Cross handed her a bill. “Keep the change,” he said as he stepped aside. When the barista called out his order, he grabbed his cup and sat down on the empty chair in the far corner of the dining area.
This was crazy. He told himself that over and over again. He told his wolf that this was insane, but still, he found himself coming here every morning, for the last four days. It was a long way to come for a cup of coffee, but when he tried to reason with his wolf, it just wouldn’t listen.
You don’t even know if she’ll come back here. She might have gone in here on a whim. Still, the animal didn’t care.
He sipped his coffee, the minutes ticking by. By midmorning after he’d had his second cup, he decided it was time to leave. Not just the coffee shop, but New York. He’d had dinner with his parents every night since he got here, and Astrid even made an appearance last night when they all went to see Gunnar. Of course, she and their mother spent half the night bickering, but Cross knew it was because they were too much alike. When Astrid had to leave early because she worked night shifts as a security guard, Meredith started to moan and complain why she can’t just hold a regular job or go back to school, which of course irritated his sister. Astrid led an unconventional lifestyle, to say the least, but she had always marched to the beat of her own drum.
Yes, it was nice coming back and spending time with his family, but there was work to be done. His contact from the Malatestiana Library in Italy had found that book he’d been searching for and asked him to come right away.
Ignoring the pleading whines of his wolf, he tossed the empty cup into the trash and strode toward the door. He pushed it open, but he was so distracted he didn’t see that someone had pulled on it from the other side at the same time.
“Whoa!”
Objects clattered to the ground as he collided into the other person, who stepped back. Peering down, he saw an easel, an empty canvas, and a bag that had fallen over on its side and spilled various paintbrushes and tubes of paint.
“Sorry, sorry,” he murmured as he bent down to pick up the various items.
“No, it’s my fault,” said the feminine voice. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I had this spark of inspiration, you see. The sky, it’s so blue, and it made me think of pansies. My thoughts tend to wander, but that’s how I get my inspiration. Like I said, it just came to me. Like a spark. Ever had one of those?”
They reached for the same tube of paint at the same time, and their fingers brushed together. A strange bolt of electricity ran up his arm. His wolf suddenly perked up.
“Oh. No. Not quite that kind of spark. Must be static, though.” She swept the tube back into the bag. “Damn. I hope I didn’t miss anything.” She glanced around her. “That yellow ochre was my last tube. They always run out of it. You’d think Van Gogh and his sunflowers were coming back in vogue or something.”
“Miss?” The sun shone behind her, momentarily blinding him. However, the familiar scent of cider and freshly-fallen snow entered his nostrils, and his wolf howled in delight. It was her.
“Hmmm?”
He hadn’t seen her face the other day, and even now, her features were obscured by the large sunglasses she wore, and a large hat covered most of her head. But that perfume was all he needed to recognize her. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He picked up the easel and canvas. “Are you an artist?”
“Well, trying to be,” she said. “Um, thank you.” She tried to get the easel and canvas from him, but he held it firmly. “Uh, can I have my things back please?”
“No. I mean …” God, what was wrong with him? While he wasn’t smooth with the ladies, he was never tongue-tied around them. “I’m really sorry for knocking all your things over. Can I get you a cup of coffee as an apology?”
Her tongue darted out of her mouth to lick at her lips, a move that sent a surge of desire straight to his gut. “I suppose so.” She nodded. “Okay. If you don’t mind carrying—”
“Not at all.” He gestured for her to go in first, and he followed behind her. She headed for one of the tables in the corner and took off her trench coat, draping it behind the chair before she whipped her hat off. Long, lustrous locks of white-blonde hair tumbled down her shoulders.
A strange feeling came over him—something like déjà vu, but not quite. It was something else gnawing at him, or had been gnawing at him all these months. And that something was Gunnar’s voice, ringing in his head.
White-blonde hair.
Surely that wasn’t an unusual hair color. He gripped the back of the other chair so hard he heard the wood creak. “What would you like?”
“Hmmm … I don’t know what I’m in the mood for. Something sweet, maybe. I always need something sweet.” She sat down and put her bag on the floor beside her, then took off her sunglasses, placing them on the table. “Caramel macchiato. Yes, that’s it. A caramel macchiato, please,” she said as she looked up to him. Her porcelain skin made her light eyes—a true violet color—stand out even more. “Um, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
Unusual eyes. Gunnar’s voice grew louder in his ear. Blue—no, they’re like amethysts.
He pivoted and headed for the cashier, giving her his order. Time seemed to slow down, and there was a pounding in his temple as a vice-like grip wrapped around his chest. It was like walking
