Page 51 of Grave Matter

Is he married?

You haven’t even done anything, I remind myself.Just a harmless crush and sex dreams that are out of your control. But you better fucking figure it out soon.

I sigh and then use some of that oil cleanser to wash the blood off my face.

When I use the towel again, that’s when my brain figures something out.

The monogram on the towel is one of a star and rope intertwined.

The symbol matches the one on the blanket I found on me this morning.

I burst out of the washroom to find him placing two coffees on the table.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

“Did you put that blanket on me last night?” I blurt out.

“I did,” he confirms without skipping a beat. He sits down in a chair and gestures to the couch beside him. “Have a seat.”

I do as he says, and he slides the mug of coffee toward me. Black, just the way I like it, though I notice he drinks his with cream.

“Everly told me what happened,” he says, having a sip of his. I’m only now noticing that he’s taken his coat off, so he’s wearing just a navy blue Henley that shows off the muscles of his biceps, the width and firmness of his chest and shoulders. I have to pry my eyes away from his body and focus on his face, which of course isn’t a hardship.

“But it happened so late,” I say. “She said she was going to bed.”

“We have a WhatsApp group chat here,” he says dryly. “Some nights, I can’t get an honest sleep without someone alerting me about something.”

Alerting you about what?I want to ask, but I need to stay on track.

“So Everly told me what happened, more or less, and I figured I would go check on you,” he says, swallowing down hiscoffee. “I found you in the common room, sprawled out on the couch and snoring away.”

Oh god. How sexy of me.

“I went back to the boat, grabbed a blanket, and put it on you,” he says, his palm cradling his mug. “Figured you must have been cold, and I couldn’t figure out if I should wake you or not.”

“So you were watching me sleep?” That should sound creepy, but somehow, it doesn’t.

He lets out a huff of amusement through his nose, his eyes mischievous. “I prefer the term observing. A doctor observing his patient, making sure she’s sleeping soundly.”

I take a sip of my coffee, and he gestures to it with his chin.

“Sorry it isn’t espresso,” he says. “The machine is broken, and I haven’t had time yet to take it to a repair shop. They aren’t easy to come by around here.”

“No, the coffee is fine. I like it black.”

“Right,” he says, scratching at his jaw. “I should have asked you if you wanted cream and sugar with yours. I’m sorry.”

“It’s perfect,” I assure him. “Anyway, well, I guess thank you for looking out for me. My guardian not-angel.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he gives me a closed-mouth smile as he stares at me, unabashed. Sometimes he reminds me of a hero from a Victorian novel, the classic features of his face, the timeless quality of that jaw and those high cheekbones, combined with the reservation of a man who’s seen a lot but rarely talks about it.

“What?” I ask, feeling myself get pulled into those grey eyes. It’s like being lost in the fog.

Careful. Don’t keep making the same mistakes. Don’t let history repeat.

“Nothing,” he says softly.

Man, his psychologist mind must work overtime with me.

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