The fantasy floods my mind, red-hot, X-rated. I’m a walking erogenous zone.

“Who is that?” I mutter.

Jules stops us at the edge of their circle and takes advantage of my stunned state, lifting up my mask as she whispers, “Jean-Claude’s roommate, West.”

West.

Oh shit. Now, thanks to my recent deep dive into hot historical romance, I’ve got even higher expectations for the guy, with a name like West. I picture a duty-worn duke, thighs stretching his buckskin breeches as he walks broodingly across the windswept moors. Braced for ducal grandeur, I fight a swell of anxiety as Jules breaks into the trio, as West turns and faces me.

Stunning hazel eyes lock with mine and widen. But I don’t linger on his eyes long. I’m too curious, too enthralled, my gaze traveling him, drinking in the details. His throat works as he swallows. His hand grips his glass, rough at the knuckles, his fingertips raw and red. Unlike nonchalant Jean-Claude, whose stance is arrogantly loose, his tie looser, there’s nothing relaxed or casual about him. Ramrod-straight posture, not a wrinkle to be seen, not a hair out of place.

His eyes travel me, too, and while I’m poor at reading facial expressions, I’m excellent at noticing when they shift. I observe the record-scratch moment as his features tighten. And the heat previously flooding my veins cools to a chilly frost.

I watch him register the tattoos swirling over my body, starting with the bumblebee’s dance down my neck, across my chest, beneath my dress. His gaze drifts upward to the frizz of my just-showered hair and messy bangs. Finally, it wanders over the family cat Puck’s white hair stuck to my black dress. There’s a rather aggressive tuft on my lap area, where Puck parked himself before I nudged him off. Mr. Prim and Proper looks like he thinks I forgot the lint roller. He’s absolutely judging me.

“Beatrice,” Jules says.

I blink, meeting her eyes. “What?”

After twenty-nine years of twinning coexistence, I know that her patient smile plus my full name means I zoned out, and she’s repeating herself. “I said, this is Jamie Westenberg. He goes by West.”

“Jamie’s fine, too,” he says, after an awkward beat of silence. His voice is deep yet quiet. It hits my bones like a tuning fork. I don’t like it. Not a bit.

He’s still scrutinizing me, this man I’ve decided most definitely doesn’t get to ruin hist-rom Wests and is instead getting called Jamie. Judgy Jamie suits him much better.

His eyes are back at it, traveling the tattoos along my neck, over my collarbone. His critical gaze is an X-ray. Heat flares in my cheeks. “See something you like?” I ask.

Jules groans as she steals Jean-Claude’s drink and throws back half of it.