Page 42 of Envy

But I’ve seen him bald, beaten, bound, and bloody. Never once did he appear anything less than bright and special. It’s not his hair or his face or even that ridiculous body that makes him a star. It’s his generous, curious, hopeful soul that does it. He bleeds charm. Sweats charisma. He’s funny, curious, and hardworking.

Everyone loves him. From the lady who works the deli counter at his grocery store to the professor he’s a teaching assistant for.

I’d want to kiss him even if he had purple skin and blue hair. It’s just a nice bonus that he’s also the best looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

The last few times we’ve seen each other, something’s started to change. The way he touches me … His fingers linger on my waist a little longer than normal when he hugs me. When he’s holding my hand, his pinkie caresses the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist for just a second before he lets go.

His eyes drift to mine, and I was sure he was thinking about kissing. But then, he’s never tried. I wonder what would happen if I tried.

I want to try. I have real feelings for him.

Not the childish crush that was borne of hero worship and a mutual love of books.

He stimulates my mind, stirs my heart, and for as long as I’ve been able to understand what it means, he has turned me on. My body hums when he’s nearby. When he touches me, everything pulses and throbs and liquifies. I want to crawl into his lap and live there. I want to plant my flag on his heart and make it mine. I want it all.

Eros is one of the most well-known of the Greek gods. But most people call him by his Roman name—Cupid. The idea that some mischievous, winged god is flying around shooting unwilling humans and causing them to fall hopelessly, irrevocably in love with the next person they see is ridiculous.

Except, it’s not. Eros’s arrow hit me and sent me flying off a cliff when I was eleven years old. Then, I thought of him in the only context my mind could create—as a friend, someone I care for deeply. But even if my mind couldn’t understand, my heart knew the difference. And there are large, red hot pieces of it that are his.

Forever.

Loving him doesn’t feel like a choice.

The lack of control I feel is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.

“This bridge is so interesting.” Graham’s observation interrupts my thoughts, and I follow his gaze upward at the web of cables that hold the foot bridge up.

“Do you want to know what it’s called?” I ask him brightly.

“No, but I have a feeling the queen of the obscure and random fact is about to tell me anyway,” he says dryly.

“Well since you asked so nicely …” I giggle when he groans.

“Just keep it short, stick to the highlights; I don’t need to know the architect’s name or why he was fired after only a few weeks on the job,”

“Ha-ha, very funny.” I elbow him.

“I was just thinking that’s an interesting setup, the way the train runs down the middle of the bridge.” He nods at the train that rumbles past us.

“It’s incredible, right? I read all about it somewhere. But basically, the footbridges had been closed for like a hundred and fifty years or something like that because apparently, they were in the way when they built Charring Cross Station. They reopened them to celebrate the Queen’s Jubilee—and it’s called the Jubilee Footpath, by the way—but they just had to figure out how to get around all the stuff they’d laid down to build Charring Cross. And get this, there were all these unexploded World War two bombs in the river that they had to detonate and all.”

“Why in the world do you even know that, Apollo?” Graham asks as he leads us up a new street.

I shrug. “I looked it up when I was learning more about the area after the trip I took with Papa and Arti.”

“Oh, did you walk across here when you came with them?”

“No, I don’t think so, but … it’s around the place where we—” I stop dead in my tracks and turn slowly to look at Graham. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest.

He’s smiling like the cat who just ate a bowl full of cream. My eyes fly around us, and I see it.

“Oh my God.” I look back and gaze up at the man who hangs the fucking moon for me. “You remembered.”

“Of course, I did,” he says in that sexy drawl of his that I’m so glad he hasn’t lost. He runs his hands through his long hair and bites his bottom lip in that way he does when he’s trying to hide his smile.

“I can’t believe you remembered,” I repeat to myself, my eyes stinging with tears as I gaze up at him.

“Look,” he says and nods ahead of us. I follow his gaze, and my heart catches in my throat when I realize we’re standing in Trafalgar Square.

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