LYRA
07.07.15
I stare curiously at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, head cocked slightly to the right, pupils shrunk to the size of a pinhead in the bright Hollywood lighting. Even if I could see my own date—which is impossible, since I can’t look myself directly in the eye—the digits would be so tiny right now I doubt they’d be detectable. My enlarged irises are the lightest shade I ever remember seeing them, more deep-water blue than stormy gray, and I search through the wavy cerulean depths, trying to come to terms with my current reality.
The long, straight brown hair, the splatter of matching freckles painted across the nose, and every other physical feature I can currently see, all look just like me, but something has shifted. I feel different. Not fixed or normal by any stretch of the imagination… just different.
When I boarded that plane yesterday, I was a bona fide hermit, only leaving my apartment when absolutely necessary, and certainly never doing anything unplanned or impulsive. Today, I’m standing in a fancy hotel bathroom on the other side of the world, wearing a T-shirt that belongs to a man I’m about join on a European road trip.
A man who saved my life.
A man who makes me tingle in places I didn’t know I could tingle.
A man who is probably talking to his girlfriend on the other side of that door.
The thought causes me to give pause in my self-evaluation and tiptoe over to press my ear against the white wood, hoping to get lucky and overhear Tavian’s phone conversation. I need all the information I can get about my new traveling partner, and confirming that he is indeed involved in a relationship will allow me to forget all about these silly belly somersaults and heart palpitations that seem to have developed since I met him.
“It’s not an option, Annie. There’s nothing you can say. My mom already tried guilting me into coming home, and I’ll tell you just like I told her. I’m. Staying. Here. I have to do this.”
There’s a long pause where I assume Annie makes another attempt to persuade him to come home, and my shoulders deflate a little. I’d been holding out a little bit of hope that maybe she was his sister, but if they don’t share a mom, it’s pretty doubtful.
“This conversation is over. I’m going to reroute my trip this morning and I’ll send you my return flight information if it changes. Other than that, you know the rules—no calls, no texts. If it’s an emergency, you can email me. I’ll see you in about a week and a half or so.”
A shorter break follows and I discover I’m holding my breath… waiting for it… silently wishing it doesn’t come.
“I love you, too. Bye.”
But then it does. And it stings like a shot from an unsympathetic nurse, jabbing a prickly six-inch needle in my chest, the syringe filled with a dose of reality-check.
I sigh at my over-dramatics and roll my eyes, shuffling back to the vanity. Shit, Lyra, get a grip. So he’s got a girlfriend. Just try being friendly with him. Don’t be weird and self-sabotage this trip. You need this, and Dr. Rose is going to be so proud.
Using the mouthwash provided by the hotel and a little water, I finger-brush my teeth and tongue, hoping it’s good enough to cover my morning breath until I can get downstairs and buy the real thing. I’m also hoping the minty smell of the foamy green liquid will be strong enough to overpower the warm, spicy scent of Tavian that has been lingering in my nose since I put his shirt on after my shower in the wee hours of the morning. Now, after sleeping in it, I think it’s permanently imbedded in my memory.
After rinsing my mouth and inhaling a deep breath with my nose right at the opening of the mouthwash bottle, I stand up straight and give myself a last once-over before heading out to face my new travel companion. Given the circumstances, I look decent. My hair is clean and brushed, my face is washed, and my clothes… well, the shirt that smells like heaven is about four sizes too big for me, hanging nearly to my knees over my skinny jeans.
It’s the first time I’ve really paid attention to the words on the front, since most of the time, when I face Tavian, I try to keep my focus locked on his chin, away from those captivating baby blues, his wide, strong shoulders, and well-defined arms. And I’ve discovered he’s got a damn nice chin, too—neither too pointy nor round, with a faint, endearing dimple that’s slowly disappeared under the dark stubble over the last fourteen or so hours.
With a rare, absentminded smile, I pull the soft material—the kind that feels like it’s been washed hundreds of times yet never loses its shape—taut across my chest and read the white letters aloud. “I hate gravity. It keeps on bringing me down.”
Grinning, my initial thought is how much my dad would’ve loved this shirt. He was always buying crap with silly science sayings on them, a true nerd at heart. But when the image of him pops into my head, a sharp stabbing sensation in my lungs—a thousand times stronger than the prick of disappointment a moment ago—erases the smile from my face. I stumble forward to grab hold of the countertop, steadying my wobbly legs. The hurt from my parents being gone, it’s too much. Always too much.
Time doesn’t heal shit. People just end up getting caught up in their own lives and forgetting. But not me. I don’t have a life to get lost in, because I don’t want to forget. The pain is my reminder of what it’s like to lose someone I love. And why I’m better off by myself.
“Lyra?” Tavian calls out, rapping his knuckles against the locked door. “You almost ready? Breakfast just got here.”
Squeezing my eyes shut briefly, I draw in a fortifying lungful of air before blowing it out on a rush and snapping my lids open. It’s time to put on my big girl panties and push my own issues aside. Tavian may or may not know it yet, but I owe this to him and his loved ones. I need to help make his last trip the best one. That’s why Fate put me here.
At least I think it is.
I swing open the door with every intention of acting as “friendly” normal as I can muster, but when I’m greeted by his shirtless chest, I’m rendered speechless. When I first saw it—him—last night, I chalked up my body’s physical reaction to fatigue and exhaustion, and even though I’m not exactly well-rested now due to my struggle to sleep in beds other than mine, I know that my racing pulse and the involuntary way my thighs are clenching together are the direct result of his mouth-watering body.
During my college internship, I photographed a countless number of fashion models—both men and women—and Tavian’s physique is just as good, if not better than anything I’ve ever seen. None of them had this effect on me. Not even close.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I ordered a little bit of everything, and I’ll just eat what you don’t. I’m not picky.” Tavian smiles and steps back, pointing to the small dinette table covered in silver-domed dishes. “But I do like my food to be hot, so come on. Let’s go over our itinerary while we eat, and then you can go down to the lobby and grab me a shirt I can wear out shopping.”
Yes! For the love of Saturn’s rings, let’s get you a shirt so I can stop acting more awkward than I normally do.
With a nod, I pad barefoot through the bedroom, the giant bed still a mess of sheets and pillows from where I tossed and turned, and out into the open living area. I uncover the plates of food and reveal eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, French toast, waffles, an omelet stuffed with veggies, eggs Benedict, and a platter of muffins and fresh fruit.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding. Is there anything you didn’t order?” I jest, keeping my eyes on the food when I feel him approach from behind.
“A few things I couldn’t pronounce.” He laughs. “But I figured out the important stuff.” He reaches around me, brushing against my back, and snags a piece of bacon, then lifts it up to my mouth, and waits for me to open, murmuring in Spanish, “Tocino.”
Damn him and his naked abs and bacon.
My lips part and I take a bite before I can think twice about the fact he’s feeding me. When bacon is involved, I can’t be held accountable for my actions.
Thankfully, I at least have the wherewithal not to moan like a cat in heat as my tongue makes love to the greasy, salty deliciousness. But when he pops the other half in his mouth, I notice he doesn’t practice the same willpower, and the deep, gravelly hum vibrates against my spine, shooting electric pulses directly between my legs.
Cheeks flaming, I hurriedly scoot away from him, sliding onto a nearby chair, then grab an empty plate and begin piling food onto it—everything but bacon. I may never be able to eat it again. I refuse to look anywhere near him.
“Thank you for all of this. It looks amazing, but for future reference, I’m not picky either. I usually only have toast and an apple, if that,” I say, as he sits down next to me and places a small pad of hotel stationery, a pen, and his phone atop the white tablecloth.
“Well, eat up, buttercup, and it better be more than a fucking piece of bread and an apple. I’ll finish off what you don’t.” He shifts his posture to face me, and I nearly choke on the bite of scrambled egg when he scoops my legs up under my knee, hauling my calves and feet onto his lap. “While you eat, I’ll run through what I’m thinking for our stops.”
I really need to ask him about Annie. I’m no relationship expert, seeing as I have absolutely zero dating experience, but I’m thinking normal friends, or acquaintances, or whatever the hell we are, don’t usually sit like this. But the flutters in my belly hold my words prisoner, and I just shovel more food into my mouth instead.
He pulls up a map of southern Europe on his phone, situating it between the two of us so I can follow along with his finger. “All right, my original planned stops after Barcelona were Marseille and Monaco on the coast of France, and then up in the mountains in the Dolomites in northern Italy,” he continues talking while rubbing a mindless back-and-forth pattern from my knee to my ankle. A pattern of figure eights that will forever be burned in my skin despite the layer of soft denim separating our skin. “Since we’re here a couple of days early, we can easily add those nights in Florence in the middle, and then I wouldn’t even need to change my last reservation. Did you have anywhere in particular you wanted to stay?”
I swallow hard, doing my best not to focus on the fiery wake he’s leaving on my calf, and shake my head. “No, like I said, I didn’t have any set plans. I was just gonna find somewhere online the night before… if I decided to go.”
“Well, now you’re going for sure, so we need to make reservations at a hotel. What do you want to be close to? The wineries? Near a piazza? Museums?”
Tavian picks up another piece of bacon and holds it up to my mouth again, lightly tapping it against my lips. His actions are a distraction and keep my mood from spiraling downward when I answer, “Arcetri Observatory,” before sinking my teeth into the crispy strip of pork.
“Done, buttercup,” he remarks while jotting a note down on the paper. “I’ll get us as close as I can.”
I briefly forget about my aversion to eye contact as I glower over at him, ready to chastise him for using another stupid nickname. But when my gaze lands on his cocky smirk, I realize I’m giving him the exact reaction he wants. He likes teasing me. Making me look at him.
So I pretend to be unaffected when I meet his amused stare, smile sweetly, and then return my focus back to my half-devoured plate. “Wherever you choose, I’m sure it will be fine, but I want my own room everywhere. And how many days will we be staying at each place? I’m gonna email my boss in a bit and let him know I’m okay and when to expect me back stateside.”
He switches the phone screen to the calendar app. “Today is Tuesday the 7th. Let’s stay here tonight and tomorrow, and then head out Thursday morning to Marseilles for a couple of nights and Monaco for one. I’ll check and make sure the hotels I’d planned to stay at can accommodate us—with two rooms,” he sniggers, “but if not, I’m sure we can find some place with availability. That will put us in Florence on Sunday the 12th and Monday the 13th.”
I lean forward and watch as he points to each of the days, sneaking a peek at his sculpted stomach in the process. It’s kind of impossible not to. I may be a twenty-three-year-old virgin, and he may or may not have a girlfriend, but I’m not dead… mostly thanks to him. So that’s even more reason I should appreciate his beautiful physique.
“We can drive up into the mountains Tuesday, and then I’ll be back on schedule. I currently have three nights booked, with a return flight out of Venice on Friday the 17th. There’s a ton of stuff to do around there.” He prattles on about driving over to Switzerland or Austria, but I’m only half-listening to what he’s saying. I’ll ask him again later, when I’m finished eating… and gawking.
“Okay, so next Friday the 17th? From Venice?” I ask. “I’ll book a return flight when I get my computer out.”
His hand stills on my leg, causing me to freeze, a forkful of pancake halfway to my mouth. My eyes shift over to meet his. “I told you this was all on my dime. I’ll book your return flight, just like I’ll pay for the hotels, the meals, the excursions, all of the replacement clothes and luggage, and anything else you or I want while we’re on this trip.”
“You don’t have to do that. I have money,” I argue, attempting to slide my legs off his lap, but finding resistance with his firm grip.
“You’re right. I don’t have to do anything,” he growls, “but I want to. And I don’t give a shit if you’re a billionaire or if you live in a box under the Brooklyn Bridge. I asked you to join me on this trip, and I said I was paying for it, so that’s how it’s gonna go, dammit. Don’t be stubborn. All you need to do is enjoy yourself and take a few pictures of me doing crazy-ass shit that will keep Ma up at night each time I take one of these trips for years to come. Can you do that for me?”
Years to come… Oh my, he doesn’t know.
My pulse stutters as my heart trips and falls over itself, a newly formed crack appearing in the smooth exterior shield. In less than a day, he’s already managed to break through and accomplish something no one in the last decade has even come close to. I don’t want to think about what he could do to me after a couple of weeks together.
If I were smart, I’d get on a plane today and go home, far away from Tavian West with his ridiculous good looks, cocky attitude, and intoxicating scent. But apparently, my perfect 4.0 college GPA is indicative of absolutely nothing, because when I open my mouth, I say,
“I can do whatever you need me to do.”