Chapter One
Dominic
A fifth of a second.
Apparently that’s all it takes to fall in love with someone, according to some overpaid researchers.
I don’t buy it, even though my professor failed to appreciate my skepticism. I considered asking why she was still single if that was true, but I need to maintain a good GPA to keep my scholarships, so I kept my mouth shut.
Four hours later and working at a bar near UCLA, I still don’t buy the bullshit. I’d bet the night’s tip ninety-nine percent of the young couples in the bar knew each other for a while before deciding to hook up, unless it’s a one-night-stand deal.
I wipe the counter in front of me, picking up crumpled bills. A fair number of undergraduate and graduate students drink at the bar, and most tip decently. I like working here because the owner’s cool and flexible.
“I have a kid of my own in college,” he said. “Berkeley.” He beamed proudly. “I’m treating you kids the way I want mine treated.”
The door to the bar opens, and a green-eyed brunette walks in. She’s pretty, but nothing extraordinary. This is L.A. Girls that cute are a dime a dozen, no matter how expertly she flips her hair over her shoulder. The only thing that stands out about her is the expensive designer clothes and shoes.
Another girl follows—obviously the brunette’s friend. Now she’s gorgeous—bright red hair and sharp eyes set in a classically beautiful face. A skintight black dress hugs her, and knee-high boots with stiletto heels elongate her legs.
If the researchers were right, I would fall in love. Like, this instant.
But I feel nothing except male appreciation for a fine-looking female. Would it be nice to get to know her a bit, maybe buy her a drink? Sure. Things might progress from there.
But that isn’t love. No.
The brunette mutters something to someone for a moment, and then, before the door shuts, pulls a blonde in, causing her lustrous golden hair to tumble over her face and shoulders in big, loose waves.
Sudden heat lances through me. I suck in a breath, as though the fresh air could cool the flame.
The blonde has the kind of body that could resuscitate a medieval saint. A fitted red shirt stretches across full breasts, then stops an inch above a yellow belt, showing a bit of her taut stomach and a sweet little belly button I’d love to lick on my way south. A dark leather skirt molds to her gently flaring hips and rounded ass, and her long, shapely legs end in a pair of strappy silver sandals.
Saying something to the brunette I can’t make out from this distance, the blonde shoves a hand into her hair, pushing it back from her face.
Jesus. God must’ve been in love when he made her.
She has a face to match the body. Clear, flawless skin covers delicately carved cheekbones and a small, straight nose. Her lips are soft and full, as lusciously red as a bing cherry. Then she turns her head and looks me straight in the eyes.
My brain quits. The air inside my lungs stills. Time seems to stop, then stretch, like a slow-mo segment from a movie.
Her gaze is mesmerizing, elevating her from gorgeous to irresistible. Long, thick lashes frame her large eyes, which are the color of a winter storm. There’s a sharp intellect and a hint of steel behind them. The makeup around them is in the style my younger sister calls “smoky.” On some it looks ridiculous, like the woman’s face got too greasy or sweaty. But on her it’s electric hot, turning her eyes so dark and enthralling that I feel like I could dive into her soul through them.
If I were the poetic type, I’d call her an angel. Not the type that hands out warm and fuzzy stuff to people, but the type that makes Lucifer piss himself.
I finally acknowledge it. The researchers are right.
A fifth of a second is all it takes.
* * *
Elizabeth
I run my gaze over the bar. It’s near UCLA, so it’s probably nice enough and clean enough, but not the kind of place I would’ve chosen.
Marcella, however, was adamant we go to this particular bar today. She also insisted we dress nice, but not too expensive.
“We want to blend in. Otherwise we may not be able to get any martinis.”
I don’t know how that’s relevant to being able to buy drinks. That’s what fake IDs are for. But since Vanessa didn’t object, I went along with the venue and the clothes. My cousin and I can humor Marcella for a night…even if I’m rapidly coming to regret that decision.
“So when are you leaving for Italy?” Marcella says as she opens the door to the bar. Her dark hair glints as the light from inside hits her.
“The day after tomorrow,” Vanessa answers for me as she follows Marcella in. Her freshly dyed hair looks startling against her black dress. Like arterial blood—or an apple, the magic kind that could make anybody hungry at first sight. Vanessa is an exact replica of her mother, who’s still one of the most beautiful women ever.
“The day after tomorrow!” Marcella whines.