“Right.” You gulp, staring up into his glowing, golden eyes as he leans over you. “Of course.”
That subtle, comforting scent of old paper surrounds him, and you resist the urge to lean up into his shoulder and take a deep breath.
“Well, human.” A crooked smirk lifts one side of his mouth as he tilts your chin up to look at him. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
6
Inviting the Hot Guy Inside
Mysterious Hot Guy
She gazes up at me with wide eyes, so innocent and easy to mess with.
I’m not expecting her to say ‘yes’.
There’s no way. Even an innocent little human like this wouldn’t bethatnaive. She wouldn’t invite a strange man into her home late at night.
She doesn’t know the first thing about me.
I could be planning to do despicable things to her as soon as she lets me in that door.
But she just smiles sweetly.
“I guess I should,” she says, glancing away like she’s shy. And that only makes me want to push further. I love the way her blush deepens as I lean closer, until there’s only inches between us.
I really could kiss her.
That thought hits me like a shock—what the hell am I doing, wanting to kiss a weak little human?
I pull back, folding my arms.
Of all the humans to get myself tied to, I’m stuck withthisone. She clearly doesn’t know the first thing about magic or monsters.
If she did, she’d never consider letting me in.
But she just blushes deeper and glances away as she unlocks the door. “Okay. Come on in, Mr. Magical Book Guy.”
I let out a low laugh as it clicks shut behind us. A laugh that probably sounds more sinister than I intend.
I’m not sure she hears me as I mutter, “You’re lucky I’m a gentleman.”
You
Why do you get the feeling you just made a terrible mistake?
You click the light on in your tiny studio apartment, which has always felt small, but suddenly feels a lot smaller with Mysterious Hot Book Guy looming there in the entryway beside you.
Still clutching that little black book, you carry it over to the bookshelf across the room and set it down for safekeeping.
Mr. Mysterious Hot Guy is just standing in the entryway, surveying the place like he’s never seen anything like it.
And maybe he hasn’t.
“Hey,” you ask. “What year exactly did you get locked away in the book?”
He tilts his head, gazing into space like he’s trying to remember.
“Eighteen-something. I forget. It didn’t seem important at the time.”
