Page 30 of Lotus

Gabe is staring at me with those protective green eyes, dousing me in brotherly concern. Forcing a smile onto my face, I bob my head. “I’m good. It takes more than a raging, masked lunatic with superstrength wishing death upon me to shake me.”

He gives me a wink and a smile, holding out his fist. “Liar.”

We fist-bump, and I make my way down the hall to Oliver’s bedroom, the basket of cookies dangling from my wrist. I knock gently, then crack open the door, peering inside to find him in deep concentration at a wooden desk that Gabe must have brought in from the guestroom.

Oliver glances up at me, slight confusion puckering his brow, not expecting the interruption. But then he stands, his features melting into something resembling relief. “Sydney,” he greets, his eyes trailing me as I take hesitant steps inside the room.

I smooth my hair out with my fingers, smiling, my own relief shimmering back at him. He looks genuinely happy to see me, and that sends my already weakened heart into a fluttering mess. “Hey. I hope I’m not bothering you—I just wanted to bring these by.” Holding up the basket of cookies, I monitor his expression as he takes in the treats, the scent of warm, comforting memories wafting around me.

Oliver moves in closer, his gaze settling on the cookies. “You made these for me? Why?”

“Because you saved my life like a freakin’ badass. Heroes deserve cookies.” I hold the basket higher. “Try one.”

He plucks a cookie from the pile, his eyes flickering to me, a smile hinting at his lips. Oliver takes a bite, his grin widening.

Nailed it.

“Not too bad, huh? It only took me two attempts and a minimal amount of tears.” Waggling my eyebrows, I reach for my own confection and place the basket down on the desk. “Your mom gave me this recipe. Oatmeal cookies were your favorite.”

Oliver’s joy wavers ever so slightly, and he pauses mid-chew, his gaze drifting to the floor. “I can’t recall that memory.”

“That’s okay,” I assure him, biting into the chewy dessert, a familiar ache pinching my heart. “Maybe you will someday. I’ll just have to make you a lot of cookies to jog your memory.”

“I think I’d enjoy that. These are quite good.”

Our eyes hold, both of us chewing through enchanted smiles.

Hell, I’d bake all the damn cookies if it meant I’d get to see this expression on his face again. I’d become the cookiequeen.

“I like when you do that,” I murmur softly, pointing at his mouth.

“Consume food?”

Good Lord. I can’t decide if his blunt intellect is more amusing or charming. I respond with a chuckle. “Smile.”

“Oh.” Oliver nods knowingly, then swallows down the rest of his bite. “I enjoy your smile as well. It makes me want to smile more.”

Charming. One-hundred percent charming.

I swear to God I almost blush as I slip out of my cardigan, catching the way Oliver’s gaze travels over me, taking in my tank top and skinny jeans when I remove the extra layer. He’s probably shocked that I’m wearing something other than a t-shirt and black leggings. Folding my cardigan over his desk chair, I sweep my hair over to one side and watch his eyes drift back up to my face in a slow pull. They look darker, more ablaze, alight with a heated curiosity.

I think he likes what he sees.

The thought draws a gulp from my throat as my tongue juts out to wet my lips. Subject change, coming in hot. “So, what were you drawing? Can I see?”

Oliver blinks, hesitating briefly, then approaches his drawing desk and reaches for the sketchpad. There is noticeable doubt in his movements, a trace of something shy, maybe even embarrassed. I can only imagine how personal these comics are to him—he called them afriend.

My stance softens as I inch towards him. “I’ll understand if you’re not ready to share them yet. I’m sure they’re very special to you.”

“Yes, but that’s not…” Oliver pauses, his eyes skimming across the paper, then cutting back to me. “You may find them juvenile. Childish.”

We stand there facing each other, and I’m taken by the fact that he cares about what I think. He’s worried that my opinion of his work would not be favorable, and somehow, that touches my heart. “Oliver… I’ve already seen your talent. It’s exceptional.”

There is nothing juvenile about Oliver Lynch. While he does have a profound innocence about him, he’s not at allchildlike. Oliver is all man, from the muscles peeking out beneath his cropped sleeves, to the rough stubble along his jawline, to the low, gravelly sound of his voice, to the brilliance of his mind.

My response seems to please him, and Oliver hands me the sketchpad, then patiently awaits my feedback.

Well, damn.

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