Written with Love

01 Beginning

Annie

I caught his eyes from across the room, and instantly felt pinned under the weight of his gaze. The urgency I saw there sent a jolt of something sudden and electric down my spine, and just like that, the music quieted. The crushing heat of bodies around me, the press of sticky, suffocating air, faded until it was only me, and him, and his electric eyes. I couldn't make out their color from here, but the dim light cast a series of fascinating shadows across his face and I couldn't help but suddenly understand why everyone compared hot people to marble statues.

Strong jaw, full lips, the quiet intensity of something that had been slowly, intentionally, chiseled to perfection. Something flipped in my stomach as he lifted a red plastic cup to his lips and took a sip, all without breaking our eye contact.

I ran my fingers along the hem of my crushed velvet dress, thankful, for once, that Sasha had insisted I borrow it. When she'd held it up earlier, a sly look on her face, I'd unequivocally refused to even try it on, eyeing the short hemline and blood-red color with trepidation. Now here I was, squaring my shoulders, shivering as the man across the room dropped his gaze to where my hand rested, to a slight triangle of skin exposed at my thigh.

I knew I'd have to say it later. As soon as I saw my roommate, I'd have to tell her she'd been right about the dress, and then put up with her being insufferable about it for weeks. But those thoughts, and the image of my roommate's gloating face, receded to a far corner of my mind as the man pushed to standing, leaning to say something to his friend, and then began to cut toward me through the thick crowd.

My blood roared loud in my ears, like even my heart could tell something was about to happen and it wanted me to be prepared.

I tracked his movement with the corner of my eye as I, too, took a sip of my drink, going through the motion of downing it in one gulp, though more for whatever adrenaline rush was attached to the action than any possible buzz. This one was water anyway. I turned back as he reached me, suddenly very aware of my hair brushing the bareness of my shoulders. And then, when he spoke and I turned to look at him, I was suddenly very aware of the fact that his eyes were, actually, a very dark, startling blue.

"Can I ask you a question?" His voice was low, and I leaned close to hear it over the thrum of the music.

"Shoot." I went to take another sip of my drink, and, obviously, found it empty. He raised a single, slow, eyebrow, and a warm rush of embarrassment rose in my cheeks.

"Do you," he paused, letting intention seep into his tone, "do something to your hair to get it to look like that?"

"What?" I must've misheard him over the music. I leaned closer.

"Your hair." He tilted his head at me, mouth quirking up at the corner. "It's really shiny."

I couldn't help it, I grinned at him.

"That's your question? You could've asked me anything you wanted, and what you picked was 'your hair is shiny?'"

"I can't help it. Your hair is shiny." He didn't know it, but complimenting my hair was exactly the right thing to say. It was dark brown, just-past boob length, and my pride and joy. My child. I probably spent more on conditioner than groceries every month.

"Plus," he added, and I was hit with an almost woodsy, spicy, scent as he leaned in, "that wasn't my only question."

"Oh?"

"Do you..." Another pause. I wondered if he ever practiced in the mirror. "Want to go somewhere a little quieter?"

"You're not going to buy me dinner first?" He just clicked his tongue, teasing, and suddenly I was thinking about his tongue and finding somewhere quieter, and all the things he could do, with that tongue, somewhere quieter. Suffice to say, I was not thinking very clearly.

"What did you think I was asking about? Surely your mind didn't go elsewhere?" I felt his breath on my neck as he spoke, and the awareness of how close we were pooled low in my stomach.

"Somewhere quiet sounds good." He grinned, and my stomach did another unhelpful flip as I realized he had a dimple. One, singular, dimple.

"I know just the place. Come on." He held his hand out, and it closed over mine, warm and reassuring.

Then he started to weave through the crowd, tall and confident, and headed straight for the entrance. I couldn't help it. I followed.