I take another drag, grinning at my once-certain conviction that I was gonna stay in Canyon, Texas, till they put me in the ground. I wonder, not for the first time, if the man who crafted these ethereal pieces would be proud of my art.
He’s responsible for half of my DNA, after all.
Not to mention the one brief exchange at summer camp that altered the entire course of my life.
Not that he knew who the fuck he was talking to.
I sit there for a while, staring off into the middle distance until the rising symphony of crickets brings me back to reality.
I take one final drag and extinguish my cigarette, then stand, find a trash can, and toss the dead butt at the opening of a crumpled soda can, hitting the mark. Before I can congratulate myself on my aim, a high-pitched laugh rips through the quiet mall.
I make my way down the tree-lined stretch to check things out, sticking to the shadows. A group of drunk university students is entering the mall at the far side, headed right for the fountain, stripping as they go.
The campus police will be coming through on their rounds any second, and that won’t end well for anyone. Last year, someone got it into their head that the fountain’s bronze horses would look better with bubbles, and the soap they used clogged the historic system so badly that it had to be shut down for six months until they were able to fundraise enough money to replace the plumbing. Now, campus police are required to press charges against anyone who plays in the fountain.
Not wanting that on my conscience, I grumble about having to be the wet blanket in this scenario and emerge from the darkness.
The fountain is beautiful, lit up like Christmas and New Year’s in May, and the students in it are just as beautiful. Theylook older, and I curse myself, wondering if I’m about to fuck up their last frivolous night before graduation.
Stepping into the light, I clear my throat. The students continue splashing each other, and one of the young women takes off her top, revealing miles of pale skin and a pretty purple bra. She spins her shirt above her head before flinging it off to the side. The guys are down to their underwear already. Pretty sure I spy a couple of pocket flasks, but I’m not going to be a hard ass about it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m an officer of the law,” I say, projecting my voice over the water. “And this is not a public pool.”
Half a dozen university students freeze for a brief moment, staring at me like white tails in November headlights. I raise my brows, and the smarter ones quickly make their way out of the fountain. One guy shoots up from the water, making dolphin noises, unaware that I’ve put a stop to their impromptu pool party. The two remaining students can’t help but laugh.
Even I have to bite back a smile.
Tonight’s dolphin is a light-skinned Black guy with a sexy riot of curls held back by a headband. The glossy ringlets sparkle under the moonlight as water cascades down his perfect chest, arms, abs, and practically transparent underwear. He grabs a flask from one of his friends, who grins as he tips it back. Belatedly, the dolphin picks up on the absence of the rest of his compatriots.
Enchantingly confused, he lowers the flask and wipes his generous mouth with the back of his hand, watching his friends disappear into the shadows. His attention eventually finds its way to me, his eyes going wide as he clocks my holstered weapon. He nearly loses his balance, pinwheeling wildly until the friend—boyfriend?—grabs him around his narrow waist and possessively pulls him against his body.
I close the distance between us, and the good-looking dolphin flashes me an all-too-familiar smile.
Shit.
Of all the fucking people to catch trespassing.
I glare at the sculptures, my face heating as the memory of cuffing him infiltrates my brain.
I have no excuse for it, save for the fact that I’d recognized him at Pride and wanted to…I dunno? Remind him of his teenage crush on me?
Embarrassing.
Especially when I realized that he is so much hotter in person than online. His entire aura was just…whoa.
I was standing directly in front of the sun. And the sun smiled at me.
I shift my focus to the man in front of me, wondering if the universe is having a laugh at my expense.
“Rune?” I ask, remembering belatedly that nobody calls him that. He’s known worldwide as Maverick, no last name.
So then what the fuck is he doing here, tonight of all nights?
Maverick is social media royalty. His account is a glittering carousel of parties in Hollywood mansions, billionaire penthouses, and private Italian vineyards, interspersed with being ferried back and forth to far-flung model shoots in private jets.
Then again, the internet has a way of making you feel like you know someone, when all you really have is a heavily curated patchwork of filtered moments masquerading as data.
Not that I’ve been stalking him, online or otherwise.
