Bastian goes completely still. I feel the sharp suck of his breath. His warmth. His smell. Again and again, we keep finding ourselves in this exact orientation, and again and again, we’re forced to confront howrightit feels.
I ought to pull away, because there are entire schools’ worth of bigger fish to fry. But I let myself have this one stolen second: wintergreen warmth, heat and ice, solid and male, close enough to touch and so far from being mine that I might as well be a princess-astronaut in space after all.
Then I step back, his hands fall away, and the moment shatters into a thousand irretrievable pieces.
“I have an idea,” I announce.
Bastian clears his throat. “About…?”
“Harold Fitzgerald,” I say.
Zeke leans in. “As in the investor?”
“Thesleazyinvestor,” I correct. “The amoral, narcissistic leech with the wandering hands and the bow tie and the moral compass that points wherever the money is.” I’m talking fast now, the pieces clicking into place as I speak. “Think about it. He pulled out of Olympus right before the gala, then magically came back in after everything got fixed. He’s in bed with Aleksei somehow, or at least he knows enough to be dangerous. We can use all that.”
Bastian emits another one of those skeptical, wordless rumbles.
“Harold’s entire M.O. is looking after his own interests. Right now, those interests are tied to Aleksei’s success. But if we can show him that Aleksei’s ship is sinking? He’ll flip faster than you can say ‘bloodsucker.’”
Bastian is quiet for a long moment. I’m bracing myself for his rejection. It’ll be something along the lines ofStay out of this, little girl; you don’t know what kind of games are being played here.
Then his hands are cupping my face, and his mouth is on mine, and the kiss is brief and fierce and tastes like morning beer.
I gasp in surprise, but my body gets with the program way before my mind does. My lips part to let his tongue flicker in and my hands find their home in the curls at the back of his head. He pulls me flush to him and I revel in how good it feels to be there again, swaddled in Bastian, my wintergreen wonderland.
The aperture of my world condenses to the press of his lips and the scrape of his beard stubble against my chin. Harold who? Aleksei what? All of those things seem meaningless as long as we’re kissing.
My back hits something solid—the siding of the house, I think—and Bastian’s body follows, pinning me there with his hips. He growls into my mouth and I moan right back like the wanton woman of the night I turn into whenever he puts his hands on me.
Eventually, it stops. He pulls back just far enough to rest his forehead against mine. His breathing is ragged. So is mine.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have?—”
“Shut up,” I whisper back. “Just… give me one more second.”
But the words ruin it. We separate reluctantly, though my hand lingers on his waist and his does the same on mine.
“I take it you like the idea?” I ask.
“I fucking love it,” he breathes. “You’re a genius.”
“I am?”
“You’re pretty damn smart,” agrees Zeke, “though it seems modesty is not your forte. Not for either of you, really. Could’ve at least told me to turn around before you started swallowing each other’s faces.”
I laugh and blush shockingly red. Bastian, standing next to me, makes an unusually awkward sound, too, a mix between a squeak of embarrassment and a grunt ofMind your own business, bro.It’s kind of endearing, honestly. I like seeing him out of his element sometimes.
“So,” Zeke says, clapping his hands together, “Harold Fitzgerald. Walk me through how we’re supposed to turn him into our secret weapon.”
I clear my throat and try to organize my racing thoughts into something resembling coherence. It’s kinda hard to do when my lips are still tingling and Bastian’s hand isstillon my waist, thumb tracing absent-minded little circles against my hip bone.
Focus, Eliana. Get your head in the game and out of the gutter.
“The same way every chef solves a tough problem,” I say. “With a little bit of handy knife work.”
29
BASTIAN
