Chapter 4 - Camilla

“ Respirador de fuego…” Abuela ’s voice echoes in my eardrums like a warning just as I’m jolted from another nightmarish dream of the fire breathing dragon.

It’s another night of craziness added to the tally of madness that I’ve been experiencing for the last five nights. With a trembling hand reaching for my water supply from the nightstand, I wipe the sweat beaded across my brows while trying to remain grateful for another day alive.

I didn’t think I’d be spooked so easily, but the dreams about the fire breathing creature have only grown more vivid and scarier. The eerie presence of the reptilian beast overshadows the beauty of the meadow in my imagination, stripping it of its sanctitude and turning it into a place of dread that I never want to visit again.

I’ve been forced to be there every night since the first dream where the dragon flew in. Every night, my dreams continue where the last left off, like a television series with escalating episodes and cliffhangers every time I’m snapped back to reality.

This morning’s mystery was the moment the dragon landed in the pool of crystal water in front of me. I was too stunned to move, entranced by the slitted green eyes that stared at my face as if I were its next meal.

When it leaned in, I shut my eyelids and willed my consciousness to wake me from the dream.

I let out a long, drawn-out breath, just glad to be back in the comfort of my bed. Taking a few moments to be grateful that the threat only exists in my dreams, I stall a bit of time before I have to embark on my reality.

A reality that isn’t as exciting as it was a few months ago.

Those stolen glances at the handsome, mysterious stranger were enough to spice up my rather mundane life.

Ever since he disappeared, I don’t have much to look forward to at the museum. He came in like a wisp of fresh air, to breathe new life into a job I’ve only been doing to keep me surrounded by works of art I’m interested in.

When I applied to become a tour guide at the museum, I didn’t think I’d become so familiar with the paintings and sculptures that they would lose their novelty to me.

Scoffing under my breath, I push through the rotating glass door, freezing on the spot, when I notice the mop of strawberry blonde hair.

A shocked gasp escapes my lips as the only indication that I’m still alive and breathing. I don’t even need to see his face to know that the man standing at reception is none other than the handsome stranger who has plagued my thoughts ever since I saw him amongst the crowd of the afternoon group of museum tourists all those months ago.

He’s back…

I blink fervently to ensure that my dreams and whimsical fantasies aren’t bleeding into my reality when he casually leans a forearm on the desk, the side of his face becoming visible enough to confirm that it’s him. With a sharp, distinct jawline cutting toward a set of plump, cherry lips, his long, light lashes flutter with the precision of a pretty butterfly with every blink.

I quickly scamper off behind the bookshelf, close enough to hear him but far enough so he won’t see me.

What is he doing here?

He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, a set of long, dexterous fingers slipping out his wallet before he speaks to Jenna.

“How much do I owe you, Miss?” he asks her. His smooth voice trickles into my eardrums as if warm honey has been poured. Soft but commanding with its depth, it sends goosebumps pebbling on my forearms.

I’m not the only one affected when I notice Jenna gawking at him with a dropped jaw.

“You-you’re really here to settle your account, S-Sir?” she stammers, reaching for the receiver on the desk.

I match her frown from my hiding place as the man nods.

“It was a matter of misunderstanding,” he explains, producing another card. “You can bill me for the week I didn’t pay.”

Jenna tersely nods as she takes the card from the man, her eyes scrutinizing the print.

“Mr. Sterling Vance…” she says, pressing the receiver to her ear. “I’m going to run this past my manager, but there—”

Sterling Vance…

So that’s his name…

Somehow, it’s not what I was expecting, though I hadn’t given much thought to guessing his name.

Up until now, he was a nameless stranger who I thought I’d never see again.

“... Please add to my bill a tour for today.”

“What timeslot would you like, Sir?” Jenna asks him.

“Whatever timeslot Ms. Torres will be guiding.”

My eyes widen with horror behind the stack of books on the shelf, prompting me to turn slowly as shock washes over me in pulsating waves.

“Shit…” I murmur, staring down at the way I’m dressed.

He’s going to be joining my tour.

It doesn’t even matter why he wants to join my scheduled tour.

What matters is my lack of effort when I dressed for work this morning.

With my heart steadily picking up pace until I hear the reverberation of my pounding ribcage in my eardrums, I bolt for the bathroom, keeping my face down so that I can get to my destination without being spotted.

Once inside, I breathe a sigh of relief behind the door before another bout of unrest squirms inside me when my eyes land on my reflection.

“Oh, no…” I murmur, running my fingers through the frizzle mass of raven black hair I’d hardly brushed this morning. With anxiously furrowed brows as I stare at myself in the mirror, I walk forward and slouch discontentedly.

I look down to rake my eyes over the unflattering way the monotonous gray pencil skirt chokeholds my thick thighs. Every fold of the dreary fabric only highlights my larger curves, bringing attention to my dimples of cellulite.

“Shit…” I murmur with an almost sob as I attempt to flatten the skirt with desperate strokes of my trembling palms. An idea pops into my head like a flick of a switch, and with my tongue pressed to my cheek, I grab the hem toward the left side of the skirt with both hands and give the fabric a firm tug.

It rips apart, but not the way I was hoping it would. Now I’m left with a slit high enough to peep the yellow granny panties I’d worn thanks to my natural cycle that greeted me yesterday morning.

‘Holy shit!”

My eyes widen as I stare at myself in disbelief. I need to figure out a way to undo this mess, but the damages to my skirt are too dire to hide the tragedy.

I quickly remove the knitted sweater I’d been using to hide my voluptuous breasts in the white shirt and tie the sleeves around my waist to hide the slit.

That should do it.

Lugging in staggered breaths, I look up and realize how foolish I’m being. It’s not like the man would even notice me, let alone care about the way I’m dressed!

He’s so out of my league! It’s not like he’ll even notice me.

“Pfft!” I blow out, simultaneously blowing away the few stray strands of waves that escaped from the rest of my unbrushed hair. I pat my head to hide the static strands at the top, then laugh at my disposition.

I’ve been facing a dragon in my dreams for the past couple of nights. Surely, I can face an ordinary man who only appears extraordinary on the surface.

Besides, he’s too much of a stud to ever glance my way. Men like him don’t give women like me the time of day. He’s the type of man who probably lives in the gym.

I’ve never even seen the inside of one.

“Breathe, Camilla…” I encourage my reflection as I inhale deeply and exhale to compose myself.

It’s just another day at work.

I’m not crazy…

Once I’ve convinced myself that his request to join my tour this morning means nothing except that I’m just really good at my job, I head out and prepare for the tour, choosing to remain oblivious to his arrival in the art gallery when the rest of the group gathers around the room.

I clear my throat to gain their attention, doing my best not to let my eyes slip to the man as he hangs near a French painting. But out of the side of my eye, I catch him crossing bulging arms over his chest, a freakishly sinister smirk lifting the corners of his lips as he pays keen attention to me.

“Thank you for joining the Fresno Museum this morning,” I say robotically with a mechanical nod. “We’ll begin the tour at these paintings behind us. If you’ll take a look to your right…” I gesture to the painting of the woman where the mysterious man stands, and I gulp when he doesn’t take his eyes off me. It takes me a moment to gather my composure again, but luckily for me, the group doesn’t notice.

“... That is the work of the famous French painter, Marcello,” I continue after successfully dodging the man, Sterling’s, deeply intrusive gaze. “Renowned for its intricate brushstrokes, he painted his wife on a Sunday morning at breakfast.”

“That sounds so romantic…”

“He must have loved her very much…”

“It’s a beautiful piece…”

The compliments of awe and praise come expectedly. I allow the group a moment to appreciate the painting and take it all in.

But the pause works against me when the handsome stud merely glances at the painting before turning back to me with a raised brow.

“Painting her picture as an act of love, huh?” he says with derision laced in his tone.

“Yes, a very profound act of love,” I reply calmly. It doesn’t matter how wildly my heart is beating right now; I have to remain professional.

It’s the first time the man has spoken to me directly, and my insides feel like they’re about to explode.

Breathe, Camilla…

The man peels himself from his cool position, unwinding his arms as he strolls casually toward me. I can only watch him without moving, cemented to the spot thanks to my disbelief.

What is he doing?

“There are much grander acts of love, you know?” he whispers, his voice only loud enough to carry to my ears. Stunned by the sweet scent that mingles with the powerful notes of musk, I lift my eyes to meet the impenetrable depths of emerald swirls and feel myself freezing on the spot when I catch the way the golden specks in those eyes glimmer as if they’ve just been ignited.

“I—I am s-sure there are, Sir,” I respond hesitantly. By some stroke of luck, I’m able to tear my eyes from his attentive ones, flitting my gaze down when I notice the amusement on his lips.

Those plump cushions draw a line toward the right side of his cheek where a mole stands out prominently.

I thought I’d lose myself in his eyes, but now I suddenly have the urge to reach out and touch the mole with my fingertip, and trace the artwork that lies beside his dimple.

“I can name a few…”

His deep, husky voice startles me with what he’s implying, and I gasp sharply when I remember that I have a tour to lead.

Quickly reeling my thoughts back in and trying not to get too much of his intoxicating cologne in my nostrils, I step out of his proximity and call to the group, “Please follow me this way…”

As I turn to lead the tour down the corridor, a shiver of awareness rushes through me, and I almost trip over my own two feet in the flat pumps that should be keeping me steady.

A pair of immaculately strong hands grip my shoulders and keep me steady, the gentle gust of wind that waves by sending the richness of his masculinity in my airways. It’s so powerful that it fills me with the strength I need to prevent my knees from quivering.

“Be careful, Camilla.” The mystery man whispers gently, leaving my heart racing while my head spins with the way he drawled my name.

How does he know my first name?

Mentally shaking the intrusive thoughts away, I force myself to pretend he’s not here as he strolls down the corridor. His presence seems to be affecting me way too much to be considered normal.

I have no idea what’s going on. Maybe I’m lapping up the fleeting attention he’d just given me by talking to me like I actually exist in his reality.

I’ll have to pretend he’s just a figment of my imagination, conjured by my overactive imagination and strengthened by the past few torturous nights.

That’s all this is. There’s no other viable explanation for such a handsome stranger to give me the time of day.

Clearing my throat, I go about the rest of the tour, grateful when I notice that Sterling, the mystery man, keeps to himself and doesn’t utter another word to me.

It makes my life so much easier, even if I have to will myself not to steal a few glances at the eye candy who returned after three months and joined my tour specifically today after settling his account.

It’s not like he’s here for me. The notion is too far-fetched, too absurd to be considered. Every time I allow my mind to linger on his presence, I only end up realizing that I’m crazy to think otherwise.

Men like him don’t care for women like me. He deserves nothing less than a runway model with tight, perky breasts and the absence of any body fat.

When, at last, the tour comes to an end in the German art showroom, I thank my guests before they take turns thanking me for showing them around the museum. Sighing when a wave of relief washes over me, I clutch my clipboard to my chest when I’m startled by a mild touch on my shoulder.

I gasp as soon as I turn, meeting green eyes of keen interest.

I didn’t think he’d approach me again, let alone when the room had cleared, and we were the only two left here.

Oh, dear.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Torres,” Sterling apologizes with a charming smile. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me more about that painting over there,” he says as he points to the mystical painting near the window overlooking the city.

I nod timidly. “S-sure,” I respond, to which he smiles with gratitude before folding his arms behind him and walking off toward the painting.

Frowning, there’s nothing I can do except follow him to the window where he leans one shoulder against the frame as if he’s at home here, in a public place.

“What…” I clear my throat to straighten out my voice when it accidentally comes out too skittishly. “What would you like to know, Sir?”

He lifts one thick, almost too-perfect brow before turning to the painting. “Who’s the artist?”

The mystical painting with the brightest pastels, rich in ancient occultic symbolism, is one of my personal favorites. It’s the closest thing to a physical depiction of the dreams I usually find myself waltzing in.

Seeing it up close after spending days in my own mystical fantasy that has turned into my prison gives me the chills. A shiver of iciness slithers down my spine, and I gulp hard.

“Domingo,” I say in response to his question. “Carlisle Domingo is the artist of this magnificent, fictional piece of art that dates back three centuries.”

“Hmph,” the man hums dubiously, prompting me to frown at him.

Not only is he hanging back when the tour has already ended, but he’s also been skeptical of the painting as he inspects it with narrowed eyes.

He lifts a hand to point at a corner. “What’s this?”

I lean in to inspect what it is that he’s pointing at, noticing the flying figure with robust wings in the corner.

“It’s a bird, I’m guessing.”

“You’re wrong,” the man clicks his tongue. “As wrong as you are about the artist.”

Suddenly, I’m able to ignore the incessant pull of attraction toward the stunning man, and my curiosity is piqued.

“I’ve never had someone dispute my information,” I murmur.

He turns to me with a knowing smirk. “Not even when you’re historically incorrect?”

“I don’t believe I am… misinformed,” I counter curiously.

“That’s not a bird, Miss Torres,” he says matter-of-factly as he glances back at the painting. “That’s a dragon.”

My breath hitches in my throat at the mention of the single word that’s been haunting my dreams for the past five nights. Staring wide-eyed at the man, I turn slowly to the painting with fear crippling my tongue, afraid that the painting might come alive and prove that today has just been a dream.

But luckily for me, it doesn’t come to life, the pastel colors remaining fixed on the canvas, eternally frozen in place.

“This isn’t a work of fiction. The artist painted what they’d seen with their own eyes,” he says with a hand beneath his chin. “Dragons are as real as the air we breathe.”

“Dragons don’t exist,” I rebuff with a light scoff, rolling my eyes to dismiss the one detail I didn’t notice on the bird before.

Its wings aren’t feathery at the tips and are heavily reminiscent of the wings of the dragon from my dream with pointed tips filling out with what appears to be crystals.

Just like the dragon in my dreams with its emerald gems crowning the sharp tips of its webbed wings….

“Let me prove it to you,” Sterling says, snapping my attention from my mystical daze as he reaches into his pocket.

Blood rushes from my heart and into the soles of my feet with frightful speed. Prove it to me?

With what?

To my relief, he produces his cell phone and offers the device to me.

“Give me your number,” he says smoothly. “I’ll prove to you that dragons do exist.”

“Prove it to me?” I quiz disbelievingly. “H-how?”

There’s a slight moment of hesitation as he peels his shoulder from the wall and clears his throat. “I’ll send you some reports of dragon sightings,” he finally says, pushing his cell phone into my hesitant hand.

“Erm—okay,” I murmur, my brows knit with deep confusion as I wind trembling fingers around the warm device.

Is this his modus operandi, how he works to get a woman to give her number to him?

By suggesting that a fictional creature exists in the real world?

Mentally, I chastised myself for thinking he’d go that far just to get my number.

Maybe he’s just one of those conspiracy theorists. Many have come through the museum with their own set of beliefs and conspiracies with no grounds.

There had to be a catch to his impossibly good looks.

“Go on,” he encourages with a nod at his cell phone in my hand before turning to the painting. “They’re fascinating creatures. You’d love to hear all about them.”

Curiosity gets the best of me as I key in my number. Even if he’s crazy for believing in conspiracies about dragons, I might learn a thing or two from him to chase out the dragon that’s been visiting my dreams lately.

That’s the only reason I’d have to give him my number. I could never dream of a man like him wanting my number for any other reason except to sell me the ideas of the universe without concrete evidence.

It must be the handsome man’s pastime. I don’t have anything to lose.