Erasing Faith(18)

Huge mistake.

As it turned out, match number four was horrified to learn of my ignorance concerning the indigenous bird species that had been driven from their habitats due to overcrowding and excessive tourism. He used his five minutes to educate me quite thoroughly on the issue.

By the time date number five arrived, I was thinking things might finally be on the upswing — he was attractive, well-dressed, and I’d seen him engaged in a lively conversation with Margot only minutes before. And yet… he seemed totally disinterested in me from the moment he sat down, glancing at his cellphone every few seconds and casting several unsubtle looks at the girl at the next cocktail table rather than making conversation.

Talk about an ego boost.

Hell, considering the other options, Earl was shaping up to be the most eligible bachelor of the evening.

A surreptitious glance at my watch informed me that there were still three minutes left until the bell rang. I’d spent a hundred and twenty seconds with Earl, and I was ready to jab my eyes out. I didn’t know how much longer I could last.

Thankfully, he was so enamored with himself, he didn’t seem to notice that I was no longer paying attention. My eyes drifted down the bank of the lake and, in the fading twilight, I saw an artist packing up his easel for the day. He’d been sketching the rowers on the water, his canvas streaked with the red-orange hues of sunset. His back was to me — all broad shoulders and defined muscles. He wasn’t huge, like those roid-ragey, neck-less, body-builder types who were always grunting at the gym, but there was something in the way he held himself, even from this distance, that spoke of tightly coiled power, of lithe energy and a deceptive amount of control.

I should’ve recognized him, but I didn’t.

He turned slowly, as though he felt the weight of my eyes on him. When his face lifted and I realized it was him, my stranger, I nearly had a heart attack right there at the cocktail table.

His eyes locked onto mine. Hands frozen midair, canvas hovering half-stored inside his portable easel, he stared across the expanse between us. Our eyes held for five unblinking seconds, and I felt a slow, disbelieving smile spread across my lips. My mind blanked except for one word.

Fate.

I should’ve been embarrassed to be caught staring. I should’ve looked away, as this fleeting glance between strangers had stretched on for too long. But I couldn’t.

“Hey, you still with me?” Earl’s voice invaded the moment and my eyes flew back to his face.

“Yeah, sorry,” I said, my heart thundering in my chest. “Spaced out for a minute there. What were you saying?”

“I was telling you about snowboarding at my dad’s chalet in Switzerland.”

“Oh, right,” I murmured. “Carry on.”

Happily back on track, Earl launched once more into his monologue of self-congratulation, and I let my impatient eyes fly back to the lakeshore. But there was no easel on the bank. No brushes scattered on the ground. And no handsome artist, painting my night a little brighter with his mere presence.

Maybe he hadn’t been there at all.

Maybe I was imagining him again, like I had in the club the other night.

I sighed and turned back to Earl, my chin resting in my palm as I counted down the seconds until the next bell.





Chapter Ten: WESTON


A WATERY GRAVE



I picked this spot on purpose.

I knew she’d be here. Just like I’d known she’d be at the club the other night, and at the café last week. I was fully aware that if I sat here long enough, she’d grow so bored with whatever moron was currently chatting her ear off, she’d let her gaze wander down to meet mine.

Just because I was prepared for it, didn’t make it any easier, though.

When you jump into a really cold body of water, there’s a moment when the breath is stolen from your lungs, when the icy waves close over your head like a liquid tomb. It’s bone-chilling. It hits you like a kick to the stomach. Like knives piercing your skin. You choke in a lungful of ocean, push your way to the surface, and assure yourself that you’ll adjust. That the shock will wear off and, eventually, your body will go numb enough that you don’t feel the frigid water lapping at every inch of you.

Every time my eyes locked on Faith Morrissey’s, it was like jumping into the f*cking Arctic Sea: instant shock to the system.

Except it didn’t go away.

There was no adjusting to her. No way to numb her effect or ignore her influence on my body.

It wasn’t pleasant — drowning never was. I hated her for it. I fought against her hold on me, but I couldn’t shake her. I couldn’t prevent her effect any more than a drowning man could resist gasping for one last mouthful of air when he was 10,000 leagues underwater. Though it promised certain death, that final, fatal gasp for air was unavoidable.

I was drowning in the ocean that was Faith Morrissey.

***

I let her spot me on the bank, but only for a moment.

Just long enough to peak her interest further. She was a little more skittish than most of my targets — I wanted to make sure she was truly on the line before I set my hook and reeled her in.

Hidden from view in the shadows, I watched her for another minute. Her chin was planted in one palm and her eyes glazed over as her sixth match of the night talked on.

What a prick. He was more interested in regaling her with his life story than he was in getting to know her. She could’ve been anyone — he didn’t care, so long as she had ears and was forced to listen to him talk for five, uninterrupted minutes. I knew his type. The melody of his own voice was his favorite sound in the world.