Page 2 of Organized Chaos
My eyes moved over her face. There was a déjà vu element about her, but I couldn’t put my finger to it.
The staring must have been blatant as she uncomfortably fixed her sophisticated white wrap-dress. The outfit hugged the top half of her body and flared above her knees. The ensemble suited her—I grudgingly admitted— presenting up her tits like confection at a bakery and showing off a set of sexy as fuck legs.
Heat flared inside me, though my face remained stoic. I had no intention of making it easy for her. "You could have come up to me instead.”
"And miss the chance to watch you intimidate that man?" She cocked her head at the creep slinking out of the bar.
She. Was. Savage.
The admiration I felt was enough to park my butt on the stool next to hers. "That was... fun,” I conceded. “Do you want a drink?" I motioned for the bartender by raising my hand.
“That’s an affirmative.”
There it was again, recognition of having played this game before. Something about our conversation sounded rehearsed, but what was it?
The bartender interjected my gawking, eyeing the girl suspiciously.
In France, the legal age to consume wine was sixteen. Eighteen for hard liquor. Though most establishments didn’t care, this was a tourist destination. A large demographic at this hotel consisted of American families. If those families found out that the hotel served hard liquor to their juvenile delinquents, it’d be a PR nightmare rather than a legal one.
“ID, please?” The bartender asked her in a thick French accent.
For the first time since laying eyes upon her, it dawned on me that she appeared young. Panic ensued on cue.
Fucking hell. What if I had been chatting up someone younger than eighteen?
My heart stopped when she reached inside her wallet to fish out her ID. She flashed it at the bartender—twenty-one.
Thank. Fuck.
I curiously studied the document as she put in a drink order.
Maya Mathews.
Libra.
Lived in Paris. Based on her accent, she was an ex-pat—an American who moved to France.
Blue eyes gleamed when she caught me snooping, and the déjà vu factor hit me like a hurricane.
The mischievous orbs on this girl held an uncanny resemblance to Mia.
***
“MIA, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just looking for Milo.” Mia peeked out from backstage, turning her head from left to right.
Mia was a kid genius/mad scientist—wicked smart, acutely observant, slightly eccentric, and spoke without a filter, though her statements were often valid. It was the reason I could tolerate her, despite disliking children as a general demographic. They were annoying, irrational, and incomprehensible.
But I never lumped Mia into that category. She came out of her mother’s womb spewing adult lingo and acted like a grown-up.
Except for tonight.
Mia wrote a short story for a statewide competition, televised in front of a live audience. The prestige was lost on little Mia, terrified of being on stage and desperately hoping her family was in attendance—especially her brother, Milo.
“He’s not here,” she concluded, eyes glistening.
“He’ll make it,” I lied because I had a soft spot for Mia.Also, I hated being associated with any of Mia’s negative experiences since our interactions were already limited.
