Page 9 of The Satyr Next Door
Chapter 5
Cal
She was coming out earlier.
I’d noticed it three mornings running. The soft slide of her glass door, the whisper of bare feet on the balcony floor. Yesterday, seven-forty-five. Today, seven-thirty. Each day she lingered longer, found more excuses to stay while I worked below.
And she was dressing for it.
Not obvious, nothing that screamed she was trying to impress. But the rumpled tanks had become fitted tees that hugged the curve of her waist, the silk shorts replaced by cotton ones that clung to her hips, or yoga pants that gave a male ideas. She braided her hair back, exposing the elegant line of her neck, small gold hoops catching the sun.
She thought she was being subtle. She wasn’t.
Satyrs aren’t subtle either, but we are excellent readers of desire. Survival had often meant knowing the difference between curiosity and disgust, intrigue and fear. And she was broadcasting on frequencies that made my skin tighten with want.
This morning she appeared with a travel mug instead of ceramic, clearly planning to stay longer. She stretched those long legs into the sunlight like an offering and pretended not to watch me wrestle kudzu from the back fence.
I waited until I’d worked up a proper sweat before straightening, letting her see the results, both garden and body. The sun adored me here. It didn’t carry the wild magic of the old forests, but it still knew how to worship a body built for it.
“You’re up early again,” I called, wiping sweat with the towel on the post, making sure the motion showed off muscle.
She startled, caught staring. The flush on her neck was becoming familiar. “The kids don’t need to be up for another hour. I like the quiet.”
“Mmm.” I leaned on the fence, admiring openly. The morning light gilded her hair, lit her skin like Helios himself was trying to claim her. “And the coffee. You seem devoted to it.”
Her laugh came easier now, richer, warmer. It wound around my ribs like silk. “Guilty. I’m not human before my second cup.”
Not human. The irony bit.
“What do you do when you are human?” I asked, curious.
The question surprised her. She sipped, considering. Most humans answered with job titles, obligations. But she hesitated, as if the answer cost something.
“I translate,” she said finally, and her voice warmed. “Books, mostly. Some technical manuals when I'm desperate for money, but the books are what I love. Fiction, poetry, memoirs.” Her fingers traced the mug’s rim. “I used to travel for work. Now I work from home.”
There was loss there. A wistfulness that tugged at my chest.
“Used to?” I prompted.
“Before the kids. Before…” She waved, encompassing life. “You know how it is.”
But I didn’t. My kind didn’t barter passion for practicality. Another advantage or curse of being Other.
“What languages?” I asked, chasing that spark in her voice.
“Italian, French, German. Just enough Portuguese.” Her face lit, and I glimpsed the woman she’d been, the traveler, the scholar, the one who chased words across continents. “There’s something magical about finding just the right word. A concept English doesn’t have. It’s like uncovering a secret.”
She flushed then, realizing how much she’d shared. But I was greedy for it.
“A woman of words,” I murmured. “No wonder you caught my attention.”
Her breath caught. Satisfaction curled low in me, not just at desire, but at glimpsing her passion, herself.
“I’m not—” she began, then faltered.
“You are.” I moved closer to the fence, close enough that she could see me clearly. “You know words can seduce. Turn ordinary moments into myth. Surely you recognize what’s happening here.”
She stared, pupils wide despite the sun. Her scent thickened, sharp and sweet.
