Page 21 of Roaring Flames

Ansel’s brows furrow, and he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Just…that nickname.” I try to wave away my strange reaction the way one would a pesky mosquito buzzing around their head. “My mom used to call me Illy.”

A pregnant silence stretches between the two of us, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. I can see Ansel turning over that information in his head, piecing together everything he knows about me and my past—which is, admittedly, not much.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I won’t call you that anymore?—”

“No, it’s fine,” I rush to reassure him. And this time,mycheeks are the ones to heat. “I-I like it when you call me that.”

“You do? Because if it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t have to?—”

“No. I promise.” I wave another flippant hand in the air. “Sorry for being a weirdo for a moment there.”

“You’re the exact opposite of a weirdo,” Ansel tells me with a snort. Then his expression softens, turning gentler. “You don’t really talk about your birth family much.”

“You don’t either,” I point out instinctively, before realizing how bitchy I sound. I wince and backtrack. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“You make a fair point, though.” Ansel folds his hands together on top of the table and tilts his head to study me closer.

His light-brown hair is brushed in such a way to emphasize his high cheekbones and chiseled jawline. He really is a beautiful man—almost too beautiful. His perfection intimidates me, if I’m being completely honest. I feel utterly inadequate beneath his perusal.

“Cards on the table,” Ansel says, a frown touching his lips. “I don’t know my birth parents. My mom and dad adopted me when I was a child, after a few years in the foster system. Then my dad died…” Sadness flashes across his face, shadowing his ethereal features, those plush lips of his curling downwards. He looks as if he’s going to say more before changing his mind. “Well, anyway…I don’t know my birth parents.”

He punctuates the last sentence with a sheepish shrug.

I don’t blame him for not wanting to talk about his adoptive parents. I met his mom only once, and that moment…

A shiver works its way down my spine as I remember the vitriol she aimed my way. The raw, unencumbered hatred. She blamed me for the death of her husband, as strange as it sounds. I never even met the woman before, let alone her lover.

Conversation ceases as the waitress comes to our table to take our orders. She teases Ansel about being here with a girl—much to his embarrassment—before leaving with promises to return shortly with our drinks.

Alone at last, I remove my silverware from my napkin and begin to idly rip it apart. I have no idea why. I just need tomove my hands, to find an outlet for all of this restless energy skittering just beneath my skin.

Ansel doesn’t push me to talk, which I appreciate, and I use the silence to get my thoughts in some semblance of working order.

“My parents died when I was young. Maybe four or five,” I confess in a rush. “I don’t remember them that well, but I know that my mom always used to call me Illy. When they died, I was put in the foster system, and I’ve been there ever since.”

Ansel begins to tap his lean fingers against the table. “When do you turn eighteen and age out?”

I smirk. “Today, actually.”

The color drains from his face. “T-today?”

“You didn’t know? I thought that was the reason for this whole spontaneous adventure.” I wave a hand in the air to emphasize what I mean.

Ansel shakes his head adamantly. “No. I didn’t… I didn’t know. If I would’ve…” He scratches absently at the nape of his neck. “I just saw that you were upset and wanted to make you smile.”

A plethora of butterflies releases in my stomach.

“I…Iwasupset, so thank you.”

Ansel opens his mouth to respond but pauses when the waitress returns with our drinks—a coffee for me and a Coke for Ansel. Only when she leaves does Ansel resume our conversation.

“Why were you upset?”

“I…” What can I tell him? Certainly not the truth. He’ll think I’m insane. Hell, evenIthink I’m insane. There’s nothing crazier than believing the paranormal exists and that you’re connected to it. “I discovered some of my friends were keeping secrets from me.”

His brows lower. “Secrets?”

---