Page 47 of Spelling Disaster

And it’s different this time because this is my life. I’m not in the pages of my stories faced with a ruggedly handsome fictional man. I’m with Theo Acaster.

Or I’m about to be.

Guys walk along the hallway and stare at me. The attention only intensifies my breathing. This isn’t natural, the way they look at me. And it’s not even bad attention, as their smiles are appreciative. Curious. Open in a way they’ve never been before when most people’s attention either tends to skip over me or snag in a bad way.

Open the door, Theo.

Gus gave me a pep talk on my way over and everything goes out the window a second later, my unspoken plea answered when the door swings open. And every ounce of moisture in my mouth dries up because Theo is bare chested. A towel hangs around his neck with sweat dripping from his brow.

I know better than to gawk but damn. Hot,hotdamn.

“Hey, Yas. Come on in.” He steps aside to let me enter. “I just finished playing basketball and I didn’t know you’d be over so early. Sorry I’m not prepared.”

I can barely speak. How is this going to work if I have no control when I see him? I have to stop being weird.

I definitely stare at his chest way longer than I should because he’s glorious. So hot and masculine and absolutely built. He’s got just enough muscles on his lanky form to show he keeps in shape without getting too bulky for his frame.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to rinse off and get changed,” he says, pausing at the door. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

I nod, my mouth hanging open slightly until he’s out of the room and I feel like I can actually draw air into my lungs.

I’m alone in Theo’s room.

It’s a dream come true and a nightmare at the same time because I’m not supposed to be here. Except he says he needs me and even though I have a hard time believing him, I know I need him more. Even if he hadn’t proposed this ruse of ours, I’d still need him, because there was something about him. There’s no chance I’m walking away.

While he’s gone, though…

I can breathe better once he’s out of the room. This is the spot I’ve thought about most often, his inner sanctum. What kind of personal effects has he brought with him from home to make this space feel comfortable?

The first things I look for are memorabilia pertaining to his relationship with Helena. I find none. No pictures of the two of them or indication that any woman has been in this room for a while. His roommate’s bed is made and fastidiously neat, along with the rest of that side of the room.

I walk over to Theo’s desk and trail my hands along the spines of the books he has piled there. He never struck me as the type to lose himself in them. Not like me.

Theo is the opposite of me.

He’s everyone’s friend, the guy who offers a smile easily to whoever is around. He’s the social butterfly and the Golden Boy of the school.

But he reads, for fun. Not all of them are required reading for class, although a lot of them are, but he’s got a few historical biographies peppered in. A couple of fiction pieces and some spines with no wording on them at all.

There are CDs of music from the nineties and early two thousands. He and Blaire should probably talk because I don’t recognize any of the titles, although I’m willing to bet she would.

And there, beneath a slew of papers and a sweatband, a slender volume with gold lines across the spine and no title.

I pull it out and flip to the center of the book, a well-worn place it seems as the pages fall open naturally.

There in the darkness where I find the sun and letters spun of gold.

For all the world to know yet I know none, fingers falling cold…

This isn’t a biography, and it’s not a spell. So what is it? My heart skips a beat as I flip through several other pages. The entire book is filled with poetry in a careful bold script. Captivated, I flip hurriedly through the first several chapters until Theo comes back, fresh and changed.

He clears his throat and I glance up from my seat at the end of his bed, the book in hand.

“You found my favorite book in the whole room,” he comments offhandedly. “I don’t mind you prying. Do you like it?”

The beauty between the cover of this book erases any discomfort at being caught snooping through his stuff. “I love poetry much more than normal fiction,” I tell him. “The ones in here I’ve never read before, though. They seem to have a sense of depth and feeling. Not just empty words. You know?” I tap the page. “These are amazing.”

He stares at me for a long moment. “That’s what I felt, too, when I wrote them. It means a lot that you like them.”

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