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Ian Waters hated parties. Hated the smell of them, beer-breath clouds and stale nachos. Cheap perfume and sweat. He hated the sound of music pouring out of shitty speakers, hated the abnormally raised voices and the pathetic attempts at small talk.
He wasn’t a people person, and he sure as shit wasn’t a party person.
But he’d made a promise to his friend Siv, and Ian was a man of his word. Or tried to be.
When a drunk, giggly brunette fell into him, buffeted by the writhing bodies on the makeshift dance floor in Siv’s living room, Ian’s only thought was to get the hell out of there as soon as possible.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” The girl screeched into his ear, nearly deafening him. She flipped her dark brown hair over her shoulder and gaped at him.
The music wasn’t that loud. Her volume was entirely unnecessary. It was also completely unnecessary for her to lean on him so heavily, her fingers gripping his biceps like she thought a chasm had opened up behind her and feared her imminent death.
Through his mind’s lens, Ian pictured a wide-shot of the Persian rug as it transformed into a canyon, saw the brunette perched on the precipice with fear in her eyes.
Or maybe it was the edge of a skyscraper overlooking downtown Philadelphia. A helicopter hovering just off the edge of the roof, with a sniper’s gun trained on them both.
But would she be the victim or the villain?
“Hey!”
Ian blinked, plummeting back into his reality. The party. The clingy woman.
“Uh…what?”
She looked at him like he was a few eggs short of a dozen. “I said, I’ve seen you before. I think we met at Dirty Frank’s?”
No way in hell. He shrugged. “Sorry.”
Her grip on his arms turned into something like a caress, and Ian recoiled. Inwardly. Outwardly, he remained stiff as a board.
She was attractive enough, with shiny, bouncy, shampoo commercial-worthy hair that fell past her shoulders.
The girl reminded him of that actress from That 70s Show. Mila Kunis. A slightly alien quality to her features that would look amazing on 8mm film.
Mila’s voice was smoky, a little naughty. She was petite, but still a little curvy. Feminine but boyish. If that did it for him, Mila would do it for him.
Clingy-Mila’s lookalike did not have the smoky voice. Or maybe she did, he couldn’t tell, what with the yelling over the nineties hip-hop and all.
“Are you even listening to me?”
Ah. And now was annoyed. No point in playing nice, then.
“Not really, no.”
She frowned and finally – finally – let Ian go.
“Wow. You’re kind of a dick!”
Her scowl transformed her features from attractive-for-a-chick to banshee.
Ian almost laughed at the look of pure disgust on her face but decided it wouldn’t earn him any Brownie points. He also tried to hide his relief when she turned and walked away, bouncing back into the heaving mass of bodies.
Siv threw great parties. Everyone said so.
Ian didn’t understand the appeal.
Glancing at his smartphone, he realized he’d been there for forty-five minutes. Surely that was long enough to be considered a proper guest. Long enough that leaving wouldn’t seem weird, right? Wouldn’t garner those pitying looks, inevitably followed by pleas for him to stay a little longer?
“There you are!” Siv, lovely Siv, brushed past a clump of people and grabbed his arm. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Oh, I, uh, I was talking to someone, but I should get going.”
Siv’s face fell. “Ian…”
She didn’t need to say more, Ian knew that look. He knew her so well. Siv was the closest thing to family he’d ever had, though she’d started out as just an acquaintance. Somewhere along the way she’d gotten under his skin.
He hated to disappoint her, no matter how lightly.
“Won’t you stay a while? I made the shrimp salad you love, and…” Her gaze darted toward the other side of the room before meeting his again. She had the loveliest green eyes. Like an Irish meadow. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Sigh.
Ian gazed longingly at the door. If only he hadn’t been trapped by fake-Mila.
“Sure,” he said, forcing a smile. “Lead the way.”
Her smile was radiant. Siv grabbed his hand and pulled with far more strength than he’d given her credit for. It was all Ian could do not to trip over his size thirteen feet.
Heads turned as they passed. Ian wasn’t naïve enough not to know why. He was a kind of celebrity in their circles. The former wunderkind of their academic world, though he hadn’t been a teen in years.
After graduating high school at thirteen, and getting his bachelor’s at seventeen, Ian was three years post-doctorate and well into his career as a professor of Theoretical Physics at the University of Philadelphia. The youngest ever to be on the fast track toward tenure.
The novelty of the “baby professor” had worn off long ago, but there were some who still whispered when he walked into the room. There he is, the kid who could have had everything.
He ignored them per usual, dutifully following Siv into whatever socially awkward situation she would have him ascribe to. It was Siv, and Ian found he’d do just anything for her.
Almost anything, it turned out, because she led him straight into the fires of hell. Or rather, straight to the last person he ever thought he’d see again.
Ian’s step faltered along with his breath. He couldn’t do this. Not again. Not now, when he’d finally gotten his shit together.
Jessen Sørensen.
At six feet and nearly five inches, Jessen towered over everyone, including Ian. And Ian was usually the tallest person in the room.
Hair piled high atop his head in ridiculous, gravity-defying waves, Jessen held court in the corner of the room. All effortless smiles, and flashing blue eyes. No one could draw a crowd like him. He didn’t even need to do anything, just breathe. Breathe and smile and be Jessen. Beautiful, wild, unattainable Jessen.
“You okay?” Concern in her voice, ...
