MY HEART IS thundering in my ears when I swivel my head around to look at Sinclair. When my eyes find him—good looking to the point where it borders on criminal with eyes so smoldering every coherent thought packs up and scatters, wearing a smirk so wicked that it does the smirks of bad boys paid by actors to shame—I feel an odd sense of what is almost like relief.
Not because I’m smitten or anything insane like that, but because all of the worrying I had been doing before stops the moment our eyes meet. It’s like last time; I know exactly what will happen. I know exactly how this ends. And the inevitability of us ending up in bed together is relaxing. Oddly, it reminds me of Mom’s old stories of the gods toying around with destinies behind the scenes, moving mortals toward the destinies
