Page 3 of Luna

“No problem,” he mumbled. He picked up the books I’d had stuck in my purse. I was working my way through the classics again and had my much-loved copy ofPride and Prejudicecrammed next to my slimmer volume of Edgar Johnson’s treatise onPlant Life in the Mediterranean.

He glanced at both volumes, then handed them to me. “Austen and Johnson. Did you read the follow up Johnson’s assistant wrote a few years ago?”

I arched an eyebrow. Even most botanists didn’t bother reading obscure literary publications. “Carmichael’sEffects of Pollination?”

“It was an interesting conclusion, using the same data that he and Johnson gathered on their study in Italy.” His voice grew more confident, taking on a lecturing tone. Definitely giving me teacher’s assistant vibes.

“Johnson was pretty pissed Carmichael went on to make his own conclusions.” I cocked my head. “You’re a botanist?”

As he sat back in his seat, his shirt cuff moved up, exposing a light silver scar. A bondmark.

That mark told me that he had an alpha. At that realization, some of the wariness I carried with me relaxed, even as I felt an unexpected flash of disappointment. He would be less likely to be looking for an omega to complete his pack if he was already bonded. Alphas didn’t usually bond betas without an omega, just in case the omega liked the alpha but not the beta.

“I dabble.” He shrugged.

“In thick academic literature?” I gestured at his book. “Even most botanists find this boring. My name is Luna, by the way.”

“Quinn.” He smoothed his hands over his pants. “I was researching pollinators in the desert region and came across Johnson as suggested reading. Have you read Burrough’sPollinators in the Northern Hemisphere?”

“I haven’t.”

“Oh!” He held a finger up, getting more animated. His gentle brown eyes lit up, and I leaned closer. “You should find a copy. It’s out of print, but there was a fascinating chapter on the Monarch butterfly’s migration pattern. Their scientific name isDanaus plexippus,which means “sleepy transformation” in Greek because of their ability to hibernate and metaphorize through their life cycle. Burrough makes an interesting study of the migration pattern of the Monarch to other pollinators—” He stopped abruptly. “Sorry.”

“What?” I frowned. “Does their hibernation relate to their migration patterns?”

Quinn’s cheeks flushed red. “I get carried away.”

“I was interested.” I fiddled with the book in my lap. “Most people think plants and insects are dull.”

He glanced over at me, before quickly looking away. “I tend to ramble on and bore people.”

I knew that feeling too well. Absolutely no one but Halos wanted to talk about plants with me at length.

I smiled at Quinn, but instead of relaxing him, my expression made the beta turn scarlet and he looked down at the stage. More people filled the seats near us, but I ignored them in favor of the adorable beta next to me.

Cute, obviously very smart, and awkward. My guard lowered some more. Quinn’s scent might have been a little less intoxicating than the cowboy alpha’s out in the lobby, but it was more comforting.

“What are you reading?” I gestured at the thick book in his lap.

Quinn looked at his book like he’d forgotten it was there. “Just some collected theories on quantum entanglement.” His face lit up again. “NASA approved an experiment in space to test some of the leading theories, so I wanted to be prepared when the results came back.”

I blinked and almost said the first dumb thing to come out of my mouth. Of course he was a genius. That much was obvious.

My cousins Zephyr and Terran had gone through a phase where they were into anything related to science. I vaguely remembered quantum entanglement was a scientist’s way of being like ‘hey dude, what if we’re all, like, connected’?” but that was as much as I would be able to contribute to a conversation about it with Quinn.

“So, you’re watching a magic show because…?” I waved my hand at the stage. Almost like it was in response to my gesture, the house lights grew dimmer.

He grinned. “Magic is the science of illusion.”

My eyes widened and my heart went pitter-patter. What did I need to do to get Quinn to grin like that again? “This is my first live show.”

“Dante’s illusions are high quality.”

A thudding beat broke into our conversation as loud music started and drew our attention to where smoke was rolling from the stage, and the illusionist himself sauntered out. His energy was palpable, even for those of us sitting in the nosebleed section who could really only see him clearly on the large screens either side of the stage. My mouth went dry again.

Dante’s curly black hair was messy, and his black-on-black t-shirt and jeans contrasted against his light brown skin. I may or may not have memorized that he was from Vegas, and had grown up outside the city before making his big break.

My crush was based on his public persona, which was probably as much of an illusion as the coin tricks he was about to perform. I didn’t know him as a person, didn’t know his hopes and dreams.

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