Page 20 of When Hearts Ignite

She takes in a deep breath, the movement drawing my attention to the gentle swells hidden under the bulky sweater and for a second, a morbid curiosity enters my mind, and I wonder what she’s hiding beneath those thick layers of clothing, like it’s her armor against the world. Then I remember the way my groin reared to life the other day when she showed up in my office with a wet shirt, her dark nipples saluting me under the damp fabric, looking very much like a wet dream come to life.

Fuck. This shouldn’t be happening. These impulses and thoughts.

Insanity.

“Send me your analysis when you’re done. I’m curious.” My voice is hoarse, and I level my eyes at her beautiful ones, and am momentarily stunned by the vivid shade of purple. A breath lodges itself in my throat.

She grins, and the impish glint I saw the other day in the conference room reappears in her eyes, and I almost flinch as the full impact hits me in my chest. Fucking bad memories and the damn dream have me out of sorts today. “You want to see it? I’m only an intern though. It’s probably not at the level of detail you’re used to.”

“Your level doesn’t matter to me. It’s your work that counts. Don’t let titles hold you back. And somehow, I have a feeling you’ll surprise me…in a good way.”

Grace bites back a smile and nods. “Will do. I should have something for you within the next hour.”

“Good.”

“Yep,” she murmurs, her eyes now dipping toward the floor.

I clear my throat and swallow, my mouth suddenly feeling dry. I should leave now and go back to my office where work is waiting for me. But having someone to talk to at this early hour when I’m usually surrounded by silence and paperwork is quite…acceptable, or appealing if I’m completely honest with myself. Suddenly, the work that was exciting to me moments ago is no longer drawing my interest.

Glancing at Grace, I find her still staring at the ground, her feet kicking some invisible object on the dark carpet. A few strands of silky brown hair hang over her face, and I wish I could ask her to look at me so I can see what she’s thinking.

The silence stretches on, and I find myself wanting to ask her more questions, to find out why she wears ill-fitting clothes, why she seems so energetic and positive most of the time, even though based on her resume and what she told me in my office a few days ago, she’s barely scraping by. What drives her to get up each day? Is it the same gnawing hunger and emptiness as me?

Somehow, I doubt that would be the case with her.

I tear my eyes away from her, not liking the direction of my hypothetical questions and my burgeoning curiosity toward this woman. Picking up my laptop bag from the floor, I turn around toward the hallway and—

“So, why are you here so early this morning?” Grace asks, and I look up, finding those startling violet eyes staring at me and I wish I could stand closer and look at the hues underneath a brighter lamp, to see if they are indeed purple and not a trick of the light.

Fuck. I’m not the type of man to wish for things. I take and ask for forgiveness later. But a nagging voice inside me tells me following my impulse wouldn’t be a good idea in this situation.

Her question fully registers a second later, and a sudden heaviness blankets me, shocking me into silence. In the last few moments, I had almost forgotten the weight in my chest and the dark dreams haunting me at night.

Swallowing, I reply, my voice thick, “Couldn’t sleep. The wind.”

Wisps of my memories float to the forefront as an invisible rope coils around my lungs, slowly restricting my airflow. That dream is like an old nemesis, haunting me for over fifteen years, and like every time in the past, when it resurfaces, the memories would wrap itself around my chest in a vise, and a phantom ache would appear in the spot where my heart is.

It was one of the last times I felt bone curling sadness. Nana passing away a few years later finished what’s left of my heart.

She stares at me, her lips softening into a sympathetic smile, her big eyes never leaving mine, and I have a distinct feeling she’s somehow trying to see through me and read my thoughts. I want to shift my stance. A part of me wants to walk away and another part of me wants to stay rooted in place, to find out what she sees when she looks at me.

“Fun fact,” she begins, breaking the moment of tension, and she gives me a quick waggle of her brows. “Do you know why the wind is measured in knots?”

My heart thuds loudly in my chest and I feel the lump loosening in my throat from the same tingling sensations I noticed when I saw her dancing at her desk.

“What?” I ask incredulously.

“Do you know why the wind is measured in knots?” she repeats, her smile smug.

I shake my head in bewilderment at this sudden change in topic. “No. Why?”

“A long time ago, sailors didn’t have a way to measure wind speed, so some of them started tying knots to a rope and tossing the rope behind the ship, letting the rope uncoil and run its course for some time. Then, they’d count how many knots were submerged during that time period, and that was used to determine the speed of the ship under the wind. One knot equals one nautical mile.”

“And how is this relevant to what we were talking about?”

She rocks her heels in place, her eyes sparkling with unshed laughter. “The best way to get yourself out of a funk is distraction. Whenever I feel troubled or sad, I’d search online for interesting facts. Then, I’d come out of that experience a little wiser and also get a reminder of how fascinating the world and its history are. And how little our problems are in the grander scheme of things.”

The thudding in my chest speeds up, a sweeping warmth flowing to my fingers, which was chilly a few moments ago. Somehow, this unassuming woman, so unlike all the women of my past—who’d be decked out in their finest clothes, throwing teasing grins or coy smiles my way—can see through me even though she barely knows me.

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