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CHAPTER ONE
Brandon
I'm parked at a small table, nursing a black coffee that's already lost its steam. The café buzzes around me, a beehive of clinking cups and idle chatter. I'm just another drone in the mix, but my eyes? They're on the hunt, darting from face to face, looking for...hell, I don't even know. A distraction, maybe. Something to snag my interest.
And then, like flipping a switch, the room brightens a notch. It's not something you see—it's something you feel. My gaze slides across the café and snags on her, this burst of color in a sea of drab.
Who is she?
She's got this laugh, you know the kind—sounds like it's bubbling up from a wellspring of pure joy, and damn if it isn't infectious.
She's a few tables over, her head thrown back, auburn hair catching the light as she giggles with the kind of abandon that makes you want to know the joke. Her green eyes sparkle with mischief, and there's this energy about her, like she could dance off into the sunset and leave us all wishing we had an invite.
It's not just her laughter that's got me hooked—it's the whole package. She's the sun, and we're all just orbiting around her, basking in those rays. Every move she makes seems to be in harmony with the universe, and for a second, I forget where I am. I'm not some ex-soldier with too many stories. I'm just Brandon, and I'm completely caught up in this girl—whoever she is.
I lean back, my chair creaking under the shift of weight. There's something about her, something that lights a fire in my chest. It's been a while since I've felt anything like it, and I'm not about to let it slip away without a fight. This woman has unknowable depths, and I'm itching to dive in, discover every secret smile, every hidden dimple. Hell, I want to know what makes her tick, what throws her into fits of giggles, what stirs that passion I can practically taste from over here.
I sip my cold coffee, my mind already spinning with possibilities.
I hear someone say her name, and my heart skips at beat.
Erica.
It’s so perfect, so her.
I tap my fingers on the edge of the table, trying not to make it too obvious that I'm now fully tuned into Erica's frequency. It's like there's a spotlight just on her, and damn if my heart isn't doing this funny little skip every time she throws her head back to laugh. My gaze drinks in her every move, lapping up the way she brushes her hair behind an ear or tucks a loose strand back into the wild cascade.
"Take it easy, soldier," I mutter under my breath, trying to remind myself to keep it cool. But who am I kidding? Cool flew out the window the moment those green eyes sparkled with all the secrets of the universe.
I lean slightly to the left, seeking a clearer view as she animatedly gestures to accentuate a story she must be telling. The simple act of lifting her coffee cup to those lips—lips that are surely as soft and inviting as they look—sends my pulse racing like I'm back on a mission, adrenaline pumping through my veins.
"Focus, Brandon," I scold myself. But it's useless. I'm locked in, utterly captivated by the living art piece that is her. She moves like she's part of some divine choreography, every tilt of the head and flutter of lashes seeming to sync perfectly with the hum of life around us.
The clink of ceramic on wood snaps me out of my reverie—Erica's setting down her cup, and I'm setting a course to know her. What's behind those emerald eyes? Is her laugh always this full, like a melody that's found its perfect rhythm in the chaos of the world?
To others, she might just be another face in the crowd, but not to me. She's a puzzle I'm itching to solve, a story I want to read from cover to cover, savoring every damn word.
I stand, my chair scraping quietly against the floor. It's time for some intel—a deep dive into the enigma wrapped in that radiant smile. My soldier instincts kick into high gear, scanning for the best exit. No need to alert her to my interest...not yet.
Back in my apartment, the glow of the computer screen cuts through the dimness. I crack my knuckles—it's go time. The keys click-clack under my fingers, each stroke a step closer to unraveling the mystery of Erica. I type her name into the search bar, feeling like a modern-day knight on a quest, minus the shining armor.
"Let's see what you're all about," I say, half expecting the internet to whisper back secrets only it knows. Thumbnails of her art pop up, splashes of color that scream passion and depth. My gut tightens with anticipation. Each piece is a clue, a fragment of her fervent soul.
I click through gallery after gallery, absorbing the vibrant life she pours into every brushstroke. This woman isn't just living. She's alive in a way that sets my blood on fire.
I lean in, the glow of the screen turning my focus into something laser-sharp. Erica's art is a rabbit hole, and damn if I'm not tumbling down it headfirst. Each painting, each sculpture, it's like she's baring her soul to the world, and I can't get enough. My fingers fly across the keyboard, hungry for more—her favorite books, interviews, any breadcrumb that leads me closer to understanding who Erica Rose really is.
"Jane Austen and Kurt Vonnegut?" I whistle low, impressed. Girl's got taste. Classic romance with a side of satirical sci-fi. It paints a picture in my mind of her curled up on a couch, losing herself in 'Pride and Prejudice' or 'Slaughterhouse-Five.' Damn, wouldn't I love to be a fly on that wall?
"Ah, there's the gold," I murmur as I find a blog post she wrote about living life to the fullest. She talks about seizing the day, finding inspiration in the mundane, and always chasing the next adventure. Her words light a fire in me, and I feel this pull, like she's already challenging me to step up my own game.
But then, the well runs dry. Click after click leads to dead-ends, private profiles, and frustratingly brief bios. "Come on, give me something to work with here," I grumble, scouring page after forgotten page of search results. It shouldn't be this hard to find out about someone so vibrant, should it? The irony isn't lost on me—a trained soldier stumped by the lack of intel on a civilian.
"Erica, you're killing me," I say to the empty room, scratching at my jaw where stubble is starting to form. With every dead link, my curiosity morphs into something raw, an itch I desperately need to scratch. But the digital paper trail has gone cold, and I'm left hanging, wondering what makes her tick, what her laugh sounds like up close, how her skin feels under my?—
"Focus, Brandon." I shake my head, clearing the X-rated thoughts. Can't let the frustration mess with my head. There's got to be another way to crack this code, to find the key to Erica's enigma. And I'll be damned if I don't find it.
I hit refresh for what feels like the hundredth time, my eyes glued to the glow of the computer screen. There’s a stubborn part of me that refuses to give up, and it's running on pure, undiluted hope. Suddenly, the pixels rearrange themselves into something promising—a link I haven't seen before, shining like a beacon in the digital darkness.
