Or maybe he’s not looking at the necklace at all.
14
ALFIE
It’s become a habit this week, picking Tara up from work. I tell myself it’s because Troy asked me to look out for her, or because of the way James watches her like she’s something to consume. Or recently, because the more we can get to know each other the better we can pull off the charade to my parents. Who are arriving tomorrow. But those are excuses.
The truth? I can’t stay away.
She’s infiltrated every corner of my carefully ordered world. My lab notes are dotted with unconscious sketches of her eyes. My research data blurs into the curve of her neck, where that kunzite pendant now rests.
I’d seen it in the jeweler’s window the day after our conversation about the stone, before she’d even agreed to help with my family situation. Bought it without thinking, then spent days wondering if I’d lost my mind.
I’ve never given anyone jewelery before - never given any girlfriend a real gift at all. Nothing’s ever lasted long enough to reach a Christmas or birthday.
Even after I had it, I kept questioning if it was too much, if she’d think it was weird, if it would make things complicated.
But I haven’t seen her without it since I gave it to her, and every time I see it on her it makes me stand up a little taller.
Europa’s pressure variations should be consuming my thoughts. The CalTech position. My future. My legacy. Instead, I’m haunted by the exact shade of pink her cheeks turn when she’s flustered.
I arrive at Luzia early, like always. It’s only 1 AM since the club shuts early today and I know she’ll be another few minutes closing up. Through the window, I watch her stack glasses whilst humming something under her breath. My fingers itch to capture the way she moves.
When I enter the club, Tara’s out of the room, probably somewhere out back sorting something out. I grab myself a glass of water and settle in one of the bar seats, happy to wait for her.
James spots me and helps himself to a whiskey at the other side of the bar, narrowing his eyes. I meet his gaze steadily, letting every ounce of Spencer intimidation fill my stare.
Try something. Please fucking give me a reason.
I curl my fingers around the glass so tightly I half expect it to shatter. James leans back in his seat, smug and unbothered, the kind of guy who’s always gotten away with everything. I hate that I know his type. Hate that I’ve probablybeenthat type before.
“Stay the hell away from her,” I say, my voice low. A warning.
James smirks, sipping his drink, all confidence and control. “Or what?”
Or what? What am I going to do—go full Spencer and throw money at the problem? Break his nose and prove I’m just another asshole? The thought coils inside me like something rotten. I’m not that guy. Not anymore. But for her, I might be.
“Alfie!” Tara’s whole face lights up when she sees me, and something in my chest clenches. “You know you don’t have to come every shift. I have a smartphone and Uber.”
James looks away first, slinking out the back door like the coward he is.
I shrug. “It’s on the way.”
It’s not. I could have been home hours ago. All I need to do is monitor the 48-hour analysis run, which I can check every 8 hours. I should be sleeping, or at least pretending to. Instead, I spent hours sketching her from memory and pretending the science podcasts could drown out my thoughts of her.
“Alright. Well, thank you.” She waves a cleaning cloth like a tiny flag of surrender. “I just need about ten minutes to finish up. Becky was mad about the messy VIP section yesterday, and she’s scary when she’s angry,” she whispers.
“Take your time.”
Before I can overthink it – because overthinking is what I do best – I pull out my sketchbook. The leather is worn smooth from years of hiding in its pages, filled with things I never show anyone. Lately though, it’s become a chronicle of her. Every page a confession I can’t take back.
The bar’s lighting is terrible, but I learned to draw in worse conditions. Dark corners of the Spencer mansiontaught me how to capture light where there shouldn’t be any. I start with the bottles behind her, how they catch and scatter light around her like her own personal galaxy. Then Tara herself, reaching up, that little furrow between her brows that makes me want to smooth it away with my thumb.
Drawing her is dangerous. Every line feels like evidence of how she has invaded my brain, how much power she has to break through my carefully constructed walls. But I can’t stop.
Just like I can’t stop coming here, can’t stop wanting to be near her.
She nearly catches me when she walks past, and I flip the page immediately. Her expression falls but she stays quiet, respecting my privacy in a way that makes me feel warm inside.
