"Amazing." My gaze dropped to the fine planes of Nate's face. His ears angled backward, reminding me somehow of an elf. "How did you find out about the First Saturday of the Month?"
His lips spread into a wicked grin. "Noblesse Oblige."
"The magazine article?"
"Yeah, well, that and I know the family who bought the house at auction."
"Seriously? It would kill me to ready our old house for someone else."
Nate leaned against the doorjamb, his head far above the line bearing my name. "That's the sweet part. We bought it back."
My heart flipped. "You did?"
"Yep. Four years of relentless work. It took every cent we had. The whole family pitched in. Midwestern winters were a great motivator."
"Oh my gosh."
Nate tucked a stray lock of my hair behind my ear. "The winters weren't my only motivator."
Seagulls took wing inside me. "They weren't?"
Mermaid light danced between our feet.
Nate's voice grew husky. "Mind if I move to the desk behind you in Spanish?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. It depends. Did you pack your plastic kelp?"
His dimples surfaced. "Sorry. Kelp didn't make the cut."
"Then I won't be able to say, 'I hate you, Nate.'"
Nate slid his arms around my waist and drew me close. I pressed my ear to his chest and relaxed against the quick beat of his heart.
I love you, Nate.
Ariella Moon draws upon her experiences as a shaman to create magical young adult fiction. Her novels include The Two Realms trilogy, a medieval fantasy adventure, and The Teen Wytche saga, a series of sweet contemporary paranormal romances. Ariella spent her childhood searching for a magical wardrobe that would transport her to Narnia. Extreme math anxiety and taller students who mistook her for a leaning post marred her youth. Despite these horrors, she graduated summa cum laude from the University of California at Davis. She lives a nearly normal life doting on her extraordinary daughter, two shamelessly spoiled dogs, and a media-shy dragon.
Blake Thorton is in the building!
I stare at the text message, my skin suddenly clammy. My pulse kicking up into the danger zone. In the building? What the devil does that mean? The lobby? The coffee shop?
Dear God, is he coming all the way up to thirty-five?
I scramble for the keyboard, then open up my boss's calendar--but there's no Blake Thorton anywhere. Not that I really had to check. That particular name would have jumped out at me immediately. After all, seventeen months and twenty-three days is hardly long enough to forget someone. Even someone you spent only one night with.
One amazing night.
One amazing, unforgettable, perfect night.
And then I'd walked away--pushed out the door by a combination of ambition, stubbornness, and fear.
Line one rings, and I snatch it up, irritated that it's interrupted my memories. "Damien Stark's office."
"Did you get my text?" Sylvia's voice comes across the line with crisp efficiency. She's a project manager in the real estate division of Stark International, and I'm a floater who one day wants to do what she does. We became friends when I worked her desk for three months while her assistant was out on maternity leave.
"It can't be him," I blurt, then cringe at the note of hysteria coloring my voice. "I mean, he lives in New York. And there must be hundreds of Blake Thortons in the world. Maybe thousands."
"He looks just like you described him. Sandy gold hair. Deep green eyes. And that boy can definitely fill out a suit. Not as well as Jackson, though," she adds, referring to her husband.