Page 77 of They Are Mine

This is it.

My meet cute with Orion fucking Grayson.

It has to be perfect.

But first, I have to get through the stupid art class.

I spot his truck the second I turn onto campus, parked in the private lot, in his reserved space. My stomach tightens, my fingers flex against the wheel. That’s where he belongs. Where he waits. Where I’ll eventually slide into his passenger seat like I’ve always been there.

Tammy’s phone is silent.

Nothing from Orion about the tags.

Did he change his locks today? Did he hesitate before pocketing his tags, wondering who had been inside his home? Did he think about me?

I’ll find out next time I’m there.

I don’t see him as I make my way to class, but that’s okay. The anticipation is delicious.

The instructor is a nice older woman, long, flowy skirt, tank top, too many bracelets jingling with every movement. She has that whole hippie artist thing going on. She probably drinks herbal tea and doesn’t wear a bra.

Not really the type men notice.

We go over the basics, supplies, expectations, what we’ll be doing this semester. It’s fine.

But the whole time, my thoughts are elsewhere.

No one in the class is worth my attention. I can probably enroll Noah if he wants to join me. He’d be adorable, sitting next to me, painting something for me. But there are some questionable women on this campus, and the idea of them looking at him makes my jaw tighten.

It would distract me.

I can’t be distracted.

Not when I’m this close to Orion.

Finally, class lets out. I duck into the restroom, freshen up, make sure everything is perfect.

My soft curls are flawless. My glossed lips just the right shade of pink. My scent? Sweet, warm vanilla.

No man can resist vanilla.

I sling my pretty pink school bag, the one Noah got me, over my shoulder and step out into the dimming evening light.

Time to meet him.

I spot him instantly.

Orion Grayson.

My stomach clenches, my pulse pounds.

He moves like he owns this campus.

Like the pavement was laid for his boots to tread.

His uniform stretches tight over his muscles, broad shoulders, thick arms, strong, powerful thighs. His duty belt cinches at his waist, gun and radio strapped in place, useful, dominant, in control.

I hang back for just a second.

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