Page 3 of The Devil’s Feather
Fuck. That was dangerous. He could retire in luxury just from growling, “Good girl,” repeatedly into a microphone.
My brain tripped over the timbre of his voice, lagging in processing the actual words. “You read romance?”
“Do not look so shocked. I read everything. Jacqueline Carey gave me an appreciation for the smutty side of fantasy some twenty years ago. Among others.”
Was it too soon to ask a complete stranger to marry me? I clasped my hands together over my chest in an overdone display of glee. Hopefully it hid the rabbity heartbeat kicking at my sternum.
Rafael’s eyes glittered with secret mischief. Something told me he was thinking of much, much more depraved writing. Popular dark romances, maybe, or something like Anne Rice’s infamous “Sleeping Beauty” books. Possibly the Marquis de Sade…
“Sir, please. There are children present. You can’t just say things like that and expect an author not to swoon.” I laughed to soften the joke. “Seriously, Carey is a major inspiration.”
“Excellent.” His mouth curled into a closed grin. “I will pay for these, then we can trade.” He hesitated, and something vulnerable flashed across his face, so quickly I might have imagined it. “May I also buy you a coffee? There is a very good café a few blocks up the street if you do not mind walking. Telve, it is called.”
I opened and closed my mouth like a fish. “Well, I never say no to coffee.” Smooth.
The corners of Rafael’s eyes crinkled with pleasure. Fuck me, why was that so attractive?
He snagged another copy of the record, and I floated after him in a daze. That gorgeous hair fell just past his mid-back. Loose, it might even reach his waist. Hell, on me it would probably reach my ankles. Renaissance hair, for sure. My hands itched to touch it. I dug my fingernails safely into my palms again.
Rafael paused to greet the store’s resident tabby. To my surprise, the normally antisocial cat head-butted his hand and he gave it a chin scratch. My attraction increased tenfold.
Two booksellers batted their eyelashes at him—not that I blamed them—and ushered him to a register, jumping the short line. One customer, a woman styled like a suburban mom, glared at him and muttered something. Rafael turned his raptorial glare on her, and she quailed. Woof, I would not want that look spearing me. He had to know how intimidating he was.
And I’d just blithely agreed to skip off to a second location with a gigantic stranger. If I lived, Deandra was going to kill me. Hopefully, Rafael really was more Aslan than White Witch.
1 “Look to Windward” by Sleep Token
2
DELIGHT AND DIVINATION
Iscurried to keep pace with his long legs as we headed for the café1. “Must be nice being famous and tall enough to kiss the ceiling. Everyone gets out of your way.” Probably trying to get under him instead.
Rafael snorted. “I rarely go out in public for that reason. People stare. They ask intrusive questions. That, and low-hanging light fixtures are the bane of my existence.” His mouth twisted. “I miss the days when I could hide in my cave and mail off sheet music without speaking to anyone.”
“Sorry to break your hermit streak.” Not sorry at all.
His lips curled into an almost-smile, feline and mysterious. “I have never seen anyone react that way to my music, especially not that piece. Normally, I am a grumpy, reclusive bastard, but you have gifted me a rare good mood. And this book, which has also danced to my music.”
“Why do I have a feeling your tongue is more intimidating than your muscles?” I gestured at the size of him. “You must be the buffest music nerd I’ve ever met.”
Rafael cocked an eyebrow. “You must not know many metalheads.”
“I meant classical music nerd! Or at least the buffest composer.” Definitely the tallest. With the sexiest voice. And the best hair. And I really needed to get my shit under control. How much of my silliness was actual attraction and how much was just delirious fangirling?
“I will accept ‘buffest composer’. Thank you for not calling me an alpha. Much as I enjoy intimidating awful straight men, I hate that shit.” He stopped beneath the cherry-red awning of a landmark Art Deco building on the corner.
Green flag! “Oh, that’s a relief. I hate it too.”
Similar in shape to the Flatiron in New York, the patinaed copper facade rose many stories above our heads, ending in a gold-topped onion cupola. Graceful, gorgeous, and a little gaudy—just how I like my men. I giggled internally.
“Let us bond over shared hatred, then.” Rafael opened the gilded door for me.
A warm gust of air brought with it a whiff of coffee, cardamom, and rose. The café was dark and a little cramped due to the acute triangular footprint of the building, but it was spotless under the maximalist décor. Poufs and comfortable-looking leather chairs clustered around a variety of lacquered tables.
The barista behind the counter—a stunning young woman with dark, soulful eyes, a strong nose, and flawless skin all wrapped in a cream hijab—immediately struck up a conversation with Rafael in another language. Arabic, or maybe Farsi? She gestured at me with obvious surprise. His responses were terse and dismissive.
God, what if she was an ex-girlfriend? Or worse, a current girlfriend? My rounded Celtic features and boob-heavy body with my authorial uniform of a t-shirt, jeans, and my grown-out pink shag made for a drab comparison. Even if I did a full beat and wore my favorite breasting boobily dress, this gazelle of a woman would outshine me. She could outshine me in a paper sack.
