Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
“I don’t know. Maybe blue. Like dark blue,” another familiar voice answers.
“I would really like to see him in dark blue.”
Nope.
Wrong again.
Blue is not his color.
He never wears blue, even dark blue.
There’s not a single blue thing in his wardrobe; I’ve checked. And the handful of times that I’ve seen him over the last four years, he’s always worn either black or gray or chocolate brown like his eyes.
I’ve concluded that it’s because blue is too colorful for him. And he’s not a colorful man. He’s the kind of man who sucks all joy out of this world and so it makes sense that he’d wear colors that suck all joy out of the world as well.
Besides, if you really think about it, the devil never wears blue.
But as I’ve done for the past eight days, I’m going to keep this knowledge to myself and sit here quietly on this stone bench out in the courtyard as I read my biology textbook.
Or as I try to read my biology textbook.
Okay, fine. I’m not even trying.
Clearly, I’m eavesdropping.
But I’m going to stop now. It’s not as if they’re saying or doing anything new or even remotely interesting. This has been the norm for days now.
Every morning, a group of girls gathers here in the courtyard before the first bell rings. They are all bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, brimming with enthusiasm and joy. Their happy eyes are always peeled at the same thing: a row of cottages on the far side of campus, across the massive green clearing.
As they wait for their day to begin.
It’s annoying. I’m not going to lie.
Not their enthusiasm.
Of course not. I wouldn’t begrudge them even a tiny amount of joy, not in this place.
What annoys me is their reason.
The reason why they’re so happy and giggly and just over the moon enthusiastic.
And then it happens.
I hear a collective gasp from the group.
He is here. The reason of all the excitement.
Although even if they hadn’t gasped, I’d still know.
It’s the air that tells me.
It grows hot and heavy.
My skin grows heated. Sweat rolls down my spine. My lungs fill with smoke and I can’t breathe.
Four years ago, I told him that I’d set his life on fire but I was wrong. He’s the firestarter.
He’s the flame-thrower. The lighter, the match.
And time hasn’t changed that.
And neither has it changed the fact that whenever he’s around, my eyes inevitably go to him.
Like they do now.
A dark figure striding across the vast green clearing.
He sports a tweed jacket, a shirt and a pair of dress pants.
All black, all crisp.
All intimidating.
But not as intimidating as he himself is.
Even though he’s all the way over there, you can still tell that he’s tall. He’s probably one of the tallest men you’ve ever seen. He’s also broad. His tweed jacket-draped shoulders, even from this far, look like they would block the sun, the moon, the stars, if he ever stood close enough.
And then there are his thighs.
His powerful, muscular thighs that bulge and strain under his dress pants as he walks, covering twice the distance that you normally would. Or at least, that I normally would.
And so very soon, he gets close enough that he comes into focus.
The fine details of him.
His dark hair with curls that shine under the summer sun. They also brush against the collar of his jacket. The duskiness of his skin. His dark tie. The crisp collar of his dress shirt. The shine of his Italian loafers, also black. The briefcase that he’s carrying, clutched by his long fingers.
And his face.
That comes into focus as well.
And I have to say that it is — as it was the first time I saw him four years ago —spectacular. It’s jaw-dropping and breathtaking. Even more so than before, if possible.
Like his features have become more distinct and sharper over time. Like his cheekbones have honed even more with age. His jaw has become more angled at thirty-five than it was back when he was thirty-one. His brows have gotten more arrogant and his mouth, the one soft thing on his very classically masculine face, has grown softer and more plump. Maybe because it had to, to balance out the increased edginess.
But the most beautiful thing about him is his eyes.
Which I can’t see because he’s got a killer pair of shades on. As shiny and expensive as the rest of his ensemble.
But even so, I know his eyes are chocolate brown. I know that they’re surrounded by thick and sooty eyelashes. They tip up slightly on the sides, much like his lips.
So yeah, spectacular.
And as I predicted, he doesn’t look at them. The group of girls in the courtyard that are openly gawking at him.
To be fair though, I wouldn’t know what he is looking at since his eyes are hidden, but I know that he doesn’t tip his chin or tilt his head or break his stride in any way as he passes them by, that might indicate that he’s even aware of their presence.