The man helps me to the couch and I feel a sharp undercurrent of electricity between us. I stop cold. He pulls his hands away from my body and offers me one in greeting. “I’m Sam—your floor-mate.” He points down the hallway. “I live right down there.”
“I’m Morgan.” He doesn’t let go of my hand and I feel my cheeks heat as he studies me. “I heard you were coming—I just didn’t know…”
“Know what?”
“How beautiful you are.” He touches my cheek and it should be weird—super weird—but it’s not. I only feel the shock of energy between us.
I swallow and say, “Stop. That’s two men today that have called me beautiful. Is that what it’s like in New Yor
k? Because I thought the men laid it on thick in the South.”
His forehead wrinkles. “Who else called you beautiful?”
“Dylan--well sort of, he just said I need to be careful in the city.”
Sam tightens his grip on my hand. “He’s right. You do.”
“You would know. Are you a model or something?” We hold eye contact for a beat and I absorb his features. They’re disturbingly striking. Sharp cheekbones. Perfect lips. Green eyes that suck me in like an inviting pool. His hands are warm and I feel the strength in his touch. He’s not big like Dylan but he’s strong.
Amusement flashes in his eyes. “No, I’m not a model, but I work with some. I’m here on a photography scholarship. Maybe you’ll pose for me sometime.”
“I doubt that’s a good idea. I’m not really the model type.” I look at the mess on the floor. “More like a hot mess type.”
“Hmm.” He pushes a strand of hair over my shoulder. “We’ll let the camera determine that.”
I flex my toe and determine it’s not broken and reach for the stack of books. Sam grabs them from me and says, “Where do these go?”
“In the studio.”
And that’s how I met Sam.
*
There’s time before dinner and if I don’t get in my daily writing I start to feel twitchy, so I grab my latest journal and settle into the cozy window seat. With a new pen and a fresh sheet of paper, I add to my ongoing story.
Maverick first noticed the birds when she was a kid.
The instant she walked outside, they would be there. Large, with sleek, glossy feathers. Round, brilliant eyes. They would appear slowly, one at first, flying down from the sky and perching on a branch. He would call to the others and they would follow—four more ravens, with wide, shadowy wings to guide them down to the treetops.
This went on for years. Maverick walked outside and her ravens greeted her. The other kids in the neighborhood thought she was strange, walking to the bus stop every day talking to ’herself’. They didn’t notice ravens in the trees or hopping along the lawns nearby.
Over time, her relationship with the birds became so intense she stopped having friends entirely, preferring to sit in the backyard on a soft blanket. She socialized with the ravens. They brought her trinkets, pieces of metal and shiny beads. Marbles from lawn ornaments. Jewelry they’d plucked from somewhere with their beaks.
She fed them bread and birdseed and told them endless stories about her day. The way the teacher smiled at her essay, or the one particular girl named Callie in the 6th grade that called her names. The next day during recess she spotted the familiar shadow arc across the playground and watched, both fascinated and terrified, as a large, black bird snatched the bejeweled barrette out of the girl’s flaming red hair. Callie howled, screeching in pain. She pointed upward and all the teachers and students gathered around.
Not Maverick. She watched the raven fly away with a shiny trinket in his beak.
That afternoon, the clip--along with a tuft of auburn hair still attached--waited for her on the backyard blanket.
That was the day she decided to name them…
A knock on the door pulls me from my writing and I walk to the front door of my suite. Sam waits on the other side. He’s cleaned up from his casual shorts and T-shit from earlier and is now wearing perfectly fitting jeans and a light blue shirt that makes his eyes twinkle like jewels. His hair is long, knotted at the top of his head in a man-bun I’d find ridiculous on anyone else, but not him.
“I thought I’d walk you down to dinner, if you’d like?”
I look down. I never changed. “Give me a second? You can wait in the sitting room.”
“You look fine.”