Page 11 of Written in Scent

And I would rather she continue believing I’m composed and functional than discover I’m apparently vulnerable to baked goods.

Sophie wraps two pastries carefully in napkins before we leave, tucking them into her bag like contraband. By the time we step out of the dining hall, we’re both trying not to laugh, walking a little too fast across the quad like we’ve committed a minor but thrilling crime.

I glance sideways at her, ready to share the triumph.

Something shifts in her expression.

“Elodie—”

I don’t have time to process the warning before I walk straight into something solid.

Not something.

Someone.

My cheek collides with a chest that doesn’t yield in the slightest, and giant hands close gently around my arms before I can stumble backward. The contact sends a brief, disorienting jolt through me, like static skipping across skin.

I blink, and vibrant blue eyes fill my vision.

For a moment that’s all I can focus on, the startling clarity of them and the heat in their expression, open and beautiful and unexpectedly kind. A second later, I register the rest of him — the sun touched gold of his hair, the easy line of his shoulders, the effortless confidence in the way he stands.

He is much taller than me.

Not just by a little. My upper periphery lands somewhere around his collarbone before I tilt my chin up, and the realization sends a strange awareness through me, of proximity, of scale, of how easily he steadied me without effort.

And then I smell him.

Warm vanilla threaded through golden amber and mellowed citrus, the scent layered so seamlessly it unfolds instead of striking, each note revealing the next. It’s like a living thing, the top notes continuously shifting so that I could describe it in a million ways and never be satisfied. Recognition tugs at me before I can place why.

The scent from orientation.

My thoughts go briefly, completely blank.

Voices reach me as if from far away, blurred at the edges. It takes a moment before they sharpen into words and I realize both he and Sophie are talking to me at the same time.

Which means I’ve been staring.

“Oh,” I say quickly, heat rushing into my face. “I’m sorry.”

He’s still holding my arm gently, like he wants to be certain I’m balanced before letting go. A faint crease appears between his brows, concern rather than annoyance.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

The question surprises me enough that I nod immediately. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

He lets go then, though he doesn’t step away, his attention still resting on me in a way that feels focused rather than overwhelming. His hand lifts to push through his hair, mussing the waves further, the movement quick and almost sheepish.

His chest had been very solid.

Possibly too solid.

“Melody, was it?” he asks.

It takes me a second to understand what he’s said. Sophie must have called my name to warn me, and he clearly heard something close enough to guess.

I glance at her. She has, very unhelpfully, taken a step back and is watching us with barely disguised delight.

“I’m Miller,” he says quickly. “James. I mean, Jamie. I’m Jamie Miller.”