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And there, by one of the window displays, I saw her.
She was exquisite; her hair pulled up into a messy bun, strands blowing freely in the wind.
Her curves were enough to make any man stop and stare. Or any freaking human being. There’d never been a more fitting representation of the word “gorgeous.”
She wore a simple white T-shirt and jeans, and her eyes were fixed on a painting of a child holding a globe, intent on travel.
It was one of my favorite pictures too.
Her outfit hugged her curvaceous frame, accentuating her hourglass figure. The tilt of those hips—I could make her my muse! She was a work of art, inviting me to drown in the flow of her voluptuousness.
At that moment, I couldn’t tell why . . . something told me that this girl and I would cross paths once more.
She moved with sinuous ease, entirely unconscious of her hold on me. Her fierce, untamed mane of gold hair fell in cascading waves down her back. It looked like a river of sunlight.
She smiled, at her friend beside her.
“I’m going to be so late for class, Chels. And it’s all your fault. You should never have stopped to save that pigeon.”
Was I hearing right, or had I finally gone insane?
She was across the road. I took another step in her direction. A bus came careening down from the other end of the street, causing a momentary distraction.
When it was gone, so was she.
Just my luck. But then again, what would I have said to her? That she looked like she’d come to me from a dream?
I shook my head as I used to when I was a child attending magic shows. Or how a dog would, fresh out of cold waters.
I hadn’t felt this way in a very long time. Sure, I’d gone on dates. I’d been around enough women to come to a point where I no longer felt drawn to the addiction of love at first sight.
So what the hell was I doing, standing on the side of the road, gaping at the ghost of a woman who’d disappeared seconds ago?
I tried to remember the small details of her face. I’d seen her turn. She had dimples. A small black mark atop her upper lip. And a fern tattoo on her collar bone.
I don’t know how long I stood there, feeling like I was the lovelorn hero of some trashy rom-com novel.
I scowled heavily at my reflection as a couple of movers carried a foot-long mirror across the street. I looked like a newborn giraffe on ice.
My mouth was slightly agape, and I had my hands by my sides, lost in thought.
I shook my head, willing myself to focus. I had a class to teach and minds to read. Sighing, I began walking toward the direction of East Harbor.
Once I arrived, I took the shorter route to the psychology classroom. I was already running late, thanks to Miss Bambi Eyes.
I wasn’t expecting the face I saw when I entered, though. Because there she was, that same. messy bun with her white shirt and blue jeans, her eyes like the ocean, a smile like the Devil.
Fuck.
Things were about to get very, very interesting.
5
Rory
“When we think about intimacy, our initial urge is to streamline it. We consider it from a logical perspective—that things must add up and immediately make sense.”
I tried to focus on Professor Evans’s words, but the intensity of his gaze made focusing an arduous task.
