My brain was whirling with ideas for a new series, which my agent would be super excited about considering I’d been dry for the last few months. The fall term always sucked all the creativity out of me. All that new hope wrapped in the careless throwaway years of youth. I reached a few students—enough to keep my own hope alive. Occasionally, I found little pockets of inspiration within our class discussions. Some students even surprised me with their takes on old folklore.
The winter term was more for my advanced classes. They were wrapped up in their own projects, and that often gave me time to deal with my own. As well as allowing me to get my annual book published to keep my place at the college. If you didn’t publish, you perished. At least that was the current dean’s point of view.
I had my initial research done on Tam Lin, a Scottish folktale. I was actually toying with writing an illustrated book. The prospect was scary as hell. I liked the anonymity of my alter ego, Cal. No last name on my paintings, just a sliced up version of my first. It was too unusual to use the full version without someone being able to connect a few dots.
At the very least, my Crescent Cove sojourn had produced enough seeds for a half dozen paintings. Dry period be gone.
For once, everything was falling in line. I should be settled, but instead, it was as if the whole world was a little tilted. I had a feeling that was more from a certain smart-mouthed barista.
One who had disappeared in the last hour or so.
I felt around in my bag and found her heavy notebook. It was bulging with clippings and glued-in notes. I didn’t mean to open it. I knew more than most how much a sketchbook was more like a personal journal. But the spine was practically cracked with all the extra papers that had been added.
Glossy magazine pages had been ripped and altered, largely of women’s faces and hair. Some had been restructured with pencils and paints while others had literally been cut to create a different style.
Notes were scribbled in the margins, numbers and names that didn’t make a lick of sense to me.
A few brand names that I vaguely understood were highlighted with phone numbers or ID numbers—I couldn’t tell which. But it was her script handwriting I was more interested in. It was slashing and feminine, not the cutesy teen bubble-style. No, this was the kind that came with a quick brain who couldn’t get the words out fast enough.
Some of it had to be her own brand of shorthand.
I kept turning the pages. Her sense of color was startlingly intense. From the rich browns and reds to a million shades in between. It took a special eye to see variations like she did. And the way she hacked at photos to create her own hairstyles then moved on to scratchy drawings that refined them into faceless drawings that reminded me of fashion drawings.
But she didn’t seem to care about clothing, so I was more inclined to think she was into the cosmetology end of art.
“Nosy much?”
I snapped the book shut and looked up. “Sorry, it sort of…” I stood and was pretty sure my tongue rolled out of my head and across the cafė to stop at her feet.
She’d changed.
The sweet ponytail had been replaced with a tumble of light brown waves tinged with caramel. Large gold hoops hung from her ears and she’d done something with her face. It was enhanced with some female witchcraft. Not the kind that looked overdone. No, this was the little tricks of her trade, now that I knew her a little better.
She’d changed into some sort of dusky pink sweater that looked cloud soft and slipped off one shoulder—I intended to find out just how soft it was, mind you. Of course then there was the skin tight white jeans and boots that matched her sweater. But not just a regular pair of boots. These went over her knee with a spiked heel that made her legs look miles long.
Fuck.
“Sort of what? Hopped out of your bag and into your hand and the pages magically fanned open?” She crossed her arms, and it did ridiculous things to the curve of her chest. Also, her sweater lifted the tiniest bit to show off a slash of golden stomach.
Was she wearing a bra?
There was definitely no strap going on there. Maybe it was one of those strapless things that only women understood. Or just one strap? I didn’t understand, but I wanted to. And I really wanted it to be on my floor tonight. Or just the sweater. I wasn’t choosy. I just wanted her.
“Uh…”
“Eyes up, pal.”
I blew out a breath. “Sorry. You…wow.”
Her lips quirked up at the corner. Damn, she knew her power. Why did that make her even hotter?
I cleared my throat. “I was looking for you and then I took out the notebook and it was ready to bust open.”
She dropped her arms and came for me. I mean, came forward. The slow roll of her hips and those legs of hers made me crazy. I couldn’t form a fucking thought. She tipped her head slightly and the scent of vanilla and honey flooded my senses. From the dusting of something shimmery on her shoulder to the glimmer of gold at her neck, ears, and wrists, she sparkled. She was a winter dream right in front of me.
And I was totally botching this. Again.
She took the notebook and dropped it into the huge bag over her other shoulder. “Thanks for keeping it safe. Ish.”
“I didn’t touch it. Well, I mean I looked at a few pages, but I didn’t hurt anything. It’s really amazing,” I finished lamely.
“Thanks. I’ve been collecting for a long time.”
“Just collecting?”
She stepped closer. “Guess I’ll find out Monday.”
“What’s Monday?”
“Do you really care, Callum?”
“Of course I do.”
“You’ll be gone by then, won’t you?” She tipped her head and tucked a heavy lock of hair behind her ear. “Better question is why are you still here?”
“We had a moment.”
“Yeah. It was a moment. A nice one.”
“It was more than nice and you know it.” I stepped into her space and some of her bravado seemed to fall away.
She shrugged. “I’m not looking for a bit of mistletoe-flavored fun, Callum. Come to think of it, it’s poisonous. Did you know that?”
“I did. And actually in Norse mythology, it was the single thing that killed Baldr. He was immune to everything thanks to his mother, Frigg. Save for one little plant.” I invaded her space. “An arrow made of mistletoe was his ultimate demise.”
She licked her lips and stared at my mouth. “I didn’t know that part.”
“Then again, there were the Druids who used mistletoe in a lot of their rituals. They thought it had special powers. And as most things in pagan religion, the Christians nicked it for their own.” I slid my fingers along her hip. “It went from being used in solstice rituals with evergreen for various fertility reasons to finally becoming little pretty things in doorways and arches to catch a kiss.”
There were a lot more stories around mistletoe, but right now, most of it was leaving my brain. Probably because most of my blood had headed south.
“Oh.”
Her lashes swept down and I went for it once again. Instead of the bite of winter and snow with traces of vanilla, she tasted of sharp mint. But her sigh was the same, and when she melted into me, I took full advantage. I wrapped my arm around her back and drew her up against me.