He turns around and, with a wave from over his shoulder, vanishes around a corner.
As I walk into the classroom, my breath hijacked by his statement, it occurs to me that Ryder Ashcroft—with all the annoying, sexually frustrating traits he doesn’t want me to take too personally—just may be correct about one thing. Maybe my parents did name me Amber because of my eyes.
Still, how can you ask your dead loved ones questions?
That’s right . . . you can’t.
CHAPTER 3
Amber
I TRY NOT TO choke on the balmy August air as I step out of my car. It’s the kind of heat that’s dense, a thick, wet towel suffocating my body. In less than a second, I’m soaked in sweat, drenched from head to toe. Over the past week, though I’ve secured a waitressing job, and classes are going relatively well, with each passing day, I’ve nourished my growing hatred for Maryland by feeding on my ache for Washington. I miss living there. Even if that’s where my crippling past began, it was never humid, and the air wasn’t rife with the smell of crabs.
I swipe a palm across my sticky neck, and with memories of a stolen childhood corroding my irreparable mind, I slam my car door shut and make my way across the student parking lot. Eager to get into the air-conditioned building, I haul ass and take the stairs two at a time, knocking into exhausted shoulders and lazy arms carrying books. Though I hand out the appropriate apologies, I’m shot evil glares by gangs of students who seem to be just as pissed off at the rising mercury as I am.
I swing open the doors and my skin jumps awake, frosty air coating every inch of my body like a lover’s kiss, as I head toward the library. By the time I walk into the quiet, two-story space, I’ve cooled down and am ready to get some much-needed studying done.
After setting my belongings on a table, I head for an aisle and trail my fingers along wrinkled leather spines lining old-world-style mahogany shelves. My eyes devour rows of books, my nose pulling in their familiar scent which, no matter where my barbed-wire thoughts are, has always managed calm my spirit, bringing it some sense of normalcy amid the ghost playing hopscotch with my past. Even if just a little bit.
I locate a revised edition of John Milton’s Paradise Lost and flip through the pages. Landing on the battle between the faithful angels and Satan’s forces, I read over the words, instantly taken and somewhat disturbed by what’s unfolding on the pages. Engrossed, I feel a hand brush my hair away from my neck, and I jump, my breath leaving me in a hard rush.
“Shh,” Brock says, holding a finger over his lips. “You’re in a library, Miss Moretti.” He pauses, seduction rolling off him in electrifying currents as he rests a hand on the shelf just above my shoulder. “Though I love the way you sounded when you . . . gasped.”
“I didn’t gasp,” I answer quietly with an abashed smile.
“You gasped, but I’m not complaining.”
I swallow, unable to ignore the air instantly charged with chemistry. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think jocks frequented libraries.”
“Ah, you’re incorrect. We frequent them when we know beautiful girls who’d pick Twizzlers over any survival tool while stuck on a deserted island are here.” With a lazy smile, he fishes a pack of Twizzlers from his back pocket. His emerald eyes go dark, almost hunter, as he grazes the pack against my lips. “You look pretty today.”
“So do you,” I breathe, sexually restless. My palms, pressed to the books, go damp, my heart thwacking as he continues to brush the pack in soft, slow strokes along my lips.
He brings his face within inches of mine. “I’ve never been called pretty, but since it’s coming from you, maybe I should take it as a compliment.”
“You should.” Emboldened, I wrap my fingers around his wrist to aid in his seduction. The heat from his skin billows up my arms, down my back, and between my legs. “Compliments from me are a good thing.”
“I like good,” he says, his eyes locked on my lips.
The plangent clearing of a library monitor’s throat distracts us from each other. Hands digging into her thick hips, she shoots us a classic stink-eye, her scowl twisting her usually pleasant features.
Brock takes an easy step back, his face impassive as he nods in her direction. “Mrs. Anderson. I was just helping Amber find”—he smoothly glances at John Milton’s creation in my hand—“Paradise Lost.”
“Mr. Cunningham . . .” She sighs with annoyance, moving a rod of curly hair away from her forehead. “The library is for research and studying. Nothing more.”
“We were about to do some serious research,” he mutters, ducking his head to conceal a smile.
I don’t conceal shit. I burst out laughing—the deep, can-barely-catch-a-breath kind. God, it feels good. It’s been forever since I laughed like this.
My unacceptable reaction garners me another stink-eye from Mrs. Anderson but also rewards me with a shocked yet impressed look from Brock.
I grab Brock’s hand, dragging him toward my table as I bat apologetic lashes at the less-than-thrilled librarian. “Pardonnez-nous. Brock est une influence mauvaise, peut-être, mais j’ai l’intention de le briser de cette. Nous allons aller avant, et faire un peut de recherche véritable. Merci.”
Now she just looks all-out confused. I’d be lying if I said Brock looks any different.
“Did you just speak . . . French?” Brock probes as we claim a seat at my table. “And what the hell did you say?”