Shield & Shade: Ascended Guardians, #1

Books in The Blood Dagger Trilogy:

Volume One: The Outcasts

Volume Two: The Watchers

Volume Three: Tree of Souls

Dedication

For the dreamers. The survivors. The brave souls fighting their own personal battles. You are not alone.

1

ZOEY

I’d gotten lost when I was five years old. Just up and wandered out of our unlocked house during the night. A mistake my parents still blamed themselves for. But our household was a full one, and it could have been any of my older siblings who’d left the door open and unlocked.

A mistake that haunted our family, even to this day—ten years later.

There was a patch of wooded area within a mile of my house—not enough acreage to call it a forest but big enough to call it home to coyotes, the occasional bobcat, deer, and snakes. And it was where I’d ended up. I shuddered, thinking about a five-year-old drifting through the woods alone at night.

No wonder I had nightmares.

Those few days were a massive blank in my life. My lost time. I didn’t remember anything except for the frightening visions that assaulted me in the middle of the night.

Nighttime. The time when my bad dreams rose up, unwanted and unbidden, like stomach acid in the throat, to assault me. My heart would burn. My lungs would clog. And my mind would race. It happened often. Even when falling asleep with the light on. I’d tried sleep aids, playing white noise in the background, and deep breathing, falling asleep with earbuds in, listening to music, but nothing ever stopped the dark visions from creeping back in.

They were always the same: I was trapped in a dark, cramped space, terrified and blind. I couldn’t breathe. The air was too thin. There would be a flash of red, like fur, or hair, or blood … and then sharp, feral teeth snapping—a wild animal attacking me—eyes flashing with eyeshine, and I’d wake up panting and sweating, my own blankets smothering me, holding me hostage.

Tonight was no different.

I woke, sitting up ramrod straight in bed, with a cold hand pressed to my forehead.

Shh, shh, shh, Zo. I’m here. It was only a bad dream. You’re okay.

I blinked, my vision sliding in and out of focus, gulping in a lungful of air, willing myself to fully wake up out of the foggy haze, the last of the flashes passing across the backs of my eyelids. Dark eyes. Red hair. Sharp teeth.

You were screaming again.

My mother. She was sitting next to me.

You’re awake, Zo.

I could see her worried and strained face in the soft golden glow coming from my bedside table lamp. The creases around her eyes had deepened. She looked so much older and more fragile, and for a second, I felt bad that I’d woken her up. And then her smile returned, and she was sitting back, her facial features softening. It was one of the only times I’d ever let her comfort me—when I was half out of my mind from the lingering aftereffects of a vivid nightmare.

I was fifteen, too old for being coddled or tucked into bed, and yet I was still terrified of being left alone—to be sucked back into those chilling nightmares all over again. Taken. Drifting into the scary black void, feeling helpless and afraid.

How bad was it this time? my mom asked. Her voice was soft and low. You need anything?

I shook my head as I raked a hand through my hair, sweeping it off my damp forehead. I’m okay. Thanks.

I felt the full weight of her concerned gaze on me. Do you want to talk about it? Was it the same nightmare?

When she tried to slip her hand into mine, I pulled away, feigning an apologetic grimace. I just wanted to go to sleep. I wanted to forget about the debilitating fear and solitude. I didn’t want her to psychoanalyze me. I didn’t want anything from her. This was her fault.

I thought I saw a flash of hurt cross her face as I tried to explain. It’s just late. I’m going to try and get some sleep. It’s nothing new … the same thing over and over again. A strange creature and a flash of red hair, like fur … I’ll be fine. Now that I’m awake, I know … it’s silly … it’s nothing.

Those words sounded hollow in my own ears.

She didn’t quite look convinced, and I could tell she wasn’t going to drop it. After a second, she cast her eyes down and pressed her lips into two thin lines, seemingly thinking. If you do ever want to talk about it … about that night—

I’m good. I let out an angry breath of air. That was all we’d ever done: talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. And with that, I rolled over and left her sitting on the side of my bed.

2

ALASTAIR

On most days, Alastair Iszler found the forest an extremely calming place. Peaceful. Serene. Perfect. The birds above him would normally be chittering to one another as he sprinted by, out on his morning run. The squirrels would already have been winding their way around tree limbs, acorns pelting down from above.

Today, though, the woods felt ominous. Too quiet. There were no animals, or insects, or even wind. A heavy fog clung to everything. A warped fairy tale. The entire land placed in a deep sleep—like an enchantment. Every living thing affected by it but him. This odd feeling was what gave Alastair pause. He couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of him in any direction. It was eerie, and the sun hadn’t yet started to rise to burn the fog away.

As soon as he’d raced to the crest of a steep hill, he halted, winded and perturbed, a nagging feeling hitting him right in the pit of his stomach. Foreboding. Something was wrong. Trail running was usually meditation for his soul. Not this morning.

A niggling intuition at the back of his mind told him to be on guard. There was still a little over ten kilometers left to go on this route, but now he was only thinking about turning around and going home. The top of his scalp prickled—a feeling he got when he was being watched.

Alastair had learned to listen to his intuition after over a hundred and fifty years’ worth of fighting experience. He used to be a preternatural creature—a vampire—and he possessed over twenty different black belts in various martial arts to prove this skill.

Alastair had a PhD in heightened awareness.

He took in a few deep breaths, the smell of pine and earth strong in his nostrils, and something else: Sulfur.

Alastair had been around enough weird in his life to recognize that portentous feeling immediately.

Someone could spin him around blindfolded, and he’d still be able to find his way back home unassisted. After all, he’d been hiking, and running these woods for the better part of seven years. His cabin—well, technically, the cabin belonging to his wife, Larna Iszler—sat just five kilometers to the east of where he’d stopped. It was nestled in woodland, bordering northeast London.

The forest could be a peculiar place as well as a tranquil one. Nature was fickle. If you weren’t cautious around her, she could wipe you off the face of the planet in one fell swoop.

The mist thickened unnaturally before his very eyes, and his skin prickled again. Someone was definitely out there, watching him.

Things had been much simpler since he no longer retained the mantle of vampire, which was fine by him. Alastair’s life was perfect without any world-ending crisis or supernatural bad guy to worry about.

Like Gabriel Stanton.

It had been ten years since the battle at the Tree of Souls—an epic, world-ending war between angels and vampires. It was a miracle he’d survived, and that was only because of his best friend and half human, half angel: Corinth Taylor. Nephilim. Elite warrior. The Watchers, a team of angels and guardians who took care of anything preternatural or demonic that popped up on their radar.

Alastair was retired. For him, there were no more threats. No more bad guys to worry about. No supernatural battles to fight. Except that wasn’t true. Not at all. He just didn’t deal with it now.

He’d gone about his life, occasionally hearing stories about Corinth, Leo, and the rest of the Watchers over the years. Even Corinth had a day job—telecommuting professor for a college in Texas, so he could stay close to his family but also pick up and travel whenever he needed to, which, technically, was the best cover to have for a part-time superhero gig.

Larna Iszler, formerly Collins, had graduated medical school, and shortly after that, she’d gotten married—to the luckiest man in the world: him. She was now a well-respected doctor in London. But she was on leave back home in Fort Worth, Texas, visiting her mother and family for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. He missed her already.

Alastair had been trying to open his own deli and bakery in central London, and there had been a lot of unexpected holdups and red tape, which had delayed him from joining his wife right away. Actually, she was probably still sound asleep, he mused. The difference in time was six hours. While it was 6:00 a.m. in London, it was 12:00 a.m. in Texas.

He regretted leaving the warmth of his bed, and not being with his wife right at this very moment. She usually joined him on his early morning runs. They’d just celebrated their seventh wedding anniversary in Italy a few weeks ago. The topic of having kids had come up on more than one occasion.

A branch broke close by, pulling Alastair fully out of his reverie, and an icy sensation settled between his shoulder blades.

He jerked his head around, scanning the area, suddenly alert. It didn’t help that he couldn’t see anything past the dense haze, which had started to feel more and more like a swampy bog than England.

Alastair knew he had felt something peculiar: a tug of sixth sense. His heartbeat quickened as he listened to his surroundings.

A resounding crack sent some crows flying from their roosts overhead—he couldn’t see them, but he could hear the beating of wings as they fled, their caws loud. It wasn’t out of the norm to hear these kinds of things in the woods. Dry, brittle branches broke all the time—whether it was caused by the wind or wildlife or just the passing of time. Except this felt different.

He knew the sound of someone trying to conceal their own footsteps—and someone trying not to. The hairs at the nape of his neck stood up as stiff as wires.

Cold air hit the back of his neck—an instinct told him to run.

Alastair pretended to check his heart rate monitor on his smart watch as he took in his surroundings. All he had to do was press one little button, and Corinth Taylor would show up instantly. The Nephilim could travel through lightning.

A teleporting skill Alastair wished he now possessed.

But he didn’t want to cry wolf too early. He hadn’t needed to call for backup in years. And the first sign of something paranormal wasn’t going to change that fact. Besides, he could wait until the lurker revealed themselves to him at the very least—that way, he would know what he was dealing with.

Alastair still kept in close contact with Corinth, and he knew there hadn’t been much activity of late, or if there was, Corinth hadn’t shared it with him.

Oh well, time to check in anyway, he decided.

As Alastair started to press the emergency signal to alert Corinth and transmit his location, a deep boom broke through the quietude, sounding a lot like a cross between a gunshot and a cannon being fired. More startled birds flew from the roosts above him, squawking madly as they went.

Something whizzed past his head, sharp and biting, and the next thing he knew, his ears were ringing and he was rolling down the wrong side of the hill he’d just sprinted up—the side where there was no path, only trees and a short drop-off to another path below that, like a switchback. Dirt and dust billowed out behind Alastair as adrenaline tore through his veins, sharpening his focus. Several branches poked and scratched his face and neck. Bits of sharp rock impaled him. He clawed wildly at the dry leaves, trying to find purchase, and on his slide, about halfway down the slope, a rope coiled around his wrist, and a hot, agonizing pain tore up his arm at the same time as he was jerked to an abrupt stop. Fire lanced through him like a lightning bolt, shocking his system into submission; air left his lungs in a violent, ragged gasp.

He couldn’t see his attacker, only knew that they were standing above him at the top of the incline he’d just fallen down.

Alastair craned his neck to see something coiled around his wrist—the same wrist his watch was attached to. He caught a glimpse of brown braided leather.

No, not a rope. A whip.

Alastair let out a gurgled cry as he reached for the tiny red dot flashing on his watch like a beacon—

The deep crack came again, sounding a lot more ominous this time.

In the next instant, the cord uncoiled and tore the watch clean off his arm, and his last chance at calling for aid went soaring through the air, out of sight. And because the whip was no longer holding him in place, he finished plummeting down the hill backward, hitting rocky outcroppings and prickly brush on his way down, until his breath was knocked free of his lungs as he finally landed flat on his back with brutal force. Pain exploded through his body, immobilizing him.

Vaguely Alastair was aware that someone was coming. There was movement off to his left, a sleek shadow darting toward him, but he could do nothing but wait for it to greet him.

Can’t have you calling for help, now, can we?

The voice sounded raspy and deep and odd, as if from disuse.

Move, Alastair. Move your ass.

Out of the heavy fog strode a shadowy figure, a sharp outline of a body—as lithe and ethereal as a half-erased pencil sketch. Alastair blinked a few times, his senses scattered, trying to figure out what he was looking at right as his attacker hauled back on the whip again—

Knowing he only had a fraction of a second to react, Alastair flipped himself back to his feet and lunged into the shadow thing, barreling into a half-solid body. A surprised grunt came from the creature, as if it hadn’t expected Alastair to be so bold.

The smoke spiraled up and around the shadow thing as it took on a more humanoid form. A strong smell of rotten eggs burned his nostrils.

And then the thing materialized fully, taking on the shape of a man—at least, Alastair thought it looked like a man. It was bald, and had unnaturally polished onyx skin, and those eyes … Alastair shuddered. They were ink black, like obsidian marbles. No white in them whatsoever. Thick silvery veins snaked up its arms and the sides of its neck, looking a lot like liquid mercury.

Alastair had never seen a creature like this before.

He struck out several times in rapid succession, hitting the shadow thing in its abdomen, chest, and torso, and in the same fluid movement, he twisted around and attempted to land a roundhouse—except his foot connected with nothing, only smoke as it sailed right through the thing and he lost his footing.

The creature, seeing an opening, rematerialized in front of Alastair, jerked its head back, and headbutted him across the bridge of his nose. Blood burst across Alastair’s vision, blinding him and pouring down his throat.

Alastair flew backward, rolling across a carpet of dead leaves and grime before fetching up against the side of a giant oak, stars shooting across his vision. Dirt and leaves ground into his back as he tried to move. Dammit, he’d gotten slow. And that thing was inhumanly strong.

For a long-drawn-out moment, he couldn’t see or hear; he only felt the thudding of his blood slamming through his veins. Alastair swiped a hand down his face, trying to clear the salt out of his eyes. It stung.

Alastair Iszler … you can’t fight us.

Us?

Alastair was brutally aware of the brown braided whip wrapped up in the shadow thing’s grip. The notches and plaits were interlaced with worn leather. Aged, cracked leather. He studied the weapon like someone might study a guillotine in startling detail right before being beheaded.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

Alastair stumbled to a knee, a hand going to his head as the oppressive fog turned into something dark and sinister, filling the forest, wrapping around his chest, almost choking him. It looked like night had suddenly fallen in the span of mere moments. There came a chill in the air, and his sweat crystallized on his skin. Now Alastair’s tremor was caused by something else entirely: fear.

The thick, black smoke seemed to have a mind of its own as it formed a wide circle around him, solidifying—and evolving into a … Holy hell.

A darkly clad army.

Where was his watch? He cast a furtive gaze around, licking his dry lips, assessing.

The creatures all looked alike. Like the monster standing in front of him. Same liquid metal marks in place of veins, tracking lines up and down their arms and necks. Same bald heads and ink-black skin—disturbingly ugly.

And one horrifying word popped into Alastair’s head: Demons.

3

ZOEY

Mondays sucked. Especially when you were a freshman in high school and you were taking Advanced Placement courses for college already. And you’d spent your entire weekend studying.

I had a study hangover, which was as unpleasant as it sounded. I’d already taken one placement test in May. I scored a three out of five in AP English Literature and Composition. A three was passing. A five was the best you could get. A three is not good enough. My plan was to take the AP World History test next year. It was not my best subject, which was why I had to study. And study some more. Blech.

It was T-minus three days until Thanksgiving break.

Most kids my age liked breaks. I couldn’t stand them. Maybe it was because I couldn’t concentrate at home. My brothers, Pete and Jimmy, never let me study in peace. They were a whirlwind of chaos and sound and burps and immature jokes and … just boys. There was never a time when they sat still—even in sleep.

This break would be especially bad, since my oldest brother, Corinth, would be back from his vacation for the holiday, and they all liked to gang up on me, especially him. He traveled quite frequently. Being a professor—online—gave him the freedom to pick up and go whenever he wanted. Lucky.

I turned the page on my microeconomics book and yawned. Graphs and charts and data—oh my. I couldn’t see straight. My eyes glazed over for a second. With my back wedged up against a tree, I found that the bark had started to dig painfully into one of my shoulder blades. This was my usual spot in the lunch courtyard at Grover Heights in Fort Worth, Texas.

My parents had wanted me to stay in private school, but I had begged them to let me go to GH instead. All my brothers had gone the private school route, but I felt the need to branch out on my own. It was not exactly easy growing up in a household full of older siblings.

I felt a slight tug on the braid at my back and smiled. It came again, more insistent this time.

Trevor, I said without turning around. To what do I owe this well-timed interruption?

When he didn’t answer, I twisted around to see creamy skin, auburn hair, and wide, wide chocolaty eyes staring back at me from behind square-rimmed glasses. Gosh, he was startlingly breathtaking. Almost to the point that it hurt to look at him. He was the kind of hot where I knew he was so out of my league that I didn’t even consider dating him. Not once. Okay, maybe once. But that was what had solidified our friendship, why we were so close. He knew I didn’t care. We both knew we were destined to be best friends and nothing more. I was far too busy for boys, anyway.

Trevor gave me a dazzling smile and then bounded around the other side of the tree I was leaning against. He flopped lazily onto his stomach on the grass in front of me, resting his chin in his hands, his mouth shaped into a perfect bow as he gazed up at me.

A dark lock of his hair fell into his right eye, under his glasses. He had this childlike wonder on his face, like he always did. There was something so arresting about that grin, and those angular cheekbones. The guy was popular. I was not. Well, I guessed I was somewhere in the middle. He was the kind of person who got along with everyone. And he flirted with everyone too. It didn’t matter who you were—boy or girl. People liked him.

I thought you were taking a break from studying. He smoothed his floppy hair back into its usual sideswept style and tilted his head to the side, giving me a hard glare. Why do I always have to be the voice of reason? It’s really quite annoying. You know how I hate reason. Look at this gorgeous day. He gestured around us. Wasting away while you’re under a tree … ignoring it.

"You mean, ignoring you," I corrected.

Exactly.

I slammed my heavy textbook closed and sighed. Enough was enough. What do you have in mind?

For starters, ditch class at the end of the day—computer science—it’s super easy to do, he explained, as if I had never had this conversation with him before.

"You know I can’t skip. I have way too much going on. Besides, my brother is back in town after being gone for months, and when I get home, there will be no time to study. He’ll annoy me and make me hang out with him. He is so not cool. And I’d much rather hang out with you."

Trevor sat up, crossing his legs underneath him on the dry, prickly grass. He picked at it, giving me another look from under those glasses. A devilish look that made my heart flutter. Stop it, heart.

"Your brother Cory is in town? He’s … uh, a strange one. Remember that time at your place, the night of that big storm? He had just walked into the dining room, and then there was a commotion—thunder shook your house and lightning struck—and he was just … gone. Poof. He waved his hands in the air for dramatic effect. I ran in there, and, like, he’d just vanished into thin air—right along with the storm. I swear he’s a sorcerer or something."

Don’t let him hear you call him Cory, I said, ignoring his theatrics. "And you never saw him walk into the dining room. He didn’t vanish into thin air. Besides, I don’t see your fascination with him, anyway. He teaches physics at Westchester College. His idea of fun is trivia night at the local coffee shop."

He threw his hands in the air. What about the weird electrical storm?

I shrugged. We live in Texas; the weather changes on a dime.

My brother did have his secrets though. I still had this vague memory of Cor coming home ten years ago with a half brother, Leo, in tow. I mean, what was that about? None of us had ever known about a half brother. Family drama 101. I had only been five years old at the time, but I’d still noticed the marked difference in his appearance after he’d been gone for eight months.

Corinth had been skinny and lanky when he’d left, and when he’d come back, he’d had muscles in places I didn’t even think you could have muscles. London had transformed him. He had calluses on his hands and somehow he knew martial arts. He’d claimed it was by taking CrossFit or something. He was a gamer and a geek and a softy at heart, and I had never known him, pre-London, to want to work out or be athletic in his entire life. Ever. People changed when they got older, I guessed.

And he’d had this strange sort of glint in his eyes when he’d gotten back from his trip. Not quite sad, but not quite happy either.

My guess was that he’d gone after his high school sweetheart, Larna, in England and she’d rejected him—big time. That kind of loss could mess with your head—I mean, I wouldn’t know from personal experience, but still. Larna, his best friend and love of his life, had come back from England with a boyfriend in tow, Alastair Iszler, leaving Corinth behind in the dust. And she’d transformed herself too.

Talk about muscles. Goddess goals.

Then she’d crushed my brother’s heart into a million tiny pieces—with those muscles, probably. I still thought Corinth and Larna should have gotten together. But she’d married Alastair Iszler instead. Dreamy Alastair. Good-looking Alastair. Okay, I didn’t blame her there.

Your entire family is strange, Trevor pointed out, interrupting my rampant thoughts as if he’d read my mind. He took his glasses off. When he pulled his shirt up to clean them, I caught a flash of golden, tanned skin and flat stomach. I love them. Please tell me I can come over tonight and hang out. Are they all going to be there? He stared at me with wide eyes, and with his glasses off, his irises looked like pools of dark liquid. He threw his glasses back on again, and I could see a hint of light-brown flecks swimming in his eyes.

I rubbed a spot at the center of my forehead. You only like my family because it’s like watching a train wreck. You can’t look away. There’s always drama on Thanksgiving.

Exactly. Free reality TV. He shrugged in concession. It’s not my fault my parents are always out of town on business. Your family is blissfully hectic. There’s something that makes me want to stick around and watch all of it in action.

I waved a hand toward a cadre of girls across the courtyard who were all ogling Trevor, casting furtive gazes in his direction and giggling. His skin was clear; he was athletic; he knew how to dress; and he had a confident way about him that was magnetic. He was comfortable in his own skin, which was, like, ninety percent different from the rest of us poor saps still trying to figure it out.

He was definitely an anomaly at this school.

It was not known for its amazing football team, or good-looking people, or its wealth. Trevor’s parents were rich. Mansion rich. And they’d enrolled him in just about every extracurricular activity out there: karate, gymnastics, Latin, and drama club. He’d quit every single one of them, some after only trying them out for a few days. That was his one and only downfall: he just couldn’t seem to finish anything he started. Not that I didn’t like Trevor, but he was the kind of guy who would never settle down, always looking for the next big thing. I didn’t expect us to get together, ever. Heck, I didn’t even know what settle down really meant. I was not his type, anyway, and he wasn’t mine. He was outgoing, energetic, and I was the exact opposite: bony, introverted, and shy.

We’d met last year at the local library. He’d tripped over me. I’d been sprawled out on the floor by a shelf in a back section of no-man’s-land, near the encyclopedias, sound asleep. The lights had been not quite dark, but right on the verge of dimming out altogether. The temperature had been perfect. I’d passed out while studying. Most days, I was invisible.

On that day, I was especially invisible—because he tripped over me and twisted his ankle. I ran away, horrified, without making sure he was okay.

As I said, introvert.

To make matters worse, he tracked me down at the end of school one day, pretend limping. Surprisingly, he was checking to make sure I was okay and not the other way around, which I thought was kind of sweet. He was glad he’d had the excuse not to go to karate practice.

Your life is perfect, I said, smiling at the distant memory of how we’d met for the first time. Everyone loves you, and I wish my parents would leave me alone, by the way.

Trevor laughed softly and pointed at the pile of books by my right leg. You could have just as many friends. He snapped his fingers as if he were trying to remember something. What about the guy who works at Sweets and Stuff? What’s his name? His crush on you is so big I’m pretty sure he’s already bought a ring to pop the question—

Cruz! I cried, my face reddening all of a sudden. The guy with the scars? He smells like cooking grease and stale french fries. I screwed my face up in disgust.

"Zo, he crooned. I realize it’s hard to get out of that shell of yours, but it might be good for you to put down a book once in a while and meet new people."

You sound like my mom, I said, half-annoyed with him, except I liked the way my shortened name sounded on his lips, like a soft caress upon my skin. My cheeks started to flush even more, so I glanced away, brushing at a stray piece of hair that had escaped from my braid. I flipped it back over my shoulder. We might not be meant for each other, but he was still really hot. And it wasn’t against the law to admire him.

My lifted mood didn’t last long. I kept thinking about the fact that he was the one who didn’t ask me out. Would I say yes? My eyes raked over those dark eyes and light lashes hidden behind his glasses, and I thought, Maybe. Maybe I would. No, Zo. No you wouldn’t. I admonished myself in the same thought. Too hot is a thing.

The bell rang one shrill toll, ending our conversation and our lunch period at the same time. I started picking up my things, scattered across the lawn, tossing books into my backpack as Trevor said, So, I’ll see you tonight at Sweets and Stuff—at around six?

I let out a quick huff before nodding, unable to say no to that face. Yeah, I’ll see you then.

***

Sweets and Stuff smelled like vanilla and waffles and baked sugar. Three of my favorite things. They were well known for their freshly made waffle cones. The birthday cake ice cream tasted like heaven. Not to mention, the burgers and fries were out of this world. The inside of the place was set up to look like a 1950s shake shop. Checkered black-and-white linoleum floors, mint-green countertops, and red stools lining the front counters.

I had decided to get there early to wait on Trevor—and study.

I grabbed one of the last corner booths available and unloaded my backpack.

Thoroughly entranced by the law of demand, and enjoying a vanilla milkshake, I almost jumped clean out of my skin when someone cleared their throat beside me.

I glanced up to see Cruz holding a tray full of food. A golden crinkle-cut fry hung precariously off the edge of the tray. As always, my eyes found their way to his hands. There were a bunch of white half-moon scars scattered across the backs of his fingers and knuckles. I wondered how he’d gotten them. My imagination kept coming up with wild, unbelievable scenarios, like he was a lion tamer or a snake charmer.

He was wearing his usual uniform attire: an off-white apron, stained with grease and ketchup—and who knew what else—a purple T-shirt, khaki pants, and cream-colored tennis shoes with purple laces. I could see the collar of a white tee underneath and a glint of gold at his neckline, a chain he’d shoved under his work shirt. He had caramel-colored skin and a crown of dark curls hidden beneath a purple baseball cap. Considering he seemed like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, I assumed he did not like his work attire.

He tugged at his collar in annoyance with his free hand. Hi, Zoey. I brought you some … uh, food. He gestured at the table, full of my textbooks, papers, and notebooks, and flashed me a small, shy smile. If you have room, that is.

Oh, I didn’t order that, I said with an apologetic grin. Sorry.

It’s on the house, he whispered, glancing around. Just don’t tell my boss.

I shoved my books aside so he could slide the tray across the table. Free food? I said, smiling. Your secret is safe with me. Thank you so much … You must have heard my stomach growling from all the way across the restaurant— He leaned across me, effectively shutting me up. A strong whiff of fried food, hair gel, and something like cloves or mint hit me. But you didn’t have to do that. I have dinner with my folks tonight. They’re probably already waiting on me … I let my voice trail off as soon as I saw the look of disappointment cross his face. This looks way better though, I finished awkwardly, plucking a stray pickle off the tray and popping it into my mouth.

You must be studying for something important, he said, tipping his head at my books. I see you in here a lot … with that guy with the black-rimmed glasses … your boyfriend.

My eyes caught his briefly. They were chestnut brown, almost bronze in the afternoon light that glinted in from the set of wide windows behind me. I’d never noticed his eyes before.

A flush of heat