A Natural Disaster

02 want

THIRTY MINTUES LATER, I’m hungry, tired, and feel like shit. Living in New York can do that to you sometimes — chew you up whole and spit you out in pieces. But no matter how many times it breaks my heart, I always fall back in love with it.

September marks the start of fall in the city. It’s one of the best months of the year, where the air is a comfortable temperature, there are fewer tourists, and the leaves start changing color.

I figure I can make the most of my awful morning and grab a textbook I need to get for the new semester. There’s an online version, but I prefer learning from the print.

If I use the online copy, I’ll end up rewriting the entire textbook out in my notebook when I’m studying. It’s like my mind refuses to comprehend things unless they’re written on paper.

Problem is, getting a physical copy of this particular marketing textbook is practically impossible. Luckily, I checked with the bookstore beforehand, and they said they had a copy of the edition I want.

I buy a cup of coffee on the way to the bookstore.

This particular store is my favorite. It’s indie, and its location makes it hard to spot, tucked between bigger buildings. Only seasoned readers know about it, and it’s small enough for me to sneak in and buy my smutty romance books without running into anyone.

When I finally reach the store, it’s empty and dimly lit, just as it always is, and just how I like it. The scent of aged paper and ink fills the air. I walk in, heading for the erotic romance section. There’s a new mafia romance from my favorite indie author, and I can’t wait till it reaches bookstores.

When I check, it isn’t there, so I walk toward the academic section. As I turn a corner, my heart skips a beat at the sight of the last remaining copy of the textbook I desperately need.

There’s a male figure lingering in the aisle, but I ignore him, my gaze going straight to the spine of the book I want.

Except I reach for the textbook at the exact same time the stranger reaches for it.

I jump, and my coffee flies out of my hands.

And that’s when I see my victim. Recognise him. The deep olive skin. The tousled hair, appearing black, but is really the shade of dark chocolate. It falls over his forehead so effortlessly that it makes me angry.

My firsts curl at my sides. How dare he walk around looking like that?

Logan de Santos is so beautiful it makes my chest ache.

First with want, then with anger.

Everly — my best friend, is still dating Mason, a.k.a. the love of her life. And because Logan is Mason’s best friend, I see him at parties and other campus events more often than I’d like to.

It’s always been different with him. I avoid him. I’m meaner to him than I am to anyone else. I don’t even know why. I can’t help it. But he’s no Saint, either. I swear he pushes my buttons on purpose.

He blinks at me, so that I get just a flash of his deep brown eyes. Yep, that’s it. His eyes. Eyes you could write an essay about. Eyes that are currently squinting in pain.

“Shit,” I mutter, unzipping my bag and digging in it for a stack of napkins. Then, in an attempt to rectify the crumbling situation, I reclaim one of the napkins and make way to Logan. But my heart falls to my ass when the whole stack of napkins fall out of my reach and all over Logan like a bunch of ruffled feathers.

“Fuck,” I whisper to myself.

I shift my agitated gaze to him, then draw to a harsh stop.

Logan is looking at me.