Chapter 4: Chapter Three

Gavin stretched out the stiffness in his muscles, then tugged on his well-worn cowboy boots. After wrapping up the knights' final game, he'd retreated to his room for a shower and a change into his usual clothes. The adrenaline from the tournament had kept him focused, but the second he stepped into his room, thoughts of Felicity flooded his mind, playing on repeat like a highlight reel he couldn't shut off.

She was a strange one, no doubt about it—definitely not from around here. Her medieval getup alone was enough to raise eyebrows, but there was something else about her. Those snapping green eyes of hers, sharp as a blade and just as captivating, lingered in his thoughts. She was undeniably pretty, though he tried not to dwell on that. The cocky tilt of her chin grated on him, but instead of pushing him away, it only stoked the fire of curiosity. Why had she stormed into his life like this? What was her angle?

He hadn't seen her since he left for the knights' last match, but he could feel her presence, like a shadow hovering just out of sight. She was around, somewhere. Watching him, probably with those defiant green eyes of hers.

Gavin let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. And to think she'd tried to convince him she wasn't interested in him. Yeah, right. He'd seen that spark in her gaze, the one she thought she'd hidden. Women didn't often look at him without at least a flicker of attraction, and Felicity was no exception. She might be a puzzle, but Gavin knew one thing—she wasn't done with him yet.

He gave his dressing room one last scan, ensuring everything was tucked neatly away in his locker before heading out, carrying his duffle bag. The hallway was eerily quiet, the usual post-game chatter noticeably absent. He paused for a moment, frowning. Had everyone already cleared out? Surely, it hadn't taken him that long to change.

His cowboy boots thudded against the polished floor, the sound bouncing off the walls in the silence as he made his way toward the back door. Pushing it open, he stepped outside and was greeted by the heavy stillness of the night. The parking lot lights cast faint yellow halos across the asphalt, but the rest of the world was swallowed in darkness.

Immediately, he noticed his truck was the only vehicle left in the parking lot. He rubbed the back of his neck, puzzled. How had he managed to lose track of so much time? He could've sworn he hadn't been in the dressing room that long. The quiet around him settled uneasily in his chest, and for a brief moment, he glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting someone to emerge from the shadows.

But there was no one. Only silence.

"I'm happy to see you've finally come out."

Felicity's voice came out of nowhere, and Gavin jumped. He turned toward her as she leaned against the wall, still wearing the medieval blue gown with the long, draping sleeves. Inwardly, he groaned. Apparently, she did want to go out with him.

He blew out a heavy breath. "You're going to have to learn not to sneak up on people like that."

"I wasn't sneaking." She slowly pulled away from the wall. "I've been right here waiting for you this entire time."

"So you have." He turned and started walking toward his truck.

"I thought we could have our talk now." She hurried behind him.

"Sorry, lady, but I've had an exhausting evening. I'm tired and I want to go to bed. Besides that, I have classes tomorrow."

"Classes? What for? You are genetically intelligent."

He slowed his steps, turning to meet her gaze. Was she serious? The look in her eyes—intense, almost reverent—left no room for doubt. She was.

His stomach twisted at the realization. Fantastic. That left him with only one conclusion... she was completely out of her mind.

Just his luck. Of all the women who could've decided to stalk him, it had to be a beautiful, undeniably crazy one. The kind that made his life far more complicated than it needed to be.

"Thanks for the compliment, but now I really think you've gotten me confused with someone else." He turned and continued walking toward his truck.

"No. You are the man I'm after, Arthur Gavin Beaumont."

A dull throb pulsed in Gavin's temples, the confusion from earlier twisting tighter with every word she spoke. How did she know his first name—and his father's? His mind churned, struggling to piece together answers that weren't there. The exhaustion, both mental and physical, weighed heavily on him. He wasn't sure how much more of her cryptic games he could endure.

Reaching his truck, he stopped abruptly and leaned against the door, the cool metal grounding him for a moment. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling a sharp breath, but when he opened them, she was right there, stopping just a step away. Her gaze locked onto his, unwavering, as though daring him to ask the question he didn't yet have the strength to form.

"Listen lady, this whole medieval thing you have going on has been fun, but I'm tired and I need to go home. Sorry, but we won't be able to have that date tonight like you wanted."

Her brow furrowed. "Date? I know not want you mean. I only wish to talk to you."

"Talk? That's all?"

She nodded. "What else would there be to do?"

He bit his lower lip, studying her with a mixture of frustration and curiosity. She wasn't exactly clueless, but something about her didn't quite add up. She didn't have the air of someone naive or dim-witted, and yet... her words didn't exactly scream brilliance either. Still, he wasn't foolish enough to believe she'd never been out on a date before. Not with looks like hers—those striking green eyes and that cascade of auburn hair. And of course, that only made her strange behavior all the more baffling.

"Fine." He unlocked his truck and opened the passenger door, motioning his hand for her to climb inside. "We'll talk, but make it quick."

Her smile brightened as she climbed into the truck, a spark of excitement lighting up her face. Gavin closed the door behind her, the faint thud breaking the silence, and rounded the front to his side. He climbed in, the seat creaking slightly under his weight. He placed his duffle bag on the floor near Felicity's feet before sliding the keys into the ignition.

But he didn't start the engine. Instead, he leaned back, his posture easing into a casual slouch. His arm rested along the back of the seat, his fingers brushing lightly against the edge, while his eyes lingered on her for a moment, measuring her expression.

"So, Felicity. What do you need to tell me?"

She released an uncomfortable laugh as she wrung her delicate hands in her lap. Her gaze dropped to her fingers.

"Now that the moment is here, I fear I'm a loss for words." She looked up at him again. "Although I know what I want to say, I hesitate. The subject is most complicated, and I don't wish to confuse you."

"I'm already confused, so you might as well just say it."

"What do you remember of your childhood? More specifically, when you were in your fifth year."

"My fifth year? Do you mean when I was five-years-old?"

"Yes. It's the same thing, is it not?"

"Yeah, apparently." He shrugged. "I don't remember much at all. In fact, my memories really only start when I entered grade school in Kindergarten."

"How old were you?"

"Six."

"So you know nothing before that point?"

"Only what my mother told me."

She leaned toward him slightly. "What did she tell you about your father?"

"She said my father wasn't a good man so we left and came here to start a new life."

"Did your mother mention to you at all where you came from?"

He paused in thought. He couldn't recall if his mom ever told him that. "No, I don't think so."

She nodded and scooted closer to him. If this was her way of flirting, it was definitely out of the ordinary.

"Tell me Gavin, do you have dreams about living in a land far away, in a place with castles and knights, kings and queens, dressed as I am?"

He laughed. "I don't need to dream it, lady. I live it." He motioned toward the building. "Have you forgotten where I work?"

She brushed her hand through the air. "That's beside the point. I want you to tell me about your dreams of faraway lands."

Even if he thought she might be a little crazy, Gavin couldn't help but be drawn to the way her eyes sparkled with excitement when she spoke about faraway lands. There was something infectious about it, a kind of unfiltered passion that tugged at a memory buried deep in his chest.

It reminded him of when he was a boy, around ten, dreaming of grand adventures. He used to imagine himself astride a noble horse, clad in shining armor, wielding a sword with unshakable courage. Those dreams had felt so real, so vivid. He'd told his mother all about them, and she had embraced them in a way that only she could—playing along as if they were truly there. She would be the queen, regal and poised, and he, her brave little prince, ready to defend their imaginary kingdom.

For a moment, the memory softened something inside him. He hadn't thought about those days in years, but watching this strange woman now—so full of energy, so unrestrained—it was as if those long-forgotten dreams were stirring again, just out of reach.

"Sure. What kid doesn't dream that way?" he answered.

She took a deep breath and clasped her hands against her slender waist again. "Gavin, what if I told you that the place I've just described is where I'm from. That's where you are from. The place is called... Camelot."

It took a few moments for the information to absorb through his tired brain, but when it finally did, he became more curious. Felicity had known his mother. Why else would she know about Camelot?

Anger snapped inside of him, and he gritted his teeth. Why was she doing this to him? He didn't like secrets, and he especially didn't like women who lied.

He grasped her by the shoulders and leaned toward her. She gasped, but didn't move. "What is your game, woman? Why are you playing with my mind this way?"

Her eyes widened, her gaze locked onto his with an intensity that made his pulse quicken. Slowly, she licked her lips, her chest rising and falling faster with each breath. He felt the warm puff of air against his face, faintly tinged with the unmistakable scent of... corn chips? It should've been distracting, maybe even humorous, but it wasn't. Not when the electricity crackling between them stirred something deep and unfamiliar within him, something thrilling.

"Tell me why you're suddenly upset," she said softly, her voice laced with quiet concern.

"No." His response came quick and sharp, and he pulled back as though her touch had burned him. Truthfully, it wasn't just her words that had him on edge—it was the pull he felt toward her, the way his body seemed to betray his better judgment. This attraction, as unwelcome as it was undeniable, confused him just as much as her questions did.

"Gavin, please." Her voice was barely above a whisper as her fingers brushed against his arm, sending a ripple of warmth through him. "Why does the mention of Camelot make you this way?"

He closed his eyes, shaking his head as if trying to will the conversation—and the feelings—away. "I'm done," he muttered, his voice low and strained. "I don't want to talk anymore."

He pressed his fingers to his temple, rubbing at the dull ache that had begun to build. The confusion, the memories that felt just out of reach, and her relentless questions—everything was pushing him to a breaking point he didn't want to confront. Not now.

Her soft hand slid against his cheek, warm and featherlight, as she gently turned his face toward her. His eyes fluttered open, and his breath hitched. She was closer now—much closer. Mere inches separated them, her presence so tangible it felt like a magnetic force pulling him in. His gaze dropped to her lips, their subtle curve teasing him, and the awareness of her proximity buzzed through his veins like a live wire.

"Gavin," she murmured, her voice low and soothing, "don't be ashamed to tell me your feelings. I'm here for you. I want you to share your memories with me, because I'm the only one who has the answers."

Her words settled over him like a weight, but it wasn't oppressive. It was grounding, tethering him to this moment, to her. The warmth of her touch seeped into his skin, igniting something in his blood that made his heart race. The exhaustion that had been dragging him down moments ago vanished, replaced by a surge of energy so sharp it almost startled him.

He felt alive. More than that, he felt invincible. Like he could run a marathon, ace a calculus exam, and take on anything life threw at him—all at once. It was intoxicating, this sudden flood of alertness coursing through his body, sharpening his senses and heightening his awareness of every detail.

How? How had she done this to him? He stared at her, his mind spinning. Had she injected him with something? Slipped him a drug without his noticing? But all she'd done was touch him.

Yet, her touch was enough. Enough to ignite his blood, to send his heart pounding, to make him feel as though the world had tilted on its axis and she was the only steady point.

Adrenaline surged through his veins, hot and relentless, quickening his breath and tightening his chest. That had to be the reason his pulse raced, the reason his hands tingled with the urge to act. But was it the reason he couldn't tear his eyes away from her lips—full, soft, and inviting, like rose petals tempting him closer?

Before he could think better of it, instinct overrode caution. His hands found her waist, sliding around her and pulling her against him. He pressed her back into the seat, his heart hammering wildly. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath that sent a shiver racing through him, but she didn't pull away.

Her green eyes, luminous and unguarded, locked onto his, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just this—just her. The look in her eyes nearly undid him, a mixture of vulnerability and desire that sent his thoughts spiraling. She swallowed hard, her gaze dipping to his mouth, and he felt his control snap like a thread pulled too tight.

He couldn't stand it any longer. The anticipation coiled inside him, pulsing with every beat of his heart, demanding release. Whatever this urgency was, he didn't want to question it, didn't want to analyze or second-guess. He just wanted her.

Lowering his head, he captured her mouth with his, the softness of her lips igniting something deep and primal inside him. She sighed, the sound low and throaty, and melted against him as though she'd been waiting for this just as much as he had. Her body relaxed in his arms, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he could lose himself in the sweetness of her response.

But then, it happened.

Images exploded in his mind, unbidden and vivid, like fragments of a dream that didn't belong to him. Faces he didn't recognize, places he'd never seen, and emotions that didn't feel like his own overwhelmed him in an instant. It was like a tidal wave crashing over him, pulling him under.

Gavin froze, his breath catching as the world around him blurred. The kiss, the truck, even the feel of her in his arms—all of it faded beneath the torrent of visions flooding his head.

He couldn't have been more than four or five years old in the memory. He stood beside his panicked mother in a small, cluttered room filled with shelves of strange bottles and objects he couldn't name. A thin man with long white hair and a beard hovered over a boiling cauldron that emitted a strange grayish-yellow smoke. The air smelled sharp, like something ancient and powerful.

By the table, a young girl with pigtails sat wide-eyed, watching the man work. But it was the old man himself who captured Gavin's attention—his sharp, knowing gaze, the way he leaned forward and whispered as though imparting a great secret.

"You shall remember me in your dreams," the man said, his voice low and deliberate. Then, with a soft puff of breath, he blew the swirling smoke directly at Gavin.

Hitching a breath, Gavin snapped out of the vivid image and jerked away from her, his head spinning. Felicity's face swam into focus, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes searched his, bright and sharp, and for a split second, he thought he saw the same wide-eyed wonder in her expression as he'd seen in the girl from his memory.

What is happening to me? He shook his head, trying to regain his grasp on reality. She had to have drugged him—what other explanation was there? His mind reeled from the sudden onslaught of emotions and memories that didn't feel like his own.

"Gavin?" Her soft voice broke through his racing thoughts. "What did you just see... when you kissed me?"

"Nothing," he said sharply, closing his eyes and placing his hands over his ears as if trying to block her out. Breathing deeply, he willed himself to calm down. "Please, just... go away. I don't feel well."

"Did you see your mother?" she pressed, her tone gentle yet insistent.

"Yes," he muttered through clenched teeth. "She was afraid."

Her gaze softened. "What else did you see?"

His frustration boiled over. Why wouldn't she just stop? Maybe the only way to get her to leave was to tell her what she wanted to hear. He exhaled sharply and fixed her with an exasperated glare.

"I saw an old man with long white hair. I saw a room filled with strange bottles. And I saw what looked like a witch's cauldron with grayish-yellow smoke swirling above it." He sighed heavily, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "There. Happy now? I'm officially as crazy as you."

Her smile widened, calm and unwavering. "No, Gavin. You're not crazy. Arthur Gavin Beaumont, Prince of Camelot... what you saw really happened."

Her words hit him like a thunderclap, leaving him stunned. He pressed himself back against the door, staring at her as though she'd just told him the world was ending.

"How do you know about the game I used to play with my mother?" he demanded, his voice low and tense. "Why did you call me Prince of Camelot?"

"Because that's who you are," she said simply. "That's where you came from. And the old man with long white hair? He's my grandfather. His name is Merlin."

Gavin arched an eyebrow, disbelief flooding his face. "Merlin? As in the wizard?"

"Yes," she said with a faint smile. "Though we call him a sorcerer."

He stared at her for several long, undisturbed seconds. She wasn't joking. She actually believed the words coming out of her mouth. This had to be some kind of elaborate prank, some bizarre fantasy she'd constructed.

Leaning forward, he rested his head on the steering wheel and folded his arms over it. If he heard one more word from her, his head might actually explode.

As he sat there, trying to steady his breathing, he realized something startling—the strange sensations he'd felt after she touched him—the surge of energy, the hyper-alertness—were gone. She hadn't drugged him.

Maybe she was the drug.

"I'm sorry, Felicity," he said finally, his voice muffled against the steering wheel. "But I can't believe any of this. What I do believe is that you're a fan of medieval times—and a fan of mine. I'm flattered, really. But let's leave it at that. This is getting too weird, and I need to go home and rest."

Silence fell. Too much silence. Slowly, Gavin turned his head to where she'd been sitting. She was gone.

He jerked upright, his eyes darting around the truck. How had she disappeared without him noticing? He glanced out the window toward the empty parking lot, searching for her retreating figure. Nothing.

He rubbed his temples, groaning at the pounding ache in his head. He must be overworked—between school and his job, he was running on fumes. That had to explain everything.

As he started the engine and drove toward the main road, he rolled down the window, letting the cool night air wash over him. And yet, her scent lingered. Lilacs. He swore under his breath. How did he even know what lilacs smelled like?

He glanced at the passenger seat a few times as he drove, half expecting her to reappear. The unsettling sense that she was watching him, even from afar, sent a shiver down his spine.

Maybe he really was losing his mind.

Chuckling nervously, he shook his head. He must've hit it somehow during the performance. Why else would he be imagining things like this? He'd take it easy for the next week—skip the late nights, stop distracting himself with meaningless dates, and focus on what mattered most: becoming an attorney.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, doubt crept in. Why couldn't he picture himself in a law office, wearing a crisp suit and tie? Instead, his mind conjured something else—an image of him on horseback, with Felicity behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist. They were laughing, the wind rushing past them, both dressed in medieval attire.

Gavin groaned inwardly, gripping the wheel tighter. Whatever was happening, he didn't have the energy to think about it anymore.