Inspire (The Muse #1)(3)
Author: Cora Carmack

The guy is younger than I thought from his profile. Early twenties, I’d guess. And I knew he was broad and masculine, but now I’ve got an up close and personal look at the way that his shirt hints at the slopes and curves of a muscled chest beneath. He wears a tie loosened around his neck, and the few undone buttons reveal a triangle of sun-tanned skin. He’s not at all the kind of guy I’m normally attracted to. He’s clean-cut and serious, and yet I see something now that hints at more. The glasses say stoic and sophisticated, but the hair … those not-quite-tamed curls are just begging for a pair of hands to mess them up the rest of the way.

It almost makes me think this is what my artists would look like all grown up. Only they’ll still be working on “growing up” a decade from now, and he’s already there. He’s also outrageously, handsomely embarrassed. He rubs at the back of his neck with a chagrined smile, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever met a guy who can pull off uncomfortable and sexy at the same time.

You can’t look at a guy like this and not picture him as a husband … a dad. He might not be like the artists I usually date, but he’s the kind of guy I would want to settle down with.

If settling down were even a thing I could do.

When I go too long without answering, little Gwen says, “I don’t think she likes you.”

My lips pull into a smile, and I flick my gaze up to his face once more. And God, that’s not true. Not true at all. And maybe my thoughts are in my eyes because his gaze sharpens, turns hot and hard, and it makes me think of ripped fabric, sweat-slicked skin, and bruised lips.

The pull toward him is electric, irresistible, like a siren’s call, only it’s not sound that’s a danger to me … it’s everything else. He might look clean cut on the surface, but I’ve looked into the eyes of enough men to recognize the spark of wickedness hidden in those pale blue depths.

“I like him just fine,” I say, finally answering Gwen’s statement, and the crooked grin he gives me makes something swoop in my belly.

“Just fine? Is that all?” This time, I do notice his voice, and maybe it’s even more like a siren call than I thought. Low and musical, it slides against my skin, stirring the energy just behind my lungs that makes me what I am.

Only this man isn’t the type to need a muse. In fact, I think the opposite might be happening. Something about this guy speaks to me. Maybe it’s the soft blue of his eyes or the chiseled jaw or that loosened tie that I could use to pull him closer and closer …

Yeah. As improbable as it is, he’s the dangerous one here.

And for possibly the first time in my existence, I can feel my nerves threatening to overwhelm me. I should be able to think of a flirty reply. That’s what I do. I should be able to turn this guy’s head so fast he’ll have whiplash. Instead, I’m too bothered by his presence to even meet his eyes again.

I bend my knees until I’m level with the little girl. I tuck one blonde, disobedient curl behind her ear and touch a finger to her tiny, perfect nose.

Her cheeks pink, and I tell her, “I think you’re much prettier than the girl on that magazine.”

“Really?” Her eyes go wide, and she looks at me as if I hold all the answers. And I do have so many answers, so many insights about the world that are just fighting to break out of me. So many things I can never share. With anyone.

“I do,” I promise her. “But the thing is … there are more important things than being pretty. “

“Like what?”

“Like being good and nice and happy. That’s what will make people want to play with you and be around you.” I reach out toward the magazine, and she loosens her grip, letting me take it. “Pretty only matters in pictures.”

I rise and hand the magazine to her father. Unbidden, my mind starts spiraling out of control, picturing this little girl, this man who I can’t help but notice wears no ring, and me. I start picturing what it would be like to have that kind of life, something I never allow myself to do, and the look he gives me and the brush of his fingers over mine don’t help me shut it down.

I stick out my hand when I should be walking away. Running even.

“I’m Kalli.”

His hand is big and warm around mine. The earlier brush of his fingers is completely eclipsed by the strength and surety of his grip. And the inspiration swirls in me, like a storm gathering on the sea, clamoring for him. His eyes trail over my face and then down. His perusal is quick, and his eyes pull back to mine fast. He’s trying to be a gentleman, but that intensity is still there in his gaze, and I feel it burn through my veins. Desire engulfs me, and I can no longer differentiate between it and the unnatural energy that rests just behind my ribs.

“Wilder,” he says, his voice deeper, raspier. And all I want to do is touch him, to know what he’s thinking, to study just where the wholesome and good half of him gives way to the sin I see in his eyes.

I’m almost lost to it, almost ready to push inspiration into this complete stranger, because the buzz I feel around him is addictive. And the release, oh gods, it would be so good.

But I can’t. Absolutely can’t. I have to be careful even with my artists not to overload them, not to give them too much. And it’s so much easier to pass that point with someone who’s not already open to his or her creative side.

Too much and I could ruin him. Ruin this perfect life he has.

And I might do this kind of thing out of necessity, but I don’t have it in me to be that selfish. The other gods might think of mortals as less than them, but I’ve walked among them for millennium. They are not less to me. In fact, I’m more jealous of them than I’ll ever admit aloud.

I’m saved from the temptation when Gwen latches onto my wrist, pulling my hand away from his so that she can have a turn at shaking, too.

“I’m Gwen!” she says, not even really shaking my hand, so much as pulling it toward her, pulling me toward her.

“It’s so very nice to meet you, Gwen.”

This is too much.

Too hard.

I tuck that same stubborn curl behind her ear and say, “I have to go. You be good for your Dad.”

I pull my hand away and stumble back. Wilder protests, says “No,” followed by a series of other words that I don’t hear because I’m already on my way to the door, leaving my ice cream and cookies and everything else behind.

I’m not normal. I won’t ever be.