Page 23 of Tempest

“I came straight from practice.” He chuckles. “What autoimmune?”

“Hashimoto’s. It’s a thyroid thing,” I say, and Gavin stops unpacking food and turns to me. “What?”

“Shh.” His hand comes to rest on my collarbone, his thumb at the base of my throat. Slowly, he moves it up, stretching my neck taller, forcing me to look up at him while he studies the column he fingers. Gavin’s tall, six feet or more. I’d forgotten. Or it’s something I repressed, like the feel of his touch and what it always made me feel.

“You can’t see my disease,” I snark.

“I can see if it looks enlarged,” he murmurs. “How are you coping with it?”

“I have my good days and bad,” I say, blinking a few times, confused by the tender voice and the heated touch. “I was having more bad than good before I made the move here.”

“Were you living too fast, Odette?” His voice is nearly a whisper when he leans down and settles the question in my ear. Blood pools in places it shouldn’t, and I hate my body for it. I battle it enough with my disease; I don’t need to fight sexual urges on top of it.

“Yes, and it was fucking delicious,” I purr, stepping back from his body heat.

“But you’re paying for it now.”

“Everything decadent catches up to us at some point, Vaughn.”

“I hope that’s true,” he says, piercing me with his light eyes—a contrast with his dark hair and the light scruff at his jaw. I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing, though. Or maybe we are, but our perspectives are worlds apart.

My stomach makes another low rumble, and Gavin grins.

“Sorry,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“How often do you eat? You’re so thin.”

“I work in fashion,” I remind him with a raised brow.

“Doesn’t mean you should waste away. It can’t be good for you.”

A busy schedule and societal pressure have a way of taking a toll. For years, I only ate one meal a day, typically dinner with friends or clients, accompanied by booze or wine. Yeah, that kept me slim enough to fit into all the great fashion but at a price.

“I’m working on that.”

“Maybe I can help,” he says, going back to the food and distributing portions on each plate.

“I’m still not getting on ice skates, so I don’t see how you could be of any benefit.” It was something he’d tried to get me to do several times. Each time he asked, I’d laugh it off. Athleticism isn’t in my wheelhouse.

“My whole career depends on me being healthy and in shape, smartass. I know a thing or two about healthy weight gain.”

“Why would you help me? We aren’t friends.”

“We were once,” he says, his eyebrows dipping together.

“We were never friends, Gavin.” He finishes plating food without responding. “What would you like to drink?”

“Just water, please,” he says, so I fill up two glasses and motion my head toward the living room. The dining room is large and formal, and I think it will only add to the awkwardness of this night. He follows me but stops when he sees the television. “Are you playing Animal Crossing?”

Clearly, he’s trying to hold back his laugh, his shoulders bunched as he tightly holds on to the plates.

“Fuck you, Vaughn. It was your daughter who suggested it.”

“Did she now?”

“Yes. I needed a relaxing hobby and she said this was all about decorating homes and collecting clothes,” I huff, dropping the glasses on the coffee table and taking my plate from him.

“So, right up your alley,” he teases.

---