Chapter 4
Morgan
Besides the suitcase I traveled with, I do have other belongings. I sent a few boxes ahead and they were waiting for me in the closet of my suite. Dylan showed me where he stored them, told me he would be on the third floor in his rooms, and left me to unpack.
It doesn’t take long until my closet and dresser are filled with clothing. The bathroom cabinets hold all of my toiletries. The biggest hassle is the box of books and mementos.
Like many authors, I started writing as a child and I’d filled dozens of journals with my ideas—most about Maverick and her ravens. I’m carrying a stack of these books from the bedroom to the studio when I trip over the coffee table, dropping the stack with a clatter against the hardwood floors and howling in pain.
I slump to the floor, holding my busted toe, when I hear footsteps racing down my hall. I look up, expecting to see Dylan but instead find a smaller, absolutely gorgeous man coming my way.
“Are you okay? I heard you scream.”
“Yeah, I’m just a bull in a china shop.” I grimace at my swollen toe. “Whoever thought it was a good idea to put me in a classy place like this may be crazy.”
The man helps me to the couch and I feel a sharp undercurrent of electricity between us. I stop cold. He pulls his hands away from my body and offers me one in greeting. “I’m Sam—your floor-mate.” He points down the hallway. “I live right down there.”
“I’m Morgan.” He doesn’t let go of my hand and I feel my cheeks heat as he studies me. “I heard you were coming—I just didn’t know…”
“Know what?”
“How beautiful you are.” He touches my cheek and it should be weird—super weird—but it’s not. I only feel the shock of energy between us.
I swallow and say, “Stop. That’s two men today that have called me beautiful. Is that what it’s like in New York? Because I thought the men laid it on thick in the South.”
His forehead wrinkles. “Who else called you beautiful?”
“Dylan--well sort of, he just said I need to be careful in the city.”
Sam tightens his grip on my hand. “He’s right. You do.”
“You would know. Are you a model or something?” We hold eye contact for a beat and I absorb his features. They’re disturbingly striking. Sharp cheekbones. Perfect lips. Green eyes that suck me in like an inviting pool. His hands are warm and I feel the strength in his touch. He’s not big like Dylan but he’s strong.
Amusement flashes in his eyes. “No, I’m not a model, but I work with some. I’m here on a photography scholarship. Maybe you’ll pose for me sometime.”
“I doubt that’s a good idea. I’m not really the model type.” I look at the mess on the floor. “More like a hot mess type.”
“Hmm.” He pushes a strand of hair over my shoulder. “We’ll let the camera determine that.”
I flex my toe and determine it’s not broken and reach for the stack of books. Sam grabs them from me and says, “Where do these go?”
“In the studio.”
And that’s how I met Sam.
*
There’s time before dinner and if I don’t get in my daily writing I start to feel twitchy, so I grab my latest journal and settle into the cozy window seat. With a new pen and a fresh sheet of paper, I add to my ongoing story.
Maverick first noticed the birds when she was a kid.
The instant she walked outside, they would be there. Large, with sleek, glossy feathers. Round, brilliant eyes. They would appear slowly, one at first, flying down from the sky and perching on a branch. He would call to the others and they would follow—four more ravens, with wide, shadowy wings to guide them down to the treetops.
This went on for years. Maverick walked outside and her ravens greeted her. The other kids in the neighborhood thought she was strange, walking to the bus stop every day talking to ’herself’. They didn’t notice ravens in the trees or hopping along the lawns nearby.
Over time, her relationship with the birds became so intense she stopped having friends entirely, preferring to sit in the backyard on a soft blanket. She socialized with the ravens. They brought her trinkets, pieces of metal and shiny beads. Marbles from lawn ornaments. Jewelry they’d plucked from somewhere with their beaks.
She fed them bread and birdseed and told them endless stories about her day. The way the teacher smiled at her essay, or the one particular girl named Callie in the 6th grade that called her names. The next day during recess she spotted the familiar shadow arc across the playground and watched, both fascinated and terrified, as a large, black bird snatched the bejeweled barrette out of the girl’s flaming red hair. Callie howled, screeching in pain. She pointed upward and all the teachers and students gathered around.
Not Maverick. She watched the raven fly away with a shiny trinket in his beak.
That afternoon, the clip--along with a tuft of auburn hair still attached--waited for her on the backyard blanket.
That was the day she decided to name them…
A knock on the door pulls me from my writing and I walk to the front door of my suite. Sam waits on the other side. He’s cleaned up from his casual shorts and T-shit from earlier and is now wearing perfectly fitting jeans and a light blue shirt that makes his eyes twinkle like jewels. His hair is long, knotted at the top of his head in a man-bun I’d find ridiculous on anyone else, but not him.
“I thought I’d walk you down to dinner, if you’d like?”
I look down. I never changed. “Give me a second? You can wait in the sitting room.”
“You look fine.”
I shake my head. “First impressions and all of that.”
My closet is sparse, so it doesn’t take long to pick out an outfit. I go for a strappy sundress and sandals with heels. I brush out my hair and apply a little makeup. I don’t want it to look like I’m trying too hard but I also don’t want to look like a hobo next to Mr. Model out there. Not to mention the rugged good looks of Dylan. I slather on a little mascara and a hint of blush and walk out of the room.
“Damn.” Sam stands as I enter the room. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get hotter.”
“Stop.” He shrugs but pulls out his phone and takes a quick photo before I can stop him. “Hey! At least let me see it.”
He shakes his head but I notice the hint of a frown as he slides the phone back in his pocket. He offers me the crook of his arm and, reluctantly, I hook mine with his.
“Do you know anything about the others in the house?” I ask as we approach the staircase and head to the second floor. “I’ve only met you and Dylan.”
“Sure.” He points to the two rooms on the second floor. “Damien lives on the top floor with Dylan. Clinton and Bunny live down here.”
“Bunny?” Relieved to hear another girl may be in the building, even if she has a stupid name. “What’s her focus?”
“Bunny is a dude,” he gives me a strange look. “I’ll let him explain the name. He’s a visual artist—painting, drawing, collage.”
We enter the foyer, my arm still linked with his. Sam’s proximity and the delicious scent of soap and musk make my heart flutter in a way that is totally inappropriate and out of character. I tell myself it’s because I’m tired and need a little extra support, but that doesn’t explain the tightening in my lower belly. I follow him through the archway under the stairs and down a hall lined with wood. I stop cold in the doorway of the dining room and feel Sam’s hand slip to mine.
The first thing I notice is the mural. It covers all three walls, minus the one made of glass. Hand-painted trees shoot up with lush leaves creeping toward the eighteen-foot ceilings. My eyes zoom in on a girl wandering in the woods, chin lifted, with a smile on her pink lips. I step forward and Sam releases his grip. I spin, trying to take it all in. Five ravens dot the landscape. One with a jewel in his beak, another with wings spread. One more hops on the ground while a fourth soars overhead. A fifth watches the girl from his perch in the tree.
“What is this? Who made this?” I ask, feeling my heart race like a hummingbird.
“It’s been here since the house was built,” Dylan says. “The Brannon family was big into Gaelic lore.”
I turn and face him. He’s wearing a blazer that make his shoulders look a mile wide. His black hair is cut short on the sides but a bit longer in the front. It’s then that I notice the others…all men, all equal shades of gorgeous, flanking Dylan’s sides.
“Morgan, I’d like you to meet our other housemates,” he says. “Damien, Bun, and Clinton.”
Without being told, I know who is who. Damien stands to his right, much taller than the others but lean with hard muscles visible though his shirt. He wears a shiny belt buckle and two rings on his fingers. Tiny earrings glint in his lobes and his eyes flash violet when he looks at me. And man, does he ever look at me. His gaze is consuming, like he’s drinking me in. His head is shaved and two tattoos peek out from the collar of his shirt.
“You’re Damien,” I say, finding my voice.
“Hello, Morgan.”
I look to Dylan’s left. “And you’re the one they call Bunny.”
The nails on his right hand are thick with paint and splatters cover his shoes. He’s smaller than the others, even Sam, but he has the most soulful coppery-brown eyes that match his spiky hair. Bold glasses frame his face and everything about him is adorable. His shirt sleeves are long, but one side seems unusually baggy and sits at an odd angle. I tilt my head as it dawns on me. He has a disfigured arm. He lifts up on his feet when I know his name and his mouth splits into a grin. “It’s good to see you, Morgan.”
Standing at the end of the table, with his hands wrapped around the back of the chair, awaits our final housemate. His jaw is clenched, gray eyes hard as steel. His dark, shoulder-length hair is loose against his massive shoulders. I thought Dylan was big—but no—Clinton must spend most of his days in the gym. Which is equal parts impressive and frightening. I feel dark energy rolling off of him and he seems to do his best not to make eye contact. When he doesn’t speak, Dylan says, as though the man isn’t in the room, “This is Clinton. Ignore him. He’ll eventually warm up.”
I stare at the men around the table, each standing behind an empty chair. The only one left is at the head and it’s clear they’ve saved it for me.
“Now that introductions are over, is everyone ready to eat?”
Groans of happiness burst from each man, including Clinton, but they all look at me like they’re waiting for my word.
“I’m starving,” I say, lowering myself into the chair. “Let’s eat.”