“We’re almost there. Come on,” he says and looks back to his phone. I let him lead me, content to be able to watch him as he tries to follow the directions on the maps app on his phone, instead of trying to figure out where we’re going and take the chance to feast my eyes on him.

After he left Cain’s Weeping, we exchanged letters, books, and phone calls for three years before we saw each other again.

When I got back from my trip to Fredericksburg that summer, the first thing I did was drop that letter in the outgoing mail of the hotel’s concierge.

Maman was home. She seemed better. And for a while after we got back, she was.

We still lived in one of the penthouses of the Locklear Casinos. My father’s younger brother was now the head of the organization. The first decision he made was that they should move their corporate headquarters to Delaware. So, they did. He, my cousin Josh, his wife, and their dogs, all moved, too.

It was just Maman and me. We rubbed along okay. We spent a lot of time together. But we never talked about Papa and Arti. On my birthday in October of that year, she had a panic attack. The first of many that resulted in long bouts of agoraphobia and depression. The first one lasted nearly an entire month.

She didn’t leave her room, except to use the bathroom. She needed me to do everything, and she didn’t want anyone else in the apartment.

I became Mama’s companion, caretaker, maid, and cook. She hired a teacher to school me at home, and we almost never left the house. When Graham’s first letter arrived more than a year after I’d last seen him, it had been a lifeline. Even though we couldn’t visit each other yet, we wrote constantly, shared books, and talked on the phone.

I remember being so afraid that the memories I had of him were based on a childish fantasy that he couldn’t possibly live up to in person.

Instead, he was even more incredible.

He’d been a beautiful boy.

As a man, he’s devastatingly handsome. Thanks to his devotion to the gym, his six-foot-four frame has gone from lanky to ripped and broad. His closely cropped dark blond beard hides the dimples that give his smile an air of innocence.

Now, when he shares a wide, full mouth smile, it’s nothing but sexy. Whenever it’s aimed at me, my knees go weak. But my favorite thing about Graham are his stormy gray eyes that are like a gravitational force. They ground me. When he looks at me, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

And then there’s that hair. Once when I teased him about growing it to impress me, he’d told me that it was the only way he could sleep.

He had nightmares about the day his head was shaved. When he started growing it, he’d started sleeping better. He said it reminded him that he was the master of his own destiny.

But I’ve seen him bald, beaten, bound, and bloody. Never once did he appear anything less than bright and special. It’s not his hair or his face or even that ridiculous body that makes him a star. It’s his generous, curious, hopeful soul that does it. He bleeds charm. Sweats charisma. He’s funny, curious, and hardworking.

Everyone loves him. From the lady who works the deli counter at his grocery store to the professor he’s a teaching assistant for.

I’d want to kiss him even if he had purple skin and blue hair. It’s just a nice bonus that he’s also the best looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

The last few times we’ve seen each other, something’s started to change. The way he touches me … His fingers linger on my waist a little longer than normal when he hugs me. When he’s holding my hand, his pinkie caresses the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist for just a second before he lets go.

His eyes drift to mine, and I was sure he was thinking about kissing. But then, he’s never tried. I wonder what would happen if I tried.

I want to try. I have real feelings for him.

Not the childish crush that was borne of hero worship and a mutual love of books.

He stimulates my mind, stirs my heart, and for as long as I’ve been able to understand what it means, he has turned me on. My body hums when he’s nearby. When he touches me, everything pulses and throbs and liquifies. I want to crawl into his lap and live there. I want to plant my flag on his heart and make it mine. I want it all.

Eros is one of the most well-known of the Greek gods. But most people call him by his Roman name—Cupid. The idea that some mischievous, winged god is flying around shooting unwilling humans and causing them to fall hopelessly, irrevocably in love with the next person they see is ridiculous.

Except, it’s not. Eros’s arrow hit me and sent me flying off a cliff when I was eleven years old. Then, I thought of him in the only context my mind could create—as a friend, someone I care for deeply. But even if my mind couldn’t understand, my heart knew the difference. And there are large, red hot pieces of it that are his.

Forever.

Loving him doesn’t feel like a choice.

The lack of control I feel is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.

“This bridge is so interesting.” Graham’s observation interrupts my thoughts, and I follow his gaze upward at the web of cables that hold the foot bridge up.

“Do you want to know what it’s called?” I ask him brightly.

“No, but I have a feeling the queen of the obscure and random fact is about to tell me anyway,” he says dryly.

“Well since you asked so nicely …” I giggle when he groans.

“Just keep it short, stick to the highlights; I don’t need to know the architect’s name or why he was fired after only a few weeks on the job,”

“Ha-ha, very funny.” I elbow him.

“I was just thinking that’s an interesting setup, the way the train runs down the middle of the bridge.” He nods at the train that rumbles past us.

“It’s incredible, right? I read all about it somewhere. But basically, the footbridges had been closed for like a hundred and fifty years or something like that because apparently, they were in the way when they built Charring Cross Station. They reopened them to celebrate the Queen’s Jubilee—and it’s called the Jubilee Footpath, by the way—but they just had to figure out how to get around all the stuff they’d laid down to build Charring Cross. And get this, there were all these unexploded World War two bombs in the river that they had to detonate and all.”

“Why in the world do you even know that, Apollo?” Graham asks as he leads us up a new street.

I shrug. “I looked it up when I was learning more about the area after the trip I took with Papa and Arti.”

“Oh, did you walk across here when you came with them?”

“No, I don’t think so, but … it’s around the place where we—” I stop dead in my tracks and turn slowly to look at Graham. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest.

He’s smiling like the cat who just ate a bowl full of cream. My eyes fly around us, and I see it.

“Oh my God.” I look back and gaze up at the man who hangs the fucking moon for me. “You remembered.”

“Of course, I did,” he says in that sexy drawl of his that I’m so glad he hasn’t lost. He runs his hands through his long hair and bites his bottom lip in that way he does when he’s trying to hide his smile.

“I can’t believe you remembered,” I repeat to myself, my eyes stinging with tears as I gaze up at him.

“Look,” he says and nods ahead of us. I follow his gaze, and my heart catches in my throat when I realize we’re standing in Trafalgar Square.

I stare up at the tall spire of Nelson’s Column that rises up between the four lions that sit like guardians on each corner of the statue’s platform.

It’s like falling through time. Nothing has changed. Except for the gaping hole in my life where my father and sister used to be.

I let go of Graham’s hand and race toward the statue, and just as I’m about to approach it, I realize I can’t remember which of the four lions we’d sat on. My heart constricts when I realize I’ve forgotten. I’ve tried so hard to hold on to every memory. To not forget what my sister’s voice sounded like, to not forget how my Papa’s hair smelled like the clove cigarettes he smoked whenever Maman wasn’t around.

I shut my eyes and take a deep breath and let my mind wander back to that day. Papa had promised that if we didn’t whine once while we were in the National Portrait Gallery, we could climb one of the lions on the statue outside.

I can feel Papa’s warm gloved hand squeezing my mitten covered right hand. Arti’s holding his other hand. We’re laughing and trying to make Papa walk faster. It’s already dark, and the wind has a frigid nip to it as we rush down the steps. We’re almost at the statue when a cluster of pigeons fly right over our heads. Arti and I scream at the same time, and Papa bends over to reassure us that the pigeons have no interest in us. “Look at them. They’ve already forgotten you. They’ve gone to bother St. Martin.” He points to his left toward the big church across from the square.

My eyes snap open, and I whirl around to look for Graham. I spot him right away, leaning on one of the black iron posts that ringed the lions and Nelson’s column, watching me with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“I remember which one it was,” I yell back at him. He pushes off the post and heads toward me.

I take his hand and pull him ‘round to the side of the statues that face the museum and point at the lion facing St. Martin in the Fields. “It’s this one.” I point up at the humungous black iron statue.

“Let’s climb up. Make our own memory here,” he says.

God, I love him so much. And, now I know he loves me. He wouldn’t have done all of this. He wouldn’t be moving to Las Vegas, leaving his mom, his friends, for me if he didn’t feel the same way.

He lifts me onto the base of the lion’s platform and climbs up beside me. And then we both climb to sit on the top of the lion. He pulls out his phone and takes a picture of us.

“Let me see.” I grab his phone and look at us. We’re both grinning like lunatics, and I think my heart might explode.

“Aghhhhh!” I shout my joy up to the heavens.

“It’s great, right?” he asks, smiling like he’s the one who just got the surprise of his life.

“So great,” I confirm and let my eyes roam the busy square.

Even this late at night, there are people milling about. A family of four have been patiently standing in front of the lion waiting for us.

“Come on. Let’s go get something to eat, okay?”

He jumps to the ground in one fluid movement and then turns back to me.

“Let me help you down.”

I lean down, place my hands on his broad, strong shoulders. The muscles move under my hands when he reaches up to put one hand on either side of my waist.

When he lowers my feet to the ground, I keep my hands around his neck and gaze up at him. “What are we eating?” I ask.

“What are you in the mood for?” he answers.

“Whatever I want?” I ask and let my gaze drift to his lips before I look back at his eyes. They’re more hooded and I want him to see that I’m enough of a woman to understand what’s happening.

“Apollo …” he says low in a grumbling warning.

“Yes?” I say, raising my eyebrows innocently.

“What are you doing?” he asks, even though I can see in his eyes that he knows just what I’m doing.

“You said whatever I want,” I drawl.

“I meant food, Sunshine,” he says. But he licks that lower lip and I know he doesn’t mean it.

“I want you to kiss me,” I tell him.

He swallows, and his eyes close in on my mouth.

“Now?”

“Mm-hmm …” I nod.

“I wanted to wait. I’m twenty-one …”

“Yeah, only two months ago.” I swat his excuse away.

“You’re not eighteen. In California—”

“We’re not in California. And even if we were, I only want a kiss.”

He closes his eyes and purses his lips.

For a horrible second, I think he’s going to say no.

Then, he opens his eyes and I can I see that I was wrong. There’s a storm in them. One that looks like it’s been building, and I want it to sweep me away.

His hands on my waist tighten, and he pulls me into him.

“If I kiss you now, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop,” he says gruffly.

Our bodies are pressed together. Every inch of him feels like it was made just to hold my weight.

“That’s all right. I won’t mind,” I assure him.

His laugh sounds like a tortured moan, and his gaze roams my face searchingly.

“Why can’t I say no to you?”

I sift my fingers into his hair, and the hum of pleasure that sounds from deep in his throat makes me quiver.

“’Cause, I’m your sun.” I press a kiss to the underside of his chin. “And you’re my star.” I lay another one on his cheek, and I feel the rush of his breath as he exhales and draws me even nearer. “But most importantly, because you … don’t … want to.”

He rests his forehead on mine and moves our heads from side to side. His chest heaves with the effort he’s making to hold back.

“God, Apollo,” he mutters as if it hurts to say my name.

His lips are so close, I can almost taste them and my pulse thrums with the need to feel them.

“Oomph,” I gasp as I’m pushed from behind. A pair of skateboarders whiz past us with a “sorry!” and wave.

“What assholes,” Graham says, and I look back at him. The moment’s gone, and my stomach sinks when I think I see relief in his eyes.

“Are you … did you not want to kiss me?” I blurt out.

He jerks back a little, his eyes wide with surprise. “You know better than that, Sunshine,” he says softly.

“Then why haven’t you?” I ask him, frustration shoving my pride aside.

“Because I want to do things right. Apollo, you’re seventeen,” he says with an exasperated voice that irks me.

“You act like I’m a child,” I shout at him.

“No, I don’t,” he pushes back.

“You do, I don’t know any seventeen-year-olds who are virgins. I’m the only one,” I complain. It doesn’t really bother me. Except when I’m with Graham. I wish I could give it to him.

“That’s not a bad thing,” he says.

“Are you?” I blurt out before I can think better of it. I slap my hand over my mouth and stare at him in horror.

My outburst is met with silence and a surprised expression of his own.

God, how I want those words back. I don’t want to know. “Forget I asked, please. Let’s just go eat.” I grab his hand and look at him pleadingly, my eyes begging him to spare me from my own impulsivity and let me remain ignorant.

“Apollo,” he says gently and takes my other hand in his. “I’m still a virgin, too.” I nearly sag with relief and don’t bother to hide it. “Maybe it’s the way I was raised, but I plan on waiting until I can be with someone I love,” he says softly, and I deflate.

“Oh … I see,” I say and lower my head to hide my disappointment. “And you don’t love me? Not like that?” I ask softly.

He slips a finger under my chin and tilts my head upward. I don’t resist, but I can’t meet his eye.

“Apollo, I love you in every way possible,” he says softly. My eyes fly back to his face and I search his eyes for the truth. … Oh, yes, I can see it.

“But, we’re so young. Especially you. I want to finish school and move to Las Vegas and do this right,” he says earnestly.

“I don’t know what any of that has to do with kissing me,” I grumble.

“I don’t want anything to mess things up. I’ve seen what happens to people who make rash decisions when they’re too young to know better. What if something happened to me … I left you with a kid you can’t take care of … Forcing you to make desperate choices for both.”

“I’m not your mother, and I have money of my own,” I say and immediately regret it when I see the flash of hurt in his eyes.

“Yes, I know,” he says quietly, but I can see that telltale twitch of a muscle in his jaw and immediately regret my thoughtless comment.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to argue. What I want is you,” I apologize, but push him at the same time. I think he’s being overly cautious.

“I’m yours. But Apollo, that’s not enough. I want to be able to take care of you. I want—”

“Why can’t we take care of each other? I have money, Graham. Lots of it. What good is it if I can’t do anything with it?” I demand in exasperation.

“I’m not going to live off you. I’m a man, Apollo.”

I growl in frustration and glare at him. “This whole guys don’t do this thing you do is getting old. Haven’t you learned your lesson by now?”

“What do you mean, learned my lesson?” He crosses his arms over his chest and glares back at me.

“I mean your hair is shoulder length. I distinctly remember you saying something about long hair being for sissies when we were kids. Your middle name is Star. The name you said was a girl’s name when I first gave it to you. That middle initial S is now on your driver’s license.” I raise my eyebrows and dare him to contradict me.

He scoffs. “I was a kid. I’ve evolved. And maybe I will on this, too. Right now, I’m not comfortable with you paying for everything. Until I graduate and get a job, that’s how it’ll be,” he says defensively, and I know I’ve hit a nerve.

But he’s hit one with me, too. His hesitation feels like rejection, and it hurts. I let him see it in my eyes when I look up at him. “I’m not going to beg you—”

“You’re not begging.” He grabs my hands. “You’ll never have to; I’m just asking for time. Once I’m in Las Vegas, you’ll see. I just want to do this right.” There is a glint of determination in his eyes that I know won’t be moved.

I scowl at him. “Why do you have to be so honorable?” I grumble.

He smiles and presses a very dissatisfying kiss to my forehead. “You’ll be glad one day.”

I’ve learned the hard way that the “one day” we’re all waiting for might never come.

Sometimes, I wish he would do like one of those men in my books. That he would just grab me by the hair and tell me he doesn’t give a damn how old I am, that the law be damned, he was going to take me because he wanted to. And then he’d stick his tongue in my mouth and kiss me until I forgot my own name.

When I fantasized about the day Graham told me he loved me, that’s what I’d imagined.

Then, I look back at the statues we just climbed down from, and my heart swells with joy that settles my worries. What he did for me today was much more than any kiss could ever be.

So, when he holds his hand out for mine, I take it.

My mother’s constant warnings that I love him too much are unfounded. He loves me just as much.

She doesn’t know Graham. I do, and I know he would never do anything to hurt me. If he wants to wait, then, I’ll wait as long as he needs me to. Because he’s it for me.