“I’m sure he’d regret it if he missed out on an opportunity to get drooled on by his insane future wife before he takes off for four years.”
Liv snort-laughed. “If you two do show up at Midsummer Fest, keep an eye out for me. I’ll be wearing a giant zebra head.”
“Of course you will,” I replied, inhaling a deep breath of fresh air as we approached Norfolk Commons, the sprawling park where the Midsummer Fest Procession would be held that evening. As Liv and I turned onto High Street and began to pass the park, we saw the endless strings of lights draped on all the trees in preparation for the evening’s festivities.
Two security officers in yellow reflective vests were cordoning off an area by one of the concessions stands where the ladies from St. Francis Church would be selling an array of cookies and confections later that night. Just beyond them, a crew of groundskeepers was busy trimming some of the hedges, cutting the grass, and hauling large brown sacks of branches and leaves over to a big blue pickup truck parked halfway across the jogging path.
As Liv and I passed, one of the groundskeepers, a tall man I’d never seen before, looked at me and narrowed his dark eyes, lifting a hand as though he was about to wave but thought better of it. I peered over at Liv to see if she’d noticed, but she was busy yammering on about how much she was looking forward to wearing her zebra’s head that night. When I turned to look back, the stranger was still staring at me, sending a chill skittering down my spine.
“Did you see that?” I asked Liv.
“See what?”
“That man—the one in the coveralls. He just looked at me and kind of waved, like he knew me.”
“Does he?” she asked, turning around to look.
“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’d remember that face.”
“Maybe he sensed it was your special day and was sending you mental happy birthday wishes.”
“Yeah,” I said with a guffaw. “I’m sure that’s it.”
“Come on,” Liv replied with a shrug. “Let’s cross here.”
Grabbing me by the hand, she practically dragged me across the street and over to the Novel Hovel. The clunky brass bell hanging above the door to the bookstore clanged to announce our arrival, and we stepped into the musty shop, Liv in full golden retriever mode as she scanned the place for her mysterious dreamboat.
“Down, girl,” I commanded, wishing I had a leash.
“You should be hunting for him, too,” Liv insisted. “You don’t get what you want without going after it.”
“What I want right now is to find something to read other than what Mrs. Romanowski is going to assign us in English class this year.”
Liv paused and gave me a long, accusing look. “You already read all the books on her syllabus, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Nerd.”
“Zebra head.”
“And proud of it. Anyhow, I’m going to look for Mr. Handsome-Face, since you’re being a lame-ass.”
“Enjoy your prowling,” I replied with a wink. “I’ll be on the hunt for a few good books to hook up with.”
As Liv ducked down the Philosophy and Self-Help aisle, I split off and made my way to the sale table at the back of the store where I picked up the closest book I could find, a collection of essays about the history of women in war, and began to leaf through it.
“That’s an excellent choice,” said a deep, English-accented voice from just behind me. “The essay by Margaret Billingsly on Florence Nightingale is especially perceptive. I highly recommend it.”
I knew before I’d even turned around that this had to be the boy Liv described. The voice. The knowledge. The accent, which was nothing at all like my grandmother’s, yet oddly similar. It was lilting, like waves washing up on a pebble-coated beach. It was the kind of voice that made everything seem right with the world, the kind of voice that could become addictive very quickly. Which meant that I needed to counter it with a smartass remark as soon as humanly possible.
But when I swung around to reply, I found myself gasping instead.
Liv had been dead wrong about Callum Drake’s looks.
He wasn’t merely handsome.
He was exquisitely beautiful—in a polished, broad-shouldered, diamond-blue-eyed kind of way that made me wish a hole would open up in the floor and swallow me whole so I could escape his blinding perfection.
He was at least six-foot-two, with a strong, square jaw, and he carried himself with a confidence no seventeen-year-old should have. To make matters worse, he was wearing a form-fitting blood red t-shirt and dark jeans that showed off the powerful build of an athlete.
Damn you, Liv, for bringing me here.
Despite the casualness of the boy’s attire, something in his face and demeanor was oddly elegant. Regal, even. But the most disconcerting thing of all was the way he was looking at me, like he could see right through me. I couldn’t seem to fight off the feeling that he was reading my thoughts and emotions all at once, without even trying.
My heart started hammering in my chest, perspiration pooling at the small of my back, and I found myself wishing for a distraction—another customer, a fire alarm, an alien invasion—anything I might use as a legitimate excuse to look away.
Suddenly I remembered I was holding a book. I set it down and shrugged, hoping Callum didn’t see my jaw clench up with nervous excitement. “It’s not my usual fare,” I said as coolly as possible. “I prefer slow, plodding novels with zero plot, terrible characters, and nothing perceptive about them at all.”
“A masochist, then?”
I was just getting ready to stammer out a response when Liv came shrieking around a corner.
“Callum, there you are! This is Vega Sloane!” she said, skidding up and stopping just shy of barreling into the guy’s chest. “You were asking about her last night. She’s my bestie. Her father’s side of the family is from England, just like you!” She offered up the information as if it should be enough to cement our engagement and subsequent happy marriage.
“Vega. Like the star in the Lyra constellation,” Callum said. “It suits you.” Smiling, he held out a hand.
I was frozen, my mind twisting around itself as I tried to figure out what I was supposed to do. Did I shake his hand? Did anyone ever shake the hand of a boy who was as beautiful as he was? There was something so noble, so otherworldly about this boy-who-looked-like-a-man who was busy looking into my eyes, reading my soul like he was flipping through the morning paper. He looked like he should be leading an army or ruling a country from a golden throne, not standing here talking to someone like me in the middle of a dusty old bookstore.
Idiot, I told myself. He’s not a demi-god. He’s just some teenager with a Wikipedia-like intellect, impossibly perfect features, an amazing voice, and…a mesmerizing smile.
Damn him.
Grumbling internally at myself, I pressed my hand into his and shook it, trying my hardest to relax my tense body. “Hi,” I murmured.
“Hi.” He looked amused, like my embarrassing awkwardness was entertaining him. I couldn’t help wondering if every girl he met reacted the same way.
“And yes, it’s like the star,” I said. “My name, I mean.” I chewed nervously on the inside of my cheek, but I still didn’t pull my gaze away for fear that if I did so, he might disappear.