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Until Nico
by Aurora Rose Reynolds
This book is dedicated to my brother from another mother. We may not share same blood,
but I love you both S & W.
Chapter 1
Sophie
I jump when the desk phone starts going off; it never rings, so I’m caught off guard by
the shrill sound inside the quiet library. “Middle School Library, Ms. Grates speaking. How
can I help you?” I answer on the second ring.
“I found a phone, and this is the number that comes up on the screen when I turn it on,”
a deep male voice answers. His smooth Southern drawl makes the hairs on my arms stand on
end. I pull my handbag out from under the desk and dig through it, looking for my phone.
“Hello, did you hear me?” the guy on the other end says more impatiently. I forgot he was
even on the line during my search.
“Yes, I’m here. Sorry. It’s my cell,” I tell him, holding the desk phone between my
shoulder and ear.
“Look, I gotta get out of town and won’t be back for a week, so can you meet me
somewhere?”
“Um, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I reply, worrying my bottom lip.
“Do you want your phone or not?”
“Yes, of course I want my phone,” I say, becoming annoyed. What kind of stupid question
is that?
“Then you need to meet me so I can give it to you.”
“I don’t get off work for another hour. Can you meet me after that?” I cross my fingers,
hoping he can. I don’t know what I would do without my phone for a week—not that I want to
call or text anyone, but I was kicking ass in Candy Crush and wanted to beat my last score.
“Jesus, where the fuck do you wanna meet?” he grumbles, making me smile. I don’t
know why, but it kind of makes me happy I am annoying him.
“Can you meet me out front of Jack’s Bar-B-Que in an hour and a half?”
“Sure, fine.” I can tell by his tone that he’s completely irritated, and I smile even bigger.
“Thanks a lot,” I mummer.
“What are you wearing?” he asks, making the grin slide off my face.
“What the hell does that matter?”
“Look,” he huffs out, “I have your phone, which means you don’t have a phone, right?”
“Right,” I repeat like an idiot.
“That means I can’t call to tell you when I get there. Therefore, I need to know what
you’re wearing so I can spot you on the street, right?” I can hear the smile in his voice now.
“I guess that makes sense,” I say, and he chuckles, the deepness of his laughter making
my belly flutter.
“So, let’s try this again. What are you wearing?”
“Oh.” I look down at myself, feeling stupid about what I’m going to say to him. “Um…a
grey skirt, a white silk blouse… Oh! And I have brown hair,” I add at the end, since I don’t
know how many women might be wearing the same kind of thing I am.
“All right, sweetheart. I’ll see you in an hour and a half,” he says, and before I have a
chance to say anything else, the line goes dead.
I hang up the receiver and toss my bag back under the desk before putting all the books
that have been checked in throughout the day back on the shelves.
I started working at the school library a year ago when I moved to Nashville from Seattle.
I work here three days a week, and the rest of the time, I work from home as a medical
insurance specialist. I like working here; it’s quiet, and the pay is good—and it doesn’t hurt
that I spend most of my day alone.
I finish out my shift by updating the computer system, and after making sure that no one
is still browsing the shelves, I lock up. When I leave the building, I notice that most of the
staff has left for the day. The parking lot is empty except for my red Audi. I get in my car, turn
it on, and flip the button for the convertible top, which takes a second to go back accordion-
style and lock into place. The sound of Addicted to Love by Florence and the Machine starts
playing as I head downtown.
When I reach the area I’m supposed to meet the guy with my phone, it takes a few
minutes to find parking. This part of town is always crazy around this time of day. By the time
I reach Jake’s, I’m about ten minutes later than I planned on being. I look around, wondering
what this guy might look like. There are so many people walking around, so I feel like an idiot
for not having asked him what he was wearing too. I pick a spot next to the building and cross
my arms over my chest. I want to sit down so badly; my feet are killing me. I have a sick love
for heels, and the ones I wore today are paying me back for wearing them for more than a few
hours.
I look around and see a guy staring at me. He’s about my age, not much taller than my
five feet five inches, cute, and wearing a suit and tie. I start to wave to see if he’s the one I’m
meeting, but then another guy catches my attention. He’s about six three and huge, and I
don’t mean just in height; his body looks like it’s been chiseled from stone. He’s wearing
black boots, washed-out blue jeans, and a white t-shirt, and every piece of skin exposed is
covered with tattoos. His ears have those gauge thingies in them. His dark blond hair is cut
low on the sides, and the top is in a fauxhawk. His jaw is strong, with a few days of stubble,
and his eyes are so blue that they almost look like contacts. He is beautiful in a way that is
unusual but no less gorgeous.
His eyes come to me before looking away quickly, and the next second, they come back
to me and do a head-to-toe sweep. I gulp at the intense expression on his face. I glance past
him to the other guy—or at least try to—but Mr. Tattoo starts towards me, blocking my view. I
want to take a step back, but I can’t go anywhere. Then I see my phone in his hand.
“This yours?” he asks.
I nod like an idiot. He shakes his head, running his free hand down his face, and then his
eyes sweep over me again.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he says, seeming upset.
I look down at myself, wondering how I could’ve offended him. I look normal—or my
working-outside-the-house normal. When I’m at home working, I wear baggy sweats I cut off
to make shorts or pajama pants that hang off of me along with tank tops or T-shirts. The few
days a week I get out of the house, I like to dress up or at least wear heels.
“This cannot be fucking happening,” he growls, and I wonder if he is completely crazy.
“What?” I ask, finally finding my voice. I have to tilt my head way back; even in my four-
inch heels, he still towers over me.
“You.”
“Me, what?” I ask, confused.
“Never mind. Who is this?” He presses the button on my phone, the screen lights up, and
a picture of Jamie Dornan wearing nothing but a pair of jeans takes up the screen.
“Um…that’s Jamie,” I reply, wondering why he is asking but too afraid to ask him; the
look on his face isn’t very inviting for conversation.
“He your man?”
“I wish,” I mumble under my breath and hear him growl.
My head flies back as I search his face; his jaw is ticking, and his knuckles of the hand
holding my phone are turning white.
“What does that mean?” he asks.
“That’s Jamie Dornan. He’s playing Fifty. I don’t know him.” I feel my cheeks heat up
and look down at my feet.
What the hell’s wrong with me? Why am I not afraid right now? I have been scared of
virtually everything my whole life, and now, when I should be running for cover, I’m not
scared at all. Just a little embarrassed.
“I don’t have time for this,” he says, and I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I all of
a sudden really want my phone out of his hand before he crushes it to smithereens.
When I look up again, I see that he is walking away. My eyebrows come together, and I
wonder what he is doing. Then I realize he still has my cell.
“Hey! You can’t steal my phone!” I run after him, grabbing his arm.
He looks down at me then stops short. I’m completely caught off guard when he wraps
an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His free hand goes into my hair and
pulls my head back, and then he kisses me. No, not kisses—he consumes me. My body starts
to buzz like someone just plugged me into an electrical outlet, and I start to feel lightheaded.
When he pulls his mouth from mine, I gasp, my fingers going to my lips.
“What was that?” I whisper, looking into his eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asks, still holding me close.
“Sophie,” I tell him, my answer spoken behind my fingers.
His body is as hard as a rock against mine; I can feel every muscle, every contour, and it
takes everything in me to keep breathing. I realize this is the first time in my life I have ever
felt small, my curvy figure never having allowed it before.
“Sophie,” he repeats, standing up to his full height and pulling me with him. I look
around and wonder if time has stopped for anyone else. “My name is Nico.”
“Of course it is,” I say, staring into his amazing eyes, thinking that a guy who looks like

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