“I want to. I’m conserving one of his right now, Lady Percival. I was hoping to find out a little more about the provenance on her. She’s had some heat damage and it’s melted the lacquer over the title of the book she’s holding. I really want to know what that book is. Like a secret I need to discover.”
“Yay!” She clapped and did a little bounce. “It’s his birthday exhibit.”
I pretended to count on my fingers. “Let’s see, Sir Tristan would be two hundred twenty-eight?”
“Two hundred twenty-seven to be exact.” Gabrielle was deep into her dissertation on Romanticist painter Tristan Mallerton, so when there was anything doing with him she was first in line with tickets.
“Okay, off by one year. That’s not too bad.”
She smiled wide revealing perfect white teeth and full lips that made me wonder why she wasn’t the model. The reddish glints in her dark hair combined with her barely olive complexion made her look exotic. Men were always tripping over my roommate, but she wanted nothing to do with them. A lot like me, I thought. Until Ethan came along and upset my cozy existence.
“Let’s plan to go together—make a night of it. I want a new dress though. You wanna set up a shopping expedition too?” Gaby looked and sounded too damn excited for me to say no.
“Sounds excellent, Gab. I need some distractions from my suddenly more complicated life.” I tilted my head and mouthed the word, ‘Ethan.’
Gaby gave me the once-over and crossed her arms. “What happened with you two?”
“He wants a relationship. Like a real one where we sleep over and cook dinner and watch TV.”
“And lots and lots of hot orgasmic sex,” Gaby added and then held out her arms to me. “Come here. You look like you need a hug.”
I went into her embrace and held on tightly to my friend. “I’m scared, Gab,” I whispered at her ear.
“I know, sweetie. But I’ve seen you with him. I’ve seen how he looks at you. Maybe this is the big one. You won’t know unless you try.” She touched my face. “I’m happy for you, and I think you’ve got to go with a little leap of faith here. So far Mr. Blackstone is on my good list. If that should change or if he hurts one smooth hair on your innocent head, then his pretty-boy balls are gonna be transformed into a set of Klik-Klaks. And please tell him I said that.”
“God, I love you, woman!” I laughed and headed off to class, thinking about how I would break the news to Ethan.
Three hours later he sent a text.
Ethan Blackstone: <---misses Brynne. When will I see u?
<end text message>
I smiled as I read the words. He missed me and he wasn’t afraid to say it. Ethan’s direct approach did wonders toward calming my nerves and fears about a relationship together, I must admit. I gathered my resolve and replied.
Brynne Bennett: <---is :) Very soon if ur not 2 busy. Can I come 2 ur office?
<end text message>
My phone lit up almost immediately with an emphatic YES along with instructions of where to go, elevator to take, plans to feed me lunch—typical modus operandi for my Ethan. That made me smile too. Did I just say my Ethan? I so did—I realized as I ducked into the Underground station and began descending stairs.
I wanted to stop at a pharmacy to get my new prescription filled along the way, so I hopped off the Tube two stations later. Heading back up to the street, I entered a Boots and dropped off the script. I grabbed a shopping basket and browsed while I waited for the pharmacist to fill it. An idea formed in my mind and I went with it, plucking items from the shelves and dropping them into my basket.
In the checkout line to pay, I noticed a big guy behind me waiting with his lone bottle of water. Well, I really noticed his tattoo. He had a beauty on the inside of his forearm—a perfect rendition of Jimi Hendrix’s signature, the big swirl of the J as clear as if Jimi had scrawled it himself. “Nice tat,” I said to him, noticing how really huge he was. At least six five, solid muscle, with spiked white-blonde hair and a face that exuded confidence—this was a guy you did not mess with.
“Thank you.” His nearly black eyes softened just a bit and he asked, “Are you a fan?”
His British accent soothed me for some reason, again totally at odds with his physical appearance. “Massive fan,” I answered with a smile before heading out to get back on the Tube.
I plugged into my iPod on the train. Might as well listen to some Jimi and think about what to tell Ethan when I saw him.
Blackstone Security was in Bishopsgate at the center of old London with all of the other modern skyscrapers. Somehow this was not a surprise to me as I tried to picture Ethan behind a desk—in a sexy suit—and smelling delicious. I exited the Tube at the Liverpool Street station and started walking up to street level. I stumbled on a crack in the concrete step and grasped for the handrail. My knees were spared but my shopping bag dumped out, contents scattering. I muttered a curse as I turned to bend down to retrieve everything and faced the same guy I’d seen in line at Boots with the Hendrix tat.
He efficiently helped me with my stuff and handed the bag to me. “Watch your step,” he said softly and continued on up the stairs.
“Thank you,” I called to his retreating back, muscles rippling under a black dress shirt. I’d barely made it out to the sidewalk when my phone started buzzing.
Ethan Blackstone: <--- is worried. Where r u?