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I becameaware of a presence standing over me. I looked up to see the source of the heated gaze but it wasn’t pointed at me, it was pointed at my book.
My breath stuck at the base of my throat. I’d never seen anyone so gorgeous. Maybe on TV but not in real life. He had a jaw like Luke Perry, lips like Justin Bieber, and a shadowy darkness like something out ofStranger Things. He was basically ever poster I had on my wall, amplified a million by his aloof, almost reluctant, existence.
“Rem Koolhas.” His voice was deep, his tone surprisingly bored for someone whose face was far from boring.
I tilted my chin, determined to not be intimidated by someone clearly older, obviously educated and infinitely better bred than me. “A genius,” I stated.
He snorted and turned his back, pulling down a book I had toyed with reading many times but for some reason hadn’t yet.
“I’m guessing you don’t agree,” I said.
His behaviour was odd, as if wanted to talk, but then he didn’t. Like he wanted to be friendly but then didn’t really know how to be.
“You guess correctly.”
He turned and leaned his weight on the bookshelf, giving me a clear view of the muscular body beneath his tight t-shirt and the thick wallet inside the pocket of his mouth-wateringly expensive jeans.
I closed the book and placed it on my knees which I’d glued together to stop them from trembling. I shouldn’t have felt intimidated by a boy who couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me, but good Lord I was. No one who looked that jaw-droppingly hot ever deigned tolookat me, let alone speak to me. He peered down from the bookshelf, his dark-lashed lids lowered, making him look obscenely sexy. His strong, square jaw ground lightly as though he was considering a joke and it was totally on me. But I’d never before seen this boy and was unlikely to ever see him again so I felt uncharacteristically brave.
“Enlighten me,” I said.
He folded his arms around the book he’d pulled from the shelf and assessed me with a gaze that felt like warm but illicit honey.
“Well, for a start, he’s a hypocrite.”
My brows hiked. “I’m not sure I buy that, but go on.”
One of his brows twitched but his focus remained unnervingly steady. “He talks a lot about how preservation has contributed to a kind of collective amnesia, and that we’ve transformed historic areas into tourist hubs while conveniently ignoring buildings that represent parts of our past that make us uncomfortable.”
I sat back in my chair and tilted my head to one side. “What’s hypocritical about that?”
He pushed the book back on the shelf then fed large hands into his pockets as he regarded me with an arrogance I found weirdly, obsessively attractive.
“Because in the next breath he criticises people for not embracing change.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Aren’t they two separate arguments?”
His jaw ground as he considered my question. “No. How can you accuse people of transforming historic areas – regardless of what they are transformed to – but then claim they don’t like change?”
I chewed my lip nervously as I conceded, in silence, that he had a point.
“Plus, he’s egotistical. Goes in for every award instead of letting his art speak for itself.” His gaze roamed the bookshelves to my right, as though our conversation was beneath him.
“Maybe he finds that creating work for competitions instead of clients is freeing.”
His eyes darted back to mine in a beat and it was then I noticed how black they were.
“You don’t need a competition to create work that is freeing.”
His gaze held mine in some strange unspoken battle of wills, then he surprised me by stepping forward and holding out another book. “Now this is an artist you should listen to.”
For the first time in my life, I felt heat flood my chest. It spread like wildfire to my face. He held upIn Praise of Shadows,by Junichiro Tanizaki. It was a book I’d been intending to read for months but hadn’t got around to it. To be honest, I’d found Tanizaki’s work almost as intimidating as this boy standing in front of me. My gaze flickered between the dark book and the even darker figure holding it out to me. His t-shirt was a steel grey which accentuated his hooded eyes. For a casual garment the cut was as sharp as his jaw, the cotton as smooth as his lips.
“Have you read it?”
His question made me jump. My already burning face became a blistering furnace. I’d been staring at his mouth for at least several seconds.
“Um, no. Not that one. It’s on my list though.”
