One of my favorite parts of a romance novel is when the hero and heroine meet for the first time. In honor of Valentine’s Day, here’s a little (unedited) snippet from a work in progress – a new young adult paranormal romance, working title: The Witch’s House

 

A hand shoots out from somewhere behind me, grabbing my arm just as I reach for the closest sculpture to steady myself. A piece of the statue snaps under my weight and drops to the ground. Horrified, I stare at the rut it makes in the snow. A few seconds pass before I’m aware of the warmth pulsing under the hand that still grips my arm. Panic squeezes the air from my lungs. 

“Unbelievable,” a deep voice says, dripping with distain.

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. The guy I’d seen earlier from a distance bends down to retrieve the broken piece. Icy cold rushes through the capillaries in my arm when he releases me. “You destroyed it,” he says. “Well at least now you won’t bother to steal it.”

I let my eyes rake the yard, seeking the best path to put some distance between us. Wait a minute, what did he just say?

I stare at his back while he rummages through the snow in search of the broken stone. Part of me registers he’s wearing only a charcoal gray T-shirt and jeans and must be freezing, especially with his hand buried deep in the snow. The other part can’t help notice how nicely his backside forms to those jeans and the gleam of his wavy black hair curled up at the collar. I can’t see his face clearly from this angle, but his profile shows blunt side burns, a straight nose and jaw set around a caramel complexion. The scent of pine clings to him like faint cologne.

He straightens, hand clutching the stone, snow clinging to the rough patches, and he pierces me with dark brown eyes. The cold stabs my lungs with the sharp intake of breath I can’t help taking. He sneers, lips parted, looking almost dangerous. Almost. His mouth is full and looks soft, perfect except for a thin white scar running through the bottom lip. He has to be the best looking guy I’ve seen in real life. Up close, at least. I pull my gaze from his mouth.

“It was an accident.” Why am I justifying myself to this guy? I glance at his stormy expression. Because he looks like he’s in charge, that’s why.

He shakes his head. “It’s not an accident if you shouldn’t be here.”

I don’t register what he says right away, so mesmerized I am by his appearance, but he’s right. I’ve defaced a piece of art. Not on purpose, but still. It’s broken because of me. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Right.” His sweeping gaze travels across my face then down my coat to the tops of my boots and back up again. I try to be still but my body starts to shiver. “You don’t seem the usual type, but then again she draws all sorts of weirdos.”

My pride pricks. “I’m not a weirdo.” Okay, maybe that was debatable, but this guy doesn’t need to know that. “I’m not trying to steal anything.”

His eyes never leave my face. “You couldn’t if you tried. Most people don’t know these smaller sculptures are chained to the ground under all this snow and the bigger ones weigh several tons each.”

“I’m not trying to steal anything,” I repeat.

He looks at the camera phone in my hand. “It’s a bit late for the usual sight-seeing on a school night. You look young. Shouldn’t you be home in bed?”

“I’m seventeen, a senior in high school.” Why was I telling him this?

“There’s a curfew around these parts.”

I cross my arms over my chest. It helps with the shivering. “Which you seem to be breaking.”

His lips curve up in a smile out of place against the backdrop of spine-chilling sculptures. The smile makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, lighting them with warmth and tripling my heartbeat. “I’m eighteen,” he says. “I don’t have a curfew.”

I try to ignore my stampeding pulse. “But you are trespassing.”

The smile fixes in place. “Am I?”

My eyes widened. He couldn’t mean he lived here. The witch is supposed to live alone. Unless…he’s a ghost. But that’s just ridiculous. Isn’t it?

“Who are you again?”

“Jack.”

Jack? I search my brain for the name of the witch’s dead son or husband. Did I even know them? She has to be over seventy now. This guy is too young to be the husband and too old to be the son. Besides, I didn’t believe in ghosts.

Heart in my throat, I look up to find him grinning at me. My pride pricks again. What is so darn funny?

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“That depends.”

He tilts his head to the side. “On what?”

The back porch lamp snaps on, throwing a wide circle of light into the yard. Jack grabs my arm again and yanks me with him behind a large statue, out of view.

 My breath comes fast. I really, really hope I’m not crouching on my knees in the snow with a ghost. I lower my voice and it comes out all raspy. Must be the cold. I cast a sideways glance at Jack. “If you belong here then why are you hiding?”

Jack peers around the giant leg of the statue. “Just because I belong here doesn’t mean I want her to see me this time of night.” He shoots me a long look, the crooked smile back in place. “Aren’t you afraid the witch will catch you and turn you into stone?” The way his lips curl in mockery around the word ‘witch’ gives me the distinct impression he thinks the label ridiculous.

I make an effort to look bored. “I don’t believe that part of the legend.”

“Uh-huh. You don’t have to worry, because that’s not her anyway. It’s Evelyn, her live-in nurse.”

“I wasn’t worried. You’re the one crouched behind a…a…what is this thing anyway?” I wave my hand at the sculpture then curse under my breath. She’ll see the movement of my shadow if I’m not careful.

“Dinosaur.”

Interesting.

A shrill voice cuts through the night. “You. You there.”

“I think you’re being paged,” I say to Jack.

“Young lady. You there.”

Oh crap.

Jack raises an eyebrow and his grin gets wider. “It’s for you.”

I shake my head.

“Young lady, there’s no point hiding. The mistress of the house saw you plain and clear from the window. She knows you broke the sculpture and she wants to talk to you.”

Double crap. No way. No how. I glance over my shoulder, wondering how fast I can run back to the road. I flip open my cell phone but Jack lets go of my arm and tips the cover shut. “Go on.” He holds out the broken stone. “Fess up. It’s no big deal, she’ll fix it later or I will.”

You will? “If it’s no big deal how come she wants to talk to me about it?”
Jack shrugs. “Go see.”

“Young lady,” the woman…Evelyn, I suppose, shouts. “You have one minute before I dial the police.”

Jack nudges me with his elbow. “You’d better go. Don’t worry, she won’t make you go inside. She’s a privacy freak.”

“Evelyn?”

“The witch.”

 “Oh. Come with me?” I say, hating how pathetic and scared my voice sounds. 

Jack rests his hand on my shoulder. Amazing. It’s warm, and it somehow makes me a lot calmer. “Not this time.”

It’s probably better anyway. The last thing I need to do is to show up on her doorstep with the ghost of her dead son or murder victim or something. If destroying her artwork doesn’t make her mad, that would sure tick her off. I stand, leaning against the thick neck of the dinosaur for balance. I balk at the dopey smile plastered to its concrete face. Evelyn nods at me. “That’s right, dear. Come over and bring what you broke.”

I take the stone from Jack and whisper before I head toward the house. “My name is Taylor McPherson. If I don’t make it back, look my parents up and tell them I love them…and my best friend Amber, too.”

Jack’s smile widens. “If you’re not out in a few minutes, you can count on me.”

I make my way to within a few yards of Evelyn. She’s bundled in a pink, ribbed housecoat. White curls stick out in clumps all over her head. I glance back at Jack, hoping for some reinforcement. My brow furrows as I study the snow around the dinosaur. Two sets of distinct prints lead from the road to the whimsical sculpture where we’d ducked to hide. One set of footprints lead to where I’m standing. There are no prints to indicate Jack’s departure, but one thing is certain. He’s no where to be found.