Page 9 of Threads That Bind Us

Gesù Cristo, I’m distracted. Even in this busy bar, I should be able to sense someone approaching me from behind. I recenter myself, concentrating on the way the air feels against my skin, and the energy of the room pulsing against me, before slipping the book back into my pocket.

“I’m expanding my taste in literature.” I reach for a champagne flute among the clean glasses at the back of the bar and hold it up to my friend. “Teach me how to make a French 75?”

His shit-eating grin has a wattage that could light up the fucking Washington Monument.

“Reading her books and making her favorite drink? Just propose, why don’t you?” he jabs, grabbing the glass and pullingingredients. Without giving me time to react, he recites instructions as he pours and shakes. When the drink is done, he places the flute in my hand, turns my shoulder, and smacks my ass to get me moving toward her.

She’s facing the bar again when I reach her, but refuses to look at me. Which is fine. I place the drink on the napkin in front of her and wait to release it until she drags her eyes from my hand and finds my eyes.

I lied—it’s not fine. I would prefer it if she didn’t stop looking at me for the rest of the night. Maybe longer. Definitely longer.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, ducking her head to hide a small smile. I think she’s grateful, if not a little embarrassed, and I find some kind of strange pride in the fact that I navigated her correctly.

She’s contemplative as she drinks this time. The anger she had while writing in her book and the humor she had while chastising me are both absent. Her eyes are dull, glazed over, and lined with repressed tears. My instincts—the same ones that tell me when crosshairs are aimed at me and when a friendly face has become a foe—warn me to push, but gently.

“How’d you hear about Catalina’s?” I ask, finding safe ground to get her talking. She looks a little surprised by the question, but a tiny grin pulls at the corners of her mouth.

“Actually, Catalina’s found me,” she answers, propping her chin on her hand and taking a long drink. Being a gentleman and not a fucking creep, I look away as she darts her tongue out over her bottom lip. “I was wandering around, trying to find a distraction, and the glorious choir of drunk college kids answered my prayers.”

I can’t believe I’m about to give thanks forDollar Shots for Seniors Night. Sammy instituted the tradition of once-a-semester nights to, quote,reward those idiots for making itthrough another term without quitting. Never mind that the dates, in February and October, make absolutely no sense relative to the local universities' calendars. I’m about to sponsor a special summer session.

Because this can’t be a coincidence. Twice now fate has brought me to her, and I’m determined to find out why.

I’m drawn to her, and it’s not just because she’s gorgeous, though I’m not fucking blind. Smooth, long hair, like burnished metal. Full, dark lips tilted into a reluctant smile. Earth-brown eyes that I was so desperate to see. She reminds me of what I imagine sirens would look like. Seductive, alluring, and deadly.

“Well then, I’m glad the esteemed young men of Sigma Alpha Epsilon could help you find your way.” I reach across the bar and hold my hand out to her. “It’s wonderful to meet you…” I trail off, nearly calling her Baby Red, like Sammy did.

“Gwen,” she responds, placing her hand in mine.

“Short for anything?” I ask. It’s a simple question, but her face lights up as she nods.

“Actually, yes, it’s short for Guinevere,” she says, resting her chin back in her hand. “My mom had a weird Arthurian thing, so I’m Guinevere and my little sister is Morgana.” Her expression shudders a little, and I think back to the book.Ana lives.

“Doesn’t Morgana murder Guinevere?” That brings her smile back.

“Details, details, bartender man. Your turn.” Her voice is still a little slurred around the edges, but it feels like an equal mix of alcohol and entertainment.

“Charlie,” I reply, pushing myself forward against the bar as Sammy comes sprinting toward me, only to grab a bottle of grenadine, wink at me, and run back to the other end. Sammy seems to usher patrons toward him at the other end of the bar, keeping them far from me and Gwen. Meddlesome little fuck, I missed him.

“Short for anything?” When I glance back at Gwen, she’s got a grin on her face almost as genuine as when she was laughing with Sammy. She thinks she’s teasing me, and although I rarely give the information out freely, I want to upend her expectations of Charles.

“Actually, yes, it’s short for Carlo.” Spinning her words back at her feels intimate in a way that makes my skin flush. That pretty mouth pops open a little.

“I actually think that’s long for Carlo, not short, but nice to meet you, Charlie.”

Before I can say anything, she glances at her bag and then hauls it into her lap. An excavation that would rival archaeological digs occurs in front of me as she scrambles through her belongings and finally pulls out her phone. Her brow furrows as she swipes across the screen, taps away, and then places the phone with the screen face up on the bartop.

I’m not even going to pretend I don’t want to pry.

“Everything okay?” I ask. Gwen runs her fingers through her hair and then shakes it out before tapping the screen of her phone to life, and then immediately clicking it off again.

“Yeah, just my sister, Ana.” She glances up at me and back at her phone. “Morgana. She’s at a sleepover at a friend’s and is almost out of antibiotics.”

Her face flashes like she’s caught herself saying something she shouldn’t.

“She okay?” I ask.

Gwen’s phone lights up, and she swipes at it quickly, cracking a smile at the screen that loosens the weird feeling in my chest.