“We’ll get you a different magazine with a pretty girl,” the guy tries.
“But she’s pretty and she’s going swimming. I like swimming, and I never get to do it anymore.”
The magazine is indeed about swimming. Or rather … the best beaches to find sexy, single women. It’s also about fast, easy ways to get your girl hot (direct quote), a definitive list of the world’s best tequilas, and the manliest cars (whatever that means).
The guy kneels in front of his daughter and says, “Please …” But then he just sighs as she darts around him again, and this time she comes to me. But when she stands below me, the magazine falls forgotten by her side. This close, with her eyes impossibly wide, I can see the beautiful mix of blue and green in her irises.
“You’re pretty,” she tells me. “Are you on a magazine?”
“I’m not, no.” I smile at her, and the one she gives me in return is brilliant.
An ache breaks through my chest like the sun through clouds.
History says I have children. Orpheus. Linus. Mygdon. More. But the stories are wrong. They’ve been twisted and mistold over the years.
And the only thing worse than not really having a life is hearing lies about one that can never be true. Like I said … my body renews daily. It doesn’t ever change. Nothing about my existence ever changes. Not because of too much ice cream. Not hair dye. Certainly not something that would take nine months of changes.
I force the smile to stay on my face … because hey, at least that means I can wear the same clothes and shoes for as long as I want. Silver lining, right?
If only I could make myself believe that.
The little girl looks down at her magazine, considers the scantily-clad woman on the front again, and then switches her gaze back to me. With a very serious expression she says, “You should be on a magazine like this. Do you swim?”
The man pops up behind her. He tries to pluck the magazine away, but she pulls it tightly against her chest.
He says, “I’m so sorry.”
My eyes resist leaving the little girl, but when they do, I’m not sorry.
The guy is younger than I thought from his profile. Early twenties, I’d guess. And I knew he was broad and masculine, but now I’ve got an up close and personal look at the way that his shirt hints at the slopes and curves of a muscled chest beneath. He wears a tie loosened around his neck, and the few undone buttons reveal a triangle of sun-tanned skin. He’s not at all the kind of guy I’m normally attracted to. He’s clean-cut and serious, and yet I see something now that hints at more. The glasses say stoic and sophisticated, but the hair … those not-quite-tamed curls are just begging for a pair of hands to mess them up the rest of the way.
It almost makes me think this is what my artists would look like all grown up. Only they’ll still be working on “growing up” a decade from now, and he’s already there. He’s also outrageously, handsomely embarrassed. He rubs at the back of his neck with a chagrined smile, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever met a guy who can pull off uncomfortable and sexy at the same time.
You can’t look at a guy like this and not picture him as a husband … a dad. He might not be like the artists I usually date, but he’s the kind of guy I would want to settle down with.
If settling down were even a thing I could do.
When I go too long without answering, little Gwen says, “I don’t think she likes you.”
My lips pull into a smile, and I flick my gaze up to his face once more. And God, that’s not true. Not true at all. And maybe my thoughts are in my eyes because his gaze sharpens, turns hot and hard, and it makes me think of ripped fabric, sweat-slicked skin, and bruised lips.
The pull toward him is electric, irresistible, like a siren’s call, only it’s not sound that’s a danger to me … it’s everything else. He might look clean cut on the surface, but I’ve looked into the eyes of enough men to recognize the spark of wickedness hidden in those pale blue depths.
“I like him just fine,” I say, finally answering Gwen’s statement, and the crooked grin he gives me makes something swoop in my belly.
“Just fine? Is that all?” This time, I do notice his voice, and maybe it’s even more like a siren call than I thought. Low and musical, it slides against my skin, stirring the energy just behind my lungs that makes me what I am.
Only this man isn’t the type to need a muse. In fact, I think the opposite might be happening. Something about this guy speaks to me. Maybe it’s the soft blue of his eyes or the chiseled jaw or that loosened tie that I could use to pull him closer and closer …
Yeah. As improbable as it is, he’s the dangerous one here.
And for possibly the first time in my existence, I can feel my nerves threatening to overwhelm me. I should be able to think of a flirty reply. That’s what I do. I should be able to turn this guy’s head so fast he’ll have whiplash. Instead, I’m too bothered by his presence to even meet his eyes again.
I bend my knees until I’m level with the little girl. I tuck one blonde, disobedient curl behind her ear and touch a finger to her tiny, perfect nose.
Her cheeks pink, and I tell her, “I think you’re much prettier than the girl on that magazine.”
“Really?” Her eyes go wide, and she looks at me as if I hold all the answers. And I do have so many answers, so many insights about the world that are just fighting to break out of me. So many things I can never share. With anyone.