Exp1re

  After rinsing my mouth and inhaling a deep breath with my nose right at the opening of the mouthwash bottle, I stand up straight and give myself a last once-over before heading out to face my new travel companion. Given the circumstances, I look decent. My hair is clean and brushed, my face is washed, and my clothes… well, the shirt that smells like heaven is about four sizes too big for me, hanging nearly to my knees over my skinny jeans.

  It’s the first time I’ve really paid attention to the words on the front, since most of the time, when I face Tavian, I try to keep my focus locked on his chin, away from those captivating baby blues, his wide, strong shoulders, and well-defined arms. And I’ve discovered he’s got a damn nice chin, too—neither too pointy nor round, with a faint, endearing dimple that’s slowly disappeared under the dark stubble over the last fourteen or so hours.

  With a rare, absentminded smile, I pull the soft material—the kind that feels like it’s been washed hundreds of times yet never loses its shape—taut across my chest and read the white letters aloud. “I hate gravity. It keeps on bringing me down.”

  Grinning, my initial thought is how much my dad would’ve loved this shirt. He was always buying crap with silly science sayings on them, a true nerd at heart. But when the image of him pops into my head, a sharp stabbing sensation in my lungs—a thousand times stronger than the prick of disappointment a moment ago—erases the smile from my face. I stumble forward to grab hold of the countertop, steadying my wobbly legs. The hurt from my parents being gone, it’s too much. Always too much.

  Time doesn’t heal shit. People just end up getting caught up in their own lives and forgetting. But not me. I don’t have a life to get lost in, because I don’t want to forget. The pain is my reminder of what it’s like to lose someone I love. And why I’m better off by myself.

  “Lyra?” Tavian calls out, rapping his knuckles against the locked door. “You almost ready? Breakfast just got here.”

  Squeezing my eyes shut briefly, I draw in a fortifying lungful of air before blowing it out on a rush and snapping my lids open. It’s time to put on my big girl panties and push my own issues aside. Tavian may or may not know it yet, but I owe this to him and his loved ones. I need to help make his last trip the best one. That’s why Fate put me here.

  At least I think it is.

  I swing open the door with every intention of acting as “friendly” normal as I can muster, but when I’m greeted by his shirtless chest, I’m rendered speechless. When I first saw it—him—last night, I chalked up my body’s physical reaction to fatigue and exhaustion, and even though I’m not exactly well-rested now due to my struggle to sleep in beds other than mine, I know that my racing pulse and the involuntary way my thighs are clenching together are the direct result of his mouth-watering body.

  During my college internship, I photographed a countless number of fashion models—both men and women—and Tavian’s physique is just as good, if not better than anything I’ve ever seen. None of them had this effect on me. Not even close.

  “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I ordered a little bit of everything, and I’ll just eat what you don’t. I’m not picky.” Tavian smiles and steps back, pointing to the small dinette table covered in silver-domed dishes. “But I do like my food to be hot, so come on. Let’s go over our itinerary while we eat, and then you can go down to the lobby and grab me a shirt I can wear out shopping.”

  Yes! For the love of Saturn’s rings, let’s get you a shirt so I can stop acting more awkward than I normally do.

  With a nod, I pad barefoot through the bedroom, the giant bed still a mess of sheets and pillows from where I tossed and turned, and out into the open living area. I uncover the plates of food and reveal eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, French toast, waffles, an omelet stuffed with veggies, eggs Benedict, and a platter of muffins and fresh fruit.

  “Wow, you weren’t kidding. Is there anything you didn’t order?” I jest, keeping my eyes on the food when I feel him approach from behind.

  “A few things I couldn’t pronounce.” He laughs. “But I figured out the important stuff.” He reaches around me, brushing against my back, and snags a piece of bacon, then lifts it up to my mouth, and waits for me to open, murmuring in Spanish, “Tocino.”

  Damn him and his naked abs and bacon.

  My lips part and I take a bite before I can think twice about the fact he’s feeding me. When bacon is involved, I can’t be held accountable for my actions.

  Thankfully, I at least have the wherewithal not to moan like a cat in heat as my tongue makes love to the greasy, salty deliciousness. But when he pops the other half in his mouth, I notice he doesn’t practice the same willpower, and the deep, gravelly hum vibrates against my spine, shooting electric pulses directly between my legs.

  Cheeks flaming, I hurriedly scoot away from him, sliding onto a nearby chair, then grab an empty plate and begin piling food onto it—everything but bacon. I may never be able to eat it again. I refuse to look anywhere near him.

  “Thank you for all of this. It looks amazing, but for future reference, I’m not picky either. I usually only have toast and an apple, if that,” I say, as he sits down next to me and places a small pad of hotel stationery, a pen, and his phone atop the white tablecloth.

  “Well, eat up, buttercup, and it better be more than a fucking piece of bread and an apple. I’ll finish off what you don’t.” He shifts his posture to face me, and I nearly choke on the bite of scrambled egg when he scoops my legs up under my knee, hauling my calves and feet onto his lap. “While you eat, I’ll run through what I’m thinking for our stops.”

  I really need to ask him about Annie. I’m no relationship expert, seeing as I have absolutely zero dating experience, but I’m thinking normal friends, or acquaintances, or whatever the hell we are, don’t usually sit like this. But the flutters in my belly hold my words prisoner, and I just shovel more food into my mouth instead.

  He pulls up a map of southern Europe on his phone, situating it between the two of us so I can follow along with his finger. “All right, my original planned stops after Barcelona were Marseille and Monaco on the coast of France, and then up in the mountains in the Dolomites in northern Italy,” he continues talking while rubbing a mindless back-and-forth pattern from my knee to my ankle. A pattern of figure eights that will forever be burned in my skin despite the layer of soft denim separating our skin. “Since we’re here a couple of days early, we can easily add those nights in Florence in the middle, and then I wouldn’t even need to change my last reservation. Did you have anywhere in particular you wanted to stay?”

  I swallow hard, doing my best not to focus on the fiery wake he’s leaving on my calf, and shake my head. “No, like I said, I didn’t have any set plans. I was just gonna find somewhere online the night before… if I decided to go.”

  “Well, now you’re going for sure, so we need to make reservations at a hotel. What do you want to be close to? The wineries? Near a piazza? Museums?”

  Tavian picks up another piece of bacon and holds it up to my mouth again, lightly tapping it against my lips. His actions are a distraction and keep my mood from spiraling downward when I answer, “Arcetri Observatory,” before sinking my teeth into the crispy strip of pork.

  “Done, buttercup,” he remarks while jotting a note down on the paper. “I’ll get us as close as I can.”

  I briefly forget about my aversion to eye contact as I glower over at him, ready to chastise him for using another stupid nickname. But when my gaze lands on his cocky smirk, I realize I’m giving him the exact reaction he wants. He likes teasing me. Making me look at him.

  So I pretend to be unaffected when I meet his amused stare, smile sweetly, and then return my focus back to my half-devoured plate. “Wherever you choose, I’m sure it will be fine, but I want my own room everywhere. And how many days will we be staying at each place? I’m gonna email my boss in a bit and let him know I’m okay and when to expect me back stateside.”

&nb
sp; He switches the phone screen to the calendar app. “Today is Tuesday the 7th. Let’s stay here tonight and tomorrow, and then head out Thursday morning to Marseilles for a couple of nights and Monaco for one. I’ll check and make sure the hotels I’d planned to stay at can accommodate us—with two rooms,” he sniggers, “but if not, I’m sure we can find some place with availability. That will put us in Florence on Sunday the 12th and Monday the 13th.”

  I lean forward and watch as he points to each of the days, sneaking a peek at his sculpted stomach in the process. It’s kind of impossible not to. I may be a twenty-three-year-old virgin, and he may or may not have a girlfriend, but I’m not dead… mostly thanks to him. So that’s even more reason I should appreciate his beautiful physique.

  “We can drive up into the mountains Tuesday, and then I’ll be back on schedule. I currently have three nights booked, with a return flight out of Venice on Friday the 17th. There’s a ton of stuff to do around there.” He prattles on about driving over to Switzerland or Austria, but I’m only half-listening to what he’s saying. I’ll ask him again later, when I’m finished eating… and gawking.

  “Okay, so next Friday the 17th? From Venice?” I ask. “I’ll book a return flight when I get my computer out.”

  His hand stills on my leg, causing me to freeze, a forkful of pancake halfway to my mouth. My eyes shift over to meet his. “I told you this was all on my dime. I’ll book your return flight, just like I’ll pay for the hotels, the meals, the excursions, all of the replacement clothes and luggage, and anything else you or I want while we’re on this trip.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I have money,” I argue, attempting to slide my legs off his lap, but finding resistance with his firm grip.

  “You’re right. I don’t have to do anything,” he growls, “but I want to. And I don’t give a shit if you’re a billionaire or if you live in a box under the Brooklyn Bridge. I asked you to join me on this trip, and I said I was paying for it, so that’s how it’s gonna go, dammit. Don’t be stubborn. All you need to do is enjoy yourself and take a few pictures of me doing crazy-ass shit that will keep Ma up at night each time I take one of these trips for years to come. Can you do that for me?”

  Years to come… Oh my, he doesn’t know.

  My pulse stutters as my heart trips and falls over itself, a newly formed crack appearing in the smooth exterior shield. In less than a day, he’s already managed to break through and accomplish something no one in the last decade has even come close to. I don’t want to think about what he could do to me after a couple of weeks together.

  If I were smart, I’d get on a plane today and go home, far away from Tavian West with his ridiculous good looks, cocky attitude, and intoxicating scent. But apparently, my perfect 4.0 college GPA is indicative of absolutely nothing, because when I open my mouth, I say,

  “I can do whatever you need me to do.”

  LYRA

  07.07.15

  “Are you going to buy any clothes that aren’t black, gray, or brown?” Tavian asks as I drop the armful of shirts, shorts, and pants onto the payment counter at Zara—one of the few stores I recognize from back home, in the shopping mall we found not too far from the hotel.

  As soon as I gobbled down my breakfast earlier then shot off an email to my boss bringing him up to speed, I made a mad dash to the gift shop in the lobby, escaping the heady effects his half-naked body was having on my senses. I grabbed the first touristy T-shirt I could find for him—an obnoxious lime green number with the word Espana scrawled in neon orange across the front, and the country’s flag on the back. What I failed to realize, when I was tittering under my breath about how ridiculous he’d look in it, was that I’d have to be seen with him in the damn thing all day long. And it is most definitely an attention-getter, the colors alone acting like a glowing beacon in a foggy night.

  And sweet Mother of Mary, if he doesn’t somehow make the ugly-ass shirt look good on top of that. The brightly colored fabric stretched tight over his pecs and biceps emphasizes the sculpted goods underneath, like a highlighter marking up the best parts of a great book.

  Snickering, I glance down at the multitude of plastic bags in his hand, stuffed with the small wardrobe he’s already managed to accumulate in the hour we’ve been here. “No,” I retort, “nor am I going to take fashion advice from a guy who just bought a poop emoji T-shirt that says, ‘Shit happens,’ and five pairs of the exact same shorts.”

  The saleslady, who apparently understands English better than she speaks it, muffles a giggle while ringing up my items, and I have to fight my own smile at the thought of the silly graphic T-shirts Tavian has collected from store to store. He explained to me on the drive over that they’re pretty much all he wears, unless he’s forced to wear a jacket and tie for some reason, like to a wedding or funeral. Or work—which I was also shocked to learn was teaching undergrad algebra classes at the University of Pennsylvania while he’s working on his PhD in statistics. He could’ve given me a hundred guesses and I wouldn’t have even gotten in the right field. I know it’s a little judgy of me to assume he was probably a fitness trainer or firefighter or had some other beefy, masculine job based on his physical appearance, but I never had a teacher that looked anything close to him.

  At the last shop we stopped in, he asked me to pick a T-shirt for him—a test, I think, to see if I’d choose another hideous eyesore or if I’d learned my lesson. Immediately, I gravitated toward a navy one with a picture of a planet centered on the front and the words “PLUTO: Never Forget” below it. His eyes lit up with genuine appreciation when I pointed up at the hanger, and I couldn’t help but beam at his approval. My dad would’ve loved the shirt, too.

  Deep breaths, Lyra. You’re stronger than the pain. Live like they would’ve wanted you to. Own your happiness.

  In watching Tavian interact with people at the hotel and now the mall, I’ve figured out he likes to make everyone smile. Always friendly and armed with his own contagious grin, it seems no one is immune to his charm—from the janitor sweeping the floor, to the elderly man who held the door open for us, to the little baby in the stroller that wouldn’t stop crying… until she saw Tavian making a goofy face.

  I live in a place where millions upon millions of people pass each other daily, and rarely do they even bother to look at each other, much less engage with them. It’s the number one reason why I chose to move to New York City after college, a place I could get completely lost in the shuffle. But now, being around Tavian today, I’m finding I want to talk to him. I just don’t know what to say; a conversationalist, I am not.

  “Well, shit does happen.” He chuckles and shrugs. Then he leans down to my ear and pretends to whisper but keeps his voice loud enough for the woman on the other side of the sales counter to hear. “And I saw you checking out my ass in those shorts when I tried them on. I bet you’re hoping I wear a pair every day for the rest of this trip. Aren’t you, buttercup?”

  My cheeks flame with mortification as I drop my chin and shake my head. I did not look at his ass, as much as I may have wanted to, and he’s just baiting me to argue, wanting to rile me up. And even though a small part of me—a new part I’m not quite sure what to do with—wants to indulge him and play along, the practiced part of me that hates attention and dodges human interaction is much stronger. So I clam up and shut him down, saying nothing until the clerk finally feels the need to break the awkward silence.

  “Trescientos cuarenta y ocho Euros, por favor,” she squeaks out, and Tavian, who I can sense staring inquisitively at the side of my hanging head, absentmindedly hands her a credit card from his wallet.

  Thankfully, neither of them tries to engage with me again as they complete the transaction, and she then offers a quick “gracias” before Tavian grabs the bag of clothes and hands it to me. I follow him out of the store, dread building with each step, my gut suddenly knotted tightly. I don’t want to answer his questions. But I don’t want him to stop trying to get me to op
en up either. Gah, I’m a lost cause.

  “I’ll stop with the nicknames if it pisses you off that much,” he grumbles once we’re in the common area of the mall, making our way to the stores we hadn’t yet been inside. “I’m just teasing you, ya know? Trying to help you loosen up. I realize yesterday was fucking awful, but you gotta try not to dwell on it. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea for both of us to talk to a professional counselor when we get back home, but for now, while we’re here, focus on enjoying your new adventure. Think about all the different places you’re gonna get to visit and take pictures of. All of the different cultures you’re gonna experience, all of the new people you’re gonna mee—”

  “Stop!” I cut him off before he can finish the thought, pulling up mid-stride and stomping my foot assertively. “I don’t want to meet new people.”

  Tavian stops and jerks his body around to confront me, his forehead creased with confusion, eyes wide with perplexity. “What do you mean you don’t want to meet new people? That makes no sense, especially from someone who claims their passion is lifestyle photography. That does involve people, right?” he quips.

  “Just because I like to take pictures with people in them doesn’t mean I want to meet them,” I argue. “I find the beauty in the ability to capture a single moment in time, which can never be exactly replicated, and how the memories are frozen forever in one simple photograph. If I got to know my subjects, even a little bit…” My voice trails off as the image of Chloe’s precious little face pops up in my mind. I shudder and squeeze my eyes shut, willing the heartbreaking vision to disappear.

  Tavian waits patiently for me to process the pain, probably correctly assuming I’m reliving a scene from yesterday. But he doesn’t realize my darkness lies much deeper than the last twenty-four hours.

  “Look, I’m not like you,” I explain while slowly prying my lids open and gazing up at his still-puzzled expression. For some reason, the more often I make eye contact with him, the easier it is to look past his numbers. They’re still there if I focus on them, but I’m too busy searching for other things—emotions and unspoken thoughts. “It’s pretty evident you’re a people person. But I’m not. I prefer to keep to myself… just me with my camera, blending in with my surroundings, hopefully going unnoticed. It’s just better that way.”