“Emily,” he said oddly, and it sounded to her as though he were confirming her name. “Emily Thomas.”
His hand covered hers in greeting. One hand over the other, equally cool, equally tentative, but his touch seemed to draw from her a stream of memories that were in no way cool or tentative. The rest of the room seemed to watch them with varying levels of wariness, unsure if another blowout might ensue. No one ventured to mention the bizarre episode at the club and risk breaking the apparent peace.
“It’s Andrew, right?” she heard herself say through the maelstrom, and in the dim recesses of her mind she knew she should be trying to channel Katherine Hepburn, as she intended. Composure, Emily. Composure. Don’t let on that you know him. You’re going to ruin everything . Yet how did she know him? She could not even answer that herself.
He cocked his head to one side and studied her. He was almost too alive to look at. It was too much to take in. The precise structure of his face coupled with the strokes of red that ran along the lines of his cheekbones etched themselves into her mind like an overexposed photograph.
“Yes. My name is Andrew Hayes. We’re the—”
“We’re the eejits downstairs,” Simon cut in. “You might as well get used to referring to us that way. If we get too loud, an easy fix is to pound on the floor. We probably won’t hear you, but hell, it’s worth a try—Emily, it’s Emily, yeah?”
The way he stared at her caused Andrew to stare at him.
“Oh, you’re a drummer, right?” Margot asked as if she had never seen him before. She put down the planter, and her heels clipped along the tiles as she made her way to Simon’s side. “Feel free to do the same, bang on the ceiling that is, if we get too loud. I’ve been told I often do.” Margot tossed her hair in an uncharacteristic flounce, all black sheen and menace.
“Oh, well have a go at it then, there’ll be plenty of bangin’ with all this remodeling going on,” Simon countered, not to be outdone, his brogue thickening by the minute. “It’s the endless screwin’ and that drillin’ that makes the most racket, don’t you think, girlie?”
“Girlie?”
“Or the wailing from the ghosts—that’s what’s really going kill you,” said Christian with a nonchalance that no one else seemed to embrace.
“Ghosts?” Zoey asked, and Emily noticed Andrew shoot a flat look at Christian, who went on undeterred. “Haven’t you heard yours yet?”
“Wonderful. First a band and now the undead. We should have a dinner and see what else shows up,” said Margot stiffly. “Zombies? Witches? Really.” Her words, however, had the opposite effect on Zoey and Christian, who decided that a dinner would be just the ticket for all of them. The next fifteen minutes were spent on who was going to bring what, with people drifting here and there, trying to position themselves closer to or farther from each other, depending on the individual.
During this time, Emily watched Andrew and Simon stroll over to the glass door that exited to the roof gardens. Andrew was gesturing riotously with his hands, something Emily had seen him do on stage when he got agitated. Suddenly his eyes narrowed infinitesimally, and his fingers paused in mid-air like they were changing chords. He knew she was watching him.
Her eyes raced back down to the shelf of flowers, willing herself to appear aloof and disinterested. Some discarded construction blueprints allowed her to look busy, and she folded over page after page until she noticed her watch. She would have to leave soon if she didn’t want to be late for Vandin’s lecture. It was her escape.
“Emily,” a voice said from behind her shoulder.
Startled, she swallowed and drew on an untapped sense of courage before she slowly turned. The first thing she saw were his eyes. They were blue like…like nothing and everything and filled with such earnestness that her heart nearly melted at the
His hand covered hers in greeting. One hand over the other, equally cool, equally tentative, but his touch seemed to draw from her a stream of memories that were in no way cool or tentative. The rest of the room seemed to watch them with varying levels of wariness, unsure if another blowout might ensue. No one ventured to mention the bizarre episode at the club and risk breaking the apparent peace.
“It’s Andrew, right?” she heard herself say through the maelstrom, and in the dim recesses of her mind she knew she should be trying to channel Katherine Hepburn, as she intended. Composure, Emily. Composure. Don’t let on that you know him. You’re going to ruin everything . Yet how did she know him? She could not even answer that herself.
He cocked his head to one side and studied her. He was almost too alive to look at. It was too much to take in. The precise structure of his face coupled with the strokes of red that ran along the lines of his cheekbones etched themselves into her mind like an overexposed photograph.
“Yes. My name is Andrew Hayes. We’re the—”
“We’re the eejits downstairs,” Simon cut in. “You might as well get used to referring to us that way. If we get too loud, an easy fix is to pound on the floor. We probably won’t hear you, but hell, it’s worth a try—Emily, it’s Emily, yeah?”
The way he stared at her caused Andrew to stare at him.
“Oh, you’re a drummer, right?” Margot asked as if she had never seen him before. She put down the planter, and her heels clipped along the tiles as she made her way to Simon’s side. “Feel free to do the same, bang on the ceiling that is, if we get too loud. I’ve been told I often do.” Margot tossed her hair in an uncharacteristic flounce, all black sheen and menace.
“Oh, well have a go at it then, there’ll be plenty of bangin’ with all this remodeling going on,” Simon countered, not to be outdone, his brogue thickening by the minute. “It’s the endless screwin’ and that drillin’ that makes the most racket, don’t you think, girlie?”
“Girlie?”
“Or the wailing from the ghosts—that’s what’s really going kill you,” said Christian with a nonchalance that no one else seemed to embrace.
“Ghosts?” Zoey asked, and Emily noticed Andrew shoot a flat look at Christian, who went on undeterred. “Haven’t you heard yours yet?”
“Wonderful. First a band and now the undead. We should have a dinner and see what else shows up,” said Margot stiffly. “Zombies? Witches? Really.” Her words, however, had the opposite effect on Zoey and Christian, who decided that a dinner would be just the ticket for all of them. The next fifteen minutes were spent on who was going to bring what, with people drifting here and there, trying to position themselves closer to or farther from each other, depending on the individual.
During this time, Emily watched Andrew and Simon stroll over to the glass door that exited to the roof gardens. Andrew was gesturing riotously with his hands, something Emily had seen him do on stage when he got agitated. Suddenly his eyes narrowed infinitesimally, and his fingers paused in mid-air like they were changing chords. He knew she was watching him.
Her eyes raced back down to the shelf of flowers, willing herself to appear aloof and disinterested. Some discarded construction blueprints allowed her to look busy, and she folded over page after page until she noticed her watch. She would have to leave soon if she didn’t want to be late for Vandin’s lecture. It was her escape.
“Emily,” a voice said from behind her shoulder.
Startled, she swallowed and drew on an untapped sense of courage before she slowly turned. The first thing she saw were his eyes. They were blue like…like nothing and everything and filled with such earnestness that her heart nearly melted at the
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