I squint at her, trying to decide.
“And did you or did younotswear in written testimony that you would buy me cigarettes?”
I groan.
“Exactly. Pay up, loser,” she says, shooing me with a flippant wave of her hand as she continues to scroll on her phone.
“You’re a pain in the ass.” I turn off the engine and toss the keys onto the dash.
I slam the van’s door behind me, mostly so the lock mechanism clicks into place, but also out of spite. Immediately the wind picks up, nearly blowing me sideways. My hair is tossed to one side and my unbuttoned gray flannel jacket folds up my back, flapping against my shoulders. “All of this for cigarettes she’s not even going to smoke,” I grumble, trying the shop’s door to no avail.
Cupping my hand to the glass, I check for signs of life.
“We’re closed.” Somewhere upwind, a woman speaks. I look to the other side of the small parking lot in the direction of the breathy voice and—
Whoa.
The wind threatens to carry all five-foot-nothing of her away, blowing chestnut curls loose from the woven braid that rests over her shoulder and pulling the baby-blue dress she’s wearing taut behind her—emphasizing each dip and swell of her silhouette in soft, inviting challenge.
“Rusalka,” I whisper in warning to any nearby men who may hear it.Run,something deep inside of me says.
I’ve never listened well to my intuition,orto anyone else’s, really. And, I’m far too intrigued to leave now. Intriguedanda bit frightened, which is new. Men are lured to their death by beautiful creatures time and time again in mythology. Different legends call them by different names: sirens, nymphs, pixies, faeries,rusalki.But the result is the same—death at the hands of a beautiful creature, too alluring to deny.
So fucking be it.
“Hello,” I call back, straightening my stance and turning toface her head-on. I walk, closing the distance between us, having to directly command my legs to take each step. “I’m—”
“Yeah, hi,” she replies curtly. “We’re closed.” She crosses her arms, then immediately unfolds them to deal with some flyaway hair sticking to the corner of her mouth. Tucking the unruly curl behind her ear, she continues with her unconvincing withering stare, keeping her hand pressed against her neck and ear. Her eyes dip down to the cuff of my rolled-up sleeves and the tattoos along my forearm.
I watch keenly as her lips tuck inward, in obvious reaction to whateverapprovingthoughts she’s thinking as her gaze continues down to my wrist toward the hand that’s inside of my jeans pocket. It’s a reaction I’m familiar with.
She wants me.
Which is good, because the feeling’s mutual.
“There’s been a mistake then. Your sign says you’re open ten to four on Sundays,” I taunt lightly, jutting my chin toward the door behind my back. “But I can tell thatthis”—I pause to show her my own appreciation—“is probably not your usual workwear.”
Though it’s beginning to die down, the wind is still giving her a hard time, throwing her hair every which way as she grows more and more frustrated and flustered.
My hands itch for a pencil, to put the sight of her to paper. I love drawing curls like hers. The delicate way they fall, their frizzy nature that evokes a feeling of innocence. Then, there are her lips. Her lips are so round and full andfuckif I’m not thinking about kissing them when I realize that she’s said something else I’ve completely missed.
“Sorry?” I ask, blinking back to focus.
Her eyes have softened some, a curiosity of her own tucked away behind layers of annoyance. I know that look too. Ilovethat look.
Women like her are always the most fun to win over. The humility of the chase. The fun in the teasing. The first smile they grant you. The rush of endorphins when their cheeks flush or pupils dilate. The satisfaction when you witness the moment they decide they’ll let you take them home. Girls like that make you work for it in bed too, make you earn every second of their time. And Iloveto earn it.
Her eyes roll to the back of her head and goddamnme I want to see them do that again for a wholly different reason. “I said, if you bought gas, you can pay at the pump.”
Then, the wind breaks. The bottom of her dress pools at her feet, her hair settles into place, and my eager eyes take in every inch of her, the birthmarks and freckles on her arms, the mole above the right corner of her lip, the ring of gray around her blue irises. And,fuck,she’s even more lethal windswept and irritated.
“I didn’t buy gas, I needed cigarettes,” I tell her. “But I’ll settle for your name instead. I’m Milo.” I take my hand out of my pocket and hold it to my chest, watching her throat tighten at the sight of the tattoos across the back of my hand and knuckles as well. “You are?”
Her mouth twists, lips partially open, and she looks as if she might laugh, but not in the way I’d like her to. In that what-a-fucking-day way when someone is about to reach their limit. Andwhydo I want to see her riled up? Why do I want to push the buttons of this woman before I even know her name?
“Busy,” she answers, turning to walk away.
“I can guess your name, if you’d like,” I say, taking a step after her before she turns furiously. I retreat a few steps, fighting the urge to put my hands up in surrender. “Sorry, Killer,” I say with a dry laugh. “I’m only trying to meet my new neighbor.”
