Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

He heads back toward the door and his eyes meet mine as he passes. “Thank you, Violet,” he says, and I have a hard time tearing my gaze from his. It’s like he’s trying to pass me information in a language I’m dying to read. I can feel the disappointment rolling off of him, which in turn makes me disappointed too.

I watch as he strides past, getting a whiff of his scent, something like mint and rich tobacco, strangely soothing, and then he’s out the door.

I look back at Anderson who gives me a shrug. “Unfortunately, there isn’t much I can do. I’ll mention it to the head of the department, just in case. There’s a lot to be said for planning ahead. You can’t throw money at everything and expect doors to open.”

I’m barely listening to him. My feet have a mind of their own. Suddenly I’m out the door and flying down the stairs, my boots echoing in the stairwell, and bursting out onto the street.

I look up and down the sidewalk until I spot Vicente already across the road and heading down Taylor. Damn, the guy moves fast.

I run down and across the crosswalk, hitting the light just in time, and then I’m right behind him and slightly out of breath. This makes me realize I need to start kickboxing more regularly.

“Vicente,” I call out, even though I’m seconds from slamming into his back.

He turns around and I dig my boots into the sidewalk. His brows are raised, wondering what I’m doing.

What am I doing? He asked me a question, I gave him the best answer I had, and that’s all it should have been. Yet I couldn’t let that be it.

I barely know this guy and I think he’s already making me a bit mental. Well, more so than I already am.

“Sorry about Anderson,” I tell him, looping my thumb under the strap of my camera bag. “It was worth a shot, right?”

He nods, looking away, his golden eyes taking in the street. “It was.” He brings his gaze back to mine. “Thank you again. That was very kind of you. Some things just aren’t meant to be.”

“Maybe because other things are waiting around the corner?” I ask lamely.

He grins at me, white teeth against bronzed skin. I feel myself melt.

“Or maybe good things are waiting right in front of me,” he says.

Oh god. Forward again. But instead of it scaring me, I embrace it. I hold my ground. I refuse to feel awkward.

“Maybe,” I tell him, wishing I had the nerve to say more.

Something in his eyes change. They become more focused, but with fire. Like there’s some sort of tiger deep inside, starting to roar.

It scares me. It excites me.

And I’m still not moving.

“Did you want to get a cup of coffee?” he asks. “I know you just had one and might not want another…”

I can’t help but grin. He’s asking me out. Even if it’s just for coffee, that’s still something. “I drink decaf so it’s never a problem,” I admit.

“Unless you want a real drink?” he says, his eyes going to the bar across the street. “Are you twenty-one?”

“No, but my fake ID says I am.”

His mouth quirks up into a sly smile. He’s got beautiful lips. I wonder what he tastes like.

“I like you already,” he says.

A thrill shoots through me, hot and fast, and I try to keep my smile under control.

“Is that a good place?” he asks, gesturing to the bar. “I’m afraid I don’t know the city well yet.”

I wish I knew most of the bars downtown, but I tend to stick to my neighborhood. Still, I know this bar is pretty casual.

Considering it’s the afternoon, there’s a surprising amount of people inside, but then I realize it’s part of the hotel above it. I’m not a fan of crowds, but the noise level is pretty low and the music is mellow jazz. We manage to get two seats at the end of the bar, which is both distancing in the fact that you share your conversation with the bartender, plus it’s not as easy to look into each other’s eyes, and also intimate because you have to sit right beside the person.

I’m not sure what I like better, but Vicente’s fresh yet smoky scent is making the distance between us feel even closer. It doesn’t help that when I take my seat, my knee rubs against his.

“What will you have?” he asks. “Order one drink, order several. Get the most expensive thing you can think of. It’s on me.”

Hmmm. Maybe he wasn’t joking when he mentioned money to Anderson. I know my program isn’t cheap, I’m just really lucky my parents are able to pay for it.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

He nods. “What would you like?”

Well, considering it’s two in the afternoon… “A Bloody Mary.” I pause. “With Grey Goose.” I might be pressing my luck, but hey, he said he was buying. I usually have it with the cheapest vodka there is (Smirnoff, which I hate, but that’s student life).

“Do you like Grey Goose or are you just picking that because it’s expensive?” he asks thoughtfully. “No offense, of course. I just think there are better vodkas.”

Normally I can’t help but take offense, but I can tell he’s just being honest.

“You pick,” I tell him. “I trust you.”

He bites his lip at that, as if my trust was what he wanted all along. I don’t even know why I said that, it’s not like I know a thing about this guy. Other than his name and a yearning for photography, he’s a stranger.

Tiny warning bells go off in the back of my head, reminding me of exactly this. He’s a stranger. Just because he’s got a pretty face and his forearms are laced with muscle doesn’t mean I should let my guard down. I mean, the fact that I’m here at a bar with him is already pretty fucked up in the world of Violet McQueen, who never lets her guard down with anyone.

So while Vicente orders us two Bloody Marys with some foreign sounding vodka I’ve never heard of, I watch the process closely to make sure that the bartender doesn’t slip anything in there (I’m not sure how or why, unless this was all carefully orchestrated, but of course that’s my paranoia talking) and then keep my drink to myself the moment the bartender slides it into my hand.

“Here’s to…” Vicente says, lifting his drink to mine. “The kindness of strangers.”

We clink glasses and I take a sip, his amber eyes never leaving mine, seeming to drink me in. He reaches into my very core, colder and stronger than any spirit.

Speaking of which, the drink is hella good.