Chapter summary: He can't just knock me off of my feet without letting me get to know him.

Acknowledgements: lotus11 is my pre-reader, and BelleBiter is my unexpected, yet totally kick-ass, beta extraordinaire.

A/N: Xanadu used to be a real place—it's called Beijing now. But in my mind, Xanadu is inspired by the Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem: it's like something out of a dream with otherworldly beings where anything is possible.

And now one of those otherworldly beings is in Bella's world.

If it's not too hot, and if it's not raining, I eat my lunch outside on the steps that surround the fountain. I work in the design district, where even the buildings and the grounds they are built on are works of art themselves. The fountain I'm sitting near now is often where celebrities come for their after-award interviews. When events like that happen, the fountain is off limits to the public and to the building's employees.

There are no upcoming functions today, so for me, it's tuna salad on wheat while a gentle breeze brings the scent of water. There's only a handful of people sitting around the water, and it's quiet, almost like an oasis. All I need now is a blanket and some SPF 15. It's perfect.

It's going to make having to go back to the office hard.

I'm mesmerized by the sunlight glinting off the water as it sprays high into the air. I've tried to paint it before, tried to capture the sunlight as it peeked through water, tried to let go and recreate the feeling. But for some reason, I have trouble letting go. And when I finish such a painting, it shows. What should look like free and joyous movement ends up looking stiff and sad to me.

I sigh and take another bite of my sandwich. Maybe I should just stick with creating caricature portraits while camped on the strip. People loved them. Even though it is the age of the digital selfie, people payfor painted cartoon portraits of themselves and their loved ones. It didn't make sense to me, but maybe I needed to stop thinking that way and just get with the program al—

"A dollar for your thoughts," Adonis says, and drops down beside me on the step. He even tucks a dollar bill into the space between my thumb and the sandwich I'm holding.

I forget to chew as I openly admire him. He's wearing black slacks, a dark green button down shirt, and a black tie with thin green swirls. The breeze is ruffling his hair; it glints like fire in the sunlight. He's gorrrrrrgeous.

"You're here?" I gasp and swallow my food with a hard gulp.

"I'm here," he smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Oh my god, he's got a little dimple at the side of his mouth.

Quick, look away.

I grab the dollar bill with my free hand, then try to give it back to him.

"No, it's payment for sharing your thoughts with me," he insists. So I hold it. Like an idiot.

He's got a bagged lunch of his own, although he's not bothering with it. He's just… looking and smiling at me like he's so glad to find me, like I'm the only person in the world for him.

I feel myself leaning toward him, and then jerk back in surprise. He notices, of course, but doesn't say anything.

"Wha-why are you here?" I ask.

He raises the bag in his hand. "Lunch time."

"No, I mean, why are you here?" I try to clarify. "With me? Are you… following me?"

My heart pounds at the idea of him following me. But why would he be following me?

"I work here," he says and tilts his head at the building behind the fountain.

"I thought you were a performer," I say and return my uneaten bit of tuna sandwich to my bag. I won't be able to chew another bite if he continues to look at me the way he is with those chameleo's eyes. I'm barely functioning as it is.

"I am," he says. "I'm many things, though."

Is he also a stalker? Because if he is, shouldn't he be dressed more casually? And if he is stalking me, I shouldn't be feeling the way I do, all breathless and warm and fascinated. What's wrong with me?

He finally drops his gaze and turns his attention to his own lunch, which is a ridiculous relief because even his eyes alone somehow scramble my brain. I watch his long fingers as they unwrap a sandwich. It looks like peanut butter and jelly. When he takes a bite, his eyes turn back to me, and I think I see surprise there.

"Wow. This is good," he says with a full mouth, and his tone is one of astonishment. Now he looks like a boy.

"You've never had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before?"

"Never," he says, and takes another huge bite, even though he's not finished chewing his first one.

What kind of person has never had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before?

"Who are you?" I breathe.

He finishes the bite in his mouth, closing his eyes as if he's really enjoying himself, and then turns to face me fully.

"You can call me E," he says.

"E?"

"E. Short for… terp-sick-eree."

Say what?

"What?"

"It's my name," he says, and winks at me. "But just call me E."

I shake my head. His sudden appearance, his eyes, his… name… all of this is bewildering the heck out of me.

"Okay, E," I say and focus on the fountain. "Why are you here now, with me, and not off performing in Las Vegas or Miami or someplace like Madison Square Garden? And how do you know my name?"

He's chewing again, so he holds up a long fingered hand in the universal sign for give me a minute. I see that the sandwich that would have taken several bites for me to finish is being devoured by him in only four.

"I'm here for you, Bella," he says a moment later, and the carefree look on his face morphs into something serious. "And I know your name because I'm supposed to know it."

My mind goes blank. "I don't understand," I say weakly.

He looks away from me and his profile is perfect. His jaw is a thing of beauty, even as he chews. "I'm sorry, but I really can't tell you anything more than I have already."

Well, that's not acceptable.

"But you haven't told me anything. I'm supposed to know your name," I imitate his deep tone. "All you've done is given me cryptic non-answers after showing up in unexpected places. Are you stalking me?"

His thick-lashed eyes are both mischievous and evil. "If I was, why would I admit to it? You do yourself a great disservice in even asking." And then he looks fascinated by something he sees on my face. "Your nostrils are flaring."

"That's because I'm upset," I growl.

"Great," he says with a chuckle. "Expressing emotions is healthy."

I feel like dumping my bottle of water on his beautiful head.

"Is this some kind of joke? Did Alice send you?"

Alice is always trying to get me to date. She knows people who are aspiring actors, and this just might be some elaborate blind date… joke. Maybe she found his group, told him I liked him, and somehow, some way, convinced him to…

But that doesn't make sense. He's a performer. A damn good one, at that. He's got fans. He's good looking. He's got to have a girlfriend, and even if he didn't, he's not going to be so hard up for one that he'd agree to a stranger's madcap hook-up plan for her girlfriend. He shouldn't even be here, no matter what he says.

He's silent, having watched me as I went through the least likely – and most probable scenarios, knowing Alice - in my head. He's even got his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin cupped in the palm of his hand.

"What are you doing?" I huff.

"Well," he drawls, his tone like silk, "I'm thinking that a dollar for your thoughts isn't going to be enough."

"You're playing with me," I tell him. "And I don't like it."

He straightens with a look of alarm on his face. "I'm not, Bella. This isn't a joke, and I don't know Alice. I'm not playing."

My grip on my lunch bag is so tight that the strap is biting into my fingers. If he's not here because of Alice, then why is he here? Why won't he tell me? It doesn't make any damn sense for him to be here for me.

"Well, I'm not playing, either," I say and stand. If he won't give me any answers, I'm leaving.

I think. And thought I meant it. But I don't want to.

He stands with me, surprising the heck out of me. He's tall - he must be six-foot-two. When I take a step back, he makes a move to stop me. For one second, I lose my mind: I want him to touch me.

And then I don't, because I remember that I don't know who he is or what he wants.

"Don't be scared," he says, and lowers his arm. He seems surprised himself, like he didn't mean to try and touch me.

"I'm not," I lie.

There are other people here. They're watching us, probably sensing drama. I can feel my shoulders start to hunch. I hate being at the center of attention.

"Come meet me tonight," he says suddenly. "I'll be down at the pier."

I shake my head and scoff. "I don't go to the pier."

"I hope you do tonight," he says lowly, and I get the sense that he's studying me and my reactions carefully. It immediately makes me go hot and cold.

"I like to people watch. To sketch."

I gape at him. "You draw?"

He shrugs and grins, and I want to swoon.

He sings, he dances, he draws. "You're kind of intimidating," I admit, and take another step away from him. "People who are good at everything just depress me, you know."

And he still scares me at little. He makes me feel too much, and much too soon.

"I didn't say I knew how to draw," he says as the steps between us widen.

"Do you?"

"Come and see."

"When?" I ask, although I'm not committing to anything.

"Whenever," he says. "I'll wait for you."

He'll what?

This is crazy. He's crazy.

"Don't wait," I say. "I probably won't come."

I'd be crazy to even think of going.

"I'm going to wait," he says. "Don't disappoint me, Bella."

I narrow my eyes at him. "If I come, will you answer one of my questions honestly?"

He narrows his eyes back at me, and a chill races up my back. "Depends which question," he says.

"Why?"

He shoves his hands into his pants pockets and lowers his head. Then he sighs and raises his gaze to mine. "Because there are some questions I can't answer."

"Can't or won't?" I press. Why is he being so evasive?

"Both. Are you always this persistent?"

"When there's an obvious mystery in front of me, yes," I say. "Are we going to have a problem with that?"

He cocks his head as if he's listening for something. "No. I don't think so." And then he flashes one of his knee-weakening smiles at me. "I'll see you tonight, Bella."

He's leaving?

"Wait!" I say to his back.

He spins to face me with a crooked grin and a raised eyebrow. "Yes?"

"At least tell me where you work."

So I can find you.

But he's shaking his head before I'm finished speaking. "It's a secret."

"Everything's a secret with you," I say.

"With good reason," he says, and there's a dark look in his eyes that takes me aback.

And then he's tapping the back of his wrist, and I suddenly realize I've probably gone past my lunch hour.

"Crap!" I dig for my cell phone and see that I'm ten minutes late. When I glance back up, he's gone.

I turn this way and that to try and see a glimpse of shining, copper hair, a tall figure dressed in black, but there's nothing. Just the fountain, the low bushes, and the sun in my eyes. My heart drops to my stomach.

He's gone.

But people are still sitting on the steps.

"Where did he go?" I ask one of the girls who was watching our interaction, but she just shakes her head and shrugs.

And I'm bereft. How on earth could a drop dead gorgeous man just up and disappear without anyone noticing?

Either that, or she's just not telling me.

"I'm pretty sure he's gay," I say and walk away.

. . .

He's all I think about for the rest of the day.

In between putting together numbers for budgets, I remember the way the sun glinted on his hair; while waiting for the program I need to open, I hear the warm tone of his voice as he said my name; and I don't see the monitor in front of me, I see the curve of his smile and feel butterflies in my stomach just remembering the power of it.

I am captivated by him, and I think he somehow knows it. He seems like he expects it, but not in an arrogant way.

Yet he is a stranger to me.

And he is lying to me by omission.

For my sanity, I should probably just forget him.

Yeah. Right.

. . .

All the way up to six thirty, I tell myself that I'm not going to the Santa Monica Pier. I'm going to finish the sunflower painting, have a glass of wine, and maybe soak in the tub. Anything but troll a notorious tourist spot, just because a beautiful man all but dared me to.

But once the clock hits six thirty-one, my leg starts twitching. So I get up and notice that I'm pacing the living room. Then, as my restlessness increases, I decide I'm going to go out for a jog. Nothing wrong with that.

I change into a pair of running shorts and a loose t-shirt, and brush my hair back into a ponytail. Then I grab my purse and keys on the way out the door, just in case.

I clomp down the stairs to the alley behind the house. There's a one-car garage and a carport, which is where my Civic is parked. Then I stop and stand there beside my car and stare at myself in the driver's side window. My mouth, like usual lately, is slightly open.

"Idiot," I grumble, and bring my hands to the top of my head. My purse bangs against my shoulder and my keys clank into my ear, as I turn away from the car and look up at the sky.

Then I notice the house beside next to ours. It's green, like his eyes. Is that where he lives?

As I'm staring, the back door opens and a young blond girls exits. She's wearing a pair of black gladiator sandals that look great against her skin. And she's lovely.

"Excuse me," I say, and she turns to me with a cautious look on her face. I lower my keys and purse and sigh.

"Is there … by any chance, is there a copper-haired guy who lives in your building? Calls himself E?"

"This is my family's house. It's just us blonds," she says with a smirk, and then hops into her jeep.

I fall against my car door in disappointment and watch her drive away. The road is quiet again, and I'm alone with my chaotic thoughts.

I should go running now. I should go put my purse back in the house, then go on the run that I planned on. And I turn to do just that, only I turn the wrong way and now I'm facing the damn car again.

Fine. I'll just go then. I'll take a quick peek, that's all.

I'm lucky and find free parking on the street not too far from the pier. It must be a sign that I'm meant to be here, right? With that in mind, I climb out of the car and sling my purse diagonally across my chest. I see the Ferris wheel and the roller coaster in the distance. And then I'm jogging down Colorado Avenue, and my purse is banging against my hip, and my heart is banging harder than it should be.

"I knew you'd come," he says.

His voice is behind me. He's behind me.

I'm almost at the mid-way point. I'm out of breath because I don't run that often, and because he—again—has taken me by surprise.

"Am I ever going to get to surprise you?" I gasp.

He's wearing black running shorts and a t-shirt just like me, only on him, the relaxed clothing looks sinful. His legs are long and well-muscled, and his arms. God, his arms look bitable. And like they'd give the best kind of hug.

"You've already taken me by surprise," he says, and shoves a hand through the waves on his head. He's not even out of breath.

I lean against the railing and stare at the Ferris wheel, which is glinting colorfully in the sun. I have to get used to looking at him again in small doses so he doesn't cause me brain burn.

"How? How have I taken you by surprise?"

After a few beats of silence, he leans on the railing beside me. I stare at his forearms and think they're sexy, too.

Clearly, I need help.

"The performance," he says. "I saw you. I couldn't look away from your eyes."

My breath stops. Is he telling me something real?

"And… that's unusual?"

He laughs once. It sounds almost biting. "Very. I don't usually notice one person over another. The… performance is supposed to be all consuming, even for me. I'm not supposed to see the watchers."

So far, he's not doing anything to slow down my heart rate.

"The watchers?" I ask. What a strange way to refer to the audience.

"You," he says and turns to me, and he looks puzzled. "You. The watcher? But you turned me into a watcher, too."

"Oh," I say.

He's watching me now, making me all kinds of squirmy.

"Stop looking at me," I tell him and look away from those eyes.

"That's just it. I can't," he says.

And he's still watching me. I feel the touch his gaze almost like it's a caress against my skin. I'm going to combust.

"Where's your sketchpad?" I ask.

"My … oh," and he laughs. "Come. I'll show you."

He hooks my arm with his and I get goose bumps where our skin touches. I gasp and he gasps, and then he laughs and lets me go.

"That's new, too," he says.

I just swallow, then follow him, where we tromp across several yards of sand next to the pier. I'm behind him far enough to see that he's got a great ass. Faintly, I hear the screams of kids riding the roller coaster.

And then I get nervous, because where's he taking me? I've seen movies and TV shows about dead people who are found on the beach under piers. He might be drop-dead gorgeous and planning to drop me dead. Am I being foolish right now, following a would-be murderer to my own death site?

I stick my hand down into my purse and curl my fingers around the bottle of mace.

"Here," he says.

His eyes are incandescent with that all-consuming beauty and joy that stole my breath during his performance, and I look at him in shock. Whatever he wants to show me, he's all about it.

I inch closer to where he's pointing. There's a clump of brush and a wooden post and some kind of deep grooves in the sand. When I'm close enough to see what it is, I gasp and my hand raises to cover my mouth.

It's me. My face, my hair, my eyes. The detail is phenomenal.

"How? How did you?"

He's looking at me with that disturbing intensity again. "I have a photographic memory. And you're beautiful."

I tear my eyes away from the sand drawing and glare at him. "Stop it. Stop trying to… do whatever it is you're trying to do to me. This is not how it's done."

He looks gorgeously confused. "How what is done?"

I close my eyes as my face heats up. This is so embarrassing. "Getting to know someone," I say. "You can't just knock me off of my feet without letting me get to know you."

"I can't?"

"Not with me, you can't," I say, and start walking back up the sand, back to the pier. I have to escape and fast, before I fall.

Um, before I fall even harder.

"Would you like to draw me in the sand?" he calls after me.

And I have to laugh. Either he's woefully naïve, or he's deliberately baiting me. But the thing is, I don't have a clue. He won't give me one.

I catch a whiff of food and my stomach rumbles, and I realize I forgot to eat dinner. Because earlier, well, I was actually too tied up in knots to even think about eating.

"Let's go get something to eat," I say. Maybe I can get him to open up over Coke and a burger.

We eat at the hamburger joint on the pier. He devours his cheeseburger with as much surprise and enjoyment as he did his peanut butter and jelly.

"I love food," he says with a sigh, and he's so cute with ketchup smeared at the corner of his mouth.

I look away because I want to kiss it off, and it's way too early for that. I wish I knew him better, because I've always wanted to ride the Ferris wheel during the light show, maybe share a kiss up at the top. The sun is setting in the sky, turning it an orange-ish pink. It would have been perfect.

"What's wrong?" he asks. He's uncomfortably intuitive of my every expression.

But two can play the avoidance game. "It's getting late. I need to get home."

He walks me to my car, and he's close enough to me that I feel his body heat. Every time I move to put some space between us, he bridges the gap. If he grabs my hand, I'm going to melt at his feet.

At the car, I offer to give him a lift. After all, we're heading for the same area.

"I have a ride," he says.

"You do? Where did you park? I'll drop you off," I say.

Backing away, he shakes his head. "No need. I'll see you soon, Bella."

"Wait," I say. I seem to be saying that a lot around him. "Which place on the canal is yours?"

He looks uncomfortable for a second. "Why do you want to know?"

"I want to know you're real," I say. "That I can find you."

He steps back to me, and he's not even a foot away now. "I am real. And I'll always find you, Bella."

"But what if I want to bring you a casserole one day?"

His face lights up. "You'd bring me food?"

"I would. What do you like?"

"I don't know. Everything. Surprise me."

"Tell me where you live," I say.

"The tan one," he answers, winks at me, and takes off in a jog. Wow, he's fast. I keep looking for the violet sparks, but I don't see any.

I knew I must have been dreaming.

And I hate that he seems to be running away from me, but I guess that goes with the non-answering part.

When I get home, I look for the tan house… and see that almost every other house on the street is some sort of tan.

He played me again.