Page 3 of The Lost Guardian

“Thanks, Cove.”

“See you later, and good luck!”

I’m going to need it, Santiago thought, returning his phone to his pocket. But he was prepared! And he had time. His meeting with Dr. Silva wasn’t until eleven, so he just had to get his papers in order and—

Someone barreled around the corner, slamming into him hard.

Santiago’s reflexes kicked in before his brain did. His free hand shot out, catching the intern by the elbow to keep them from going down, even as the lid popped off his cup and coffee splashed down the front of his shirt.

“Shit,” he hissed, releasing them and stepping away. “You okay?” he tried to ask.

He shouldn’t have bothered; the ungrateful undergrad didn’t even look back.

Santiago stared after them, blinking.

“Don’t worry, it’s not like I burned myself or anything,” he muttered, throwing the remnants of his sludge in the trash and contemplating the life choices that had led him to this moment. Eventually, it was the cold, sticky sensation of wet cloth clinging to his chest that roused him back to reality.

He crossed into the office he shared with Dr. Silva—who was thankfully not at her desk—and locked the door. Then he unbuttoned his shirt, peeling the drenched cotton off his skin. He didn’t have a replacement, but he did have an alpaca-wool sweater from Peru draped over his chair, mostly for decoration.

It was summer in Los Angeles, but seeing no alternative, Santiago slipped it on over his head. Alpaca wool is ordinarily quite soft, but the inside of this sweater had loose, twisted fibers that scratched and tickled his bare skin. He glanced quickly at the oversize mirror above Dr. Silva’s antique hutch, expecting it to hang loosely off his body like when he first bought it.

Instead, he was surprised to see the sweater pulling taut across his chest. And yes, the sleeves may have halted abruptly at mid-forearm, but they also stretched a little around his biceps. His latest hobby—rock climbing—seemed to be paying off.

“Not that there’s anyone here to impress.” He shrugged, spinning away from his reflection and heading out to the main body of the museum.

On most days, Santiago loved his job. Working in the Pre-Columbian Wing of the Museum of Ancient Cultures, he helped Dr. Silva conduct research, aided in the conservation of historical objects and documents, and educated visitors on the intricacies of his field. The last one wasn’t strictly necessary, but Santi thought it was good practice for the professorship he hoped to hold one day. On occasion, he even helped curate the exhibitions, ensuring their historical accuracy and relevance. And the doctor was a fantastic mentor.

Ordinarily, the painted huacos, intricately designed effigies, jade masks, and colorful textiles made Santiago feel connected to his ancestors. As he walked into a small, rectangular room on the far end of the museum, however, he didn’t feel the incredible awe that usually accompanied such relics of human history.

Today, in his itchy sweater with his big conversation looming, Santiago felt…small.

Though he was late, no one was in his section yet. Eventually tourists and students would wander in to browse the encased objects: traditional Andean looms, stone carving chisels, and—Santi’s favorite—a deadly, woven warak’a slingshot. Inca soldiers could launch stones from it fast and accurate enough to crack a Spanish sword in two.

Visitors who read the signage tended to comment on that detail. More often, they skimmed the exhibit, remarking to one another how “this room is so much smaller than the Ancient Greek and Roman wings.”

Santiago seated himself in a tall chair at the corner of the room. The metal creaked, reverberating through the narrow, high-ceilinged space. Sometimes a guard was stationed there, depending on the state of the museum’s budget. Not these days.

He fished a length of paracord rope from his pocket and began idly practicing knots as he let his mind wander. He was just unraveling a bowline knot and recalling the story of a famed Inca emperor and the goddess he loved when a delicate but pointed cough rang out.

Santiago jumped up, ready to apologize to whomever it was who had clearly been trying to get his attention. But when he looked at the stranger before him, Santiago almost tumbled back to sitting.

In front of him was the prettiest woman he had ever seen in real life. Maybe in all of life. His heart kicked up in his chest and his stomach fluttered.

She was tall, curly black hair tossed over her shoulders. Large, circular glasses hid her eyes at first, but when she looked up, he caught the glint of them…midnight-dark, tilted slightly at the corners, and framed by long, arched brows that gave her an unmistakably feline air.

She was so beautiful, but that wasn’t why Santiago’s breath caught. Or at least, it wasn’t the only reason.

There was something magnetic about her presence, an ease that drew his eye and refused to let go. Her simple white button-down and brown linen trousers should have looked plain, even studious, but on her they carried an effortless confidence. Was she an academic? He was all too aware of his own ridiculous ensemble. With great effort, he forced his cheeks not to heat at the thought of it.

Santiago had the terrible, terrifying desire to impress this woman.

And he realized that he had been staring too long.

“Help you, hi, yes!” he sputtered, mortified by the jumbled words coming out of his mouth. He cleared his throat and tried again. “My apologies, I did not see you,” he managed. “May I be of assistance?”

Inwardly, he cringed. Way too formal, Santi.

The gorgeous librarian of his dreams smiled.