge of the shelf dedicated to the Roman Empire. “It’s just that everyone’s here to gush over celebrities, and you’re over here in your own little world.”
“And that’s interesting to you?”
Those rings of cobalt seem to intensify. “It is.”
I fidget with the textured edge of the book, a little floored that he’d notice. “Is that why you’re here? To gush over celebrities?”
His smirk broadens. “No. I’m friends with the owners. I grew up down the street. They’re basically family.”
“So is Piper. She and my sister have been inseparable for years.”
“That’s nice of you to come and support her.”
I fail to mask an eye roll.
> He laughs. “What?”
“Piper has enough fangirls. She doesn’t need moral support. My sister’s determined to put me in the spotlight every chance she can. I was promised a lift home after class, and here we are.”
“Little bit of a detour.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Little bit.”
“You could just leave, you know.”
I shrug. “I like books.”
“I can tell. How’s Dante treating you?”
I feel my cheeks color, though I can’t reason why. His question is simple enough. “I’m enjoying it,” I finally manage.
His next words are lower. Almost…intimate. “You don’t have to tell me that just because I’m your professor.”
“I wouldn’t lie about it.”
His gaze drops from my eyes to the book and seems to wander over more of me. I take in an uneven breath because this feels dangerously like flirting. With my professor. Not that I’m parked on any moral high ground about it, but I’m not in a position to get entangled with anyone. Especially Maximus, with his sweet eyes and electric touch and soft-looking mouth…
Umph.
Suddenly I’m shoved from behind, launched against his massive frame. Lightning fast, he wraps his arm around me to keep me from tumbling sideways into the people near us.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” someone says.
They could be a mile away, because all I can hear is Maximus’s heavy exhale as he cinches us infinitesimally closer. His hand, huge and warm, is on my waist. His scent, like a summer rain rushing over my senses. Then his voice, breathy and low, is in my ear.
“Fuck.”
It’s barely a whisper. A word I can feel more than hear as I struggle to process the sensory explosion of this much contact. My heart beats excitedly, like it’s responding to a fun new drug designed to keep me amped all night. I brace my palm against the expanse of his chest and force myself into a state of composure. Calm down. Focus.
Except this is more than butterflies. This is a phoenix in flight. The hard hook of attraction that’s impossible to pass off as anything else now. A live wire I don’t want to let go of but desperately need to before he gets the wrong idea.
Blood of Zeus: (Blood of Zeus: Book One) Page 2
