Meet Me by Dawn (By Dawn series book 1) ✓

Chapter 8

Edited

After Atticus requested me to stay put on the bed while he deciphered the chaotic puzzle on my floor, I inquired, "Where are you from?" His ocean-blue eyes swiftly scanned me before he knelt on the floor, extracting a screwdriver from his belt.

"Italy, Firenze," he replied, inspecting the manual. "I studied in London, then my best friend got a job offer here, so I joined him."

"What is your major?"

He chuckled knowingly. "You are not going to believe it." He flashed a grin, and I lowered myself to the floor with him. "History of art, and I took a course in painting as well."

"Art?" I gaped, reassessing him. It was certainly not what I had expected. He didn't look like the artistic type, more like the carpenter who owned a hardware store and smoked a few cigarettes, kicking back with a beer while working on his car on Sundays.

"Yes, and I have a show coming up in a few months, and you are hereby invited," he smiled. He didn't seem cruel, but there was something about him that triggered an eerie familiarity, creeping over my skin.

"Thanks," I replied. "Can't wait." I wanted to ask what got him into art, but I hesitated. I didn't want to delve into his inspiration and the depths of his beating heart and dark, artsy soul.

Atticus eyed the untouched coffee. "Maybe you aren't a coffee drinker?" Suspicion lingered in my mind; there could be drugs in there, so I refrained from touching it. I had no intention of being abducted or murdered today, not if I could help it.

"No," I lied. "But thank you." Atticus gave me a silent nod, looking at me with a smart smile playing on his full mouth. He then handed me a piece before fetching another tool and resuming his work.I could only admire the way he worked, knees on the floor, brows furrowed as he connected the pieces, veins in his strong arms and neck popping out as he lifted bigger sections.

"So..." he began, catching my attention, "Radiohead, huh?" he commented on the song I had blasted earlier.

"This and that," I replied, unpacking one of the drawers. "What's your jam?" He shot me a glittering blue-eyed glance; for a few seconds, it dropped to my mouth, and I bit my lower lip, unable to control myself from the way he beheld me. I wondered what his hands felt like, what his mouth on mine was like, what he tasted like. I was getting ahead of myself, a common occurrence for someone who had never been intimate, and by that, I meant never. I hated mess, and sex always led to a mess; I learned that from observing the people around me, and I always kept an eye on the happenings concerning other people's drama, mostly because I was a nosy Nancy, and secondly to discern mistakes from what wasn't. Madame taught me that, and I thanked her for it.

"Since I discovered 'Losing Your Memory' by Ryan Star, it has been my song. It's ridiculous really," he snorted, "I listen to it every morning in the shower and before I go to bed, but I do like other songs."

"So, you get addicted easily then?" I teased.

"Oh, I indulge in several vices, Emilia," he murmured, meeting my eyes. I tried not to gape; this man was an utter menace. I looked away to hide my surprise and the tingles I felt, weird tingles all over. He knew what he was doing, and I was not about to let him do it.

"Well, that is just awesome; it's important to have interests," I muttered out, and the smile I received told me he knew exactly what was going through my mind. We fell silent for a while; I handed him screws when needed and different tools from his belt, now on the floor. Bit by bit, it started to take shape, and when the big pieces were against the walls, I helped him fasten the doors. While placing the shelves inside the closet, I asked, "Do you have any family here?"