Page 37 of The Meaning Of You

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I argued. “You might still be an arsehole at times, but you’re growing on me.”

A huff of amusement was followed by a long silence. Long enough to have me wondering if maybe we’d come to the end of whatever this call had been about. A familiar voice on a difficult night? A bit of company? Whatever Nick had been looking for, he’d never know just how much I’d needed it too. I certainly wasn’t about to tell him. I’d let him hang up and hopefully get some sleep.

Me? Not so much. Too many emotions had been stirred. Too many veils stripped from my eyes. The exposure felt raw and uncomfortable. Loneliness crept up on you like a chronic illness, your mind adjusting in increments to the new normal, until one day you looked around and wondered how you’d come to thisplace. A disappointment here, an expectation lowered there, an acceptance of the status quo, a loss of faith, a web of self-taught lies, a fear of rejection, a lack of courage. We each had our own version of self-denigration. Our own version of a lonely room. Some people just visited the place. Others lived their whole lives watching a grey world pass them by.

But a quiet life didn’t have to be a lonely life, I knew that. Deep in my heart, I knew that. I just wasn’t sure any longer if I’d been lying to myself about whether I really wanted that solitary life or not. I’d bought and sold my own lie. Happy to take the path of least resistance.

So, no. I wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. And since Nick hadn’t done anything to end the call either, maybe I wasn’t the only one happy to continue whatever it was we were doing. Two lonely men on a hot New Year’s Eve.

I glanced at the well of light surrounding my phone and asked, “Do you need to go?”

His whispered reply took a moment to come. “No. This is... nice.”

I smiled and reached for my phone. “I agree. So, how do you feel about hot chocolate?”

He hesitated and I pictured those grey eyes smiling. “Not quite what I was expecting, to be honest. Did you forget the fact we’re both lying under fans with our body fat melting at the edges and no one to turn us over?”

“Pffft. There is no wrong time to drink hot chocolate,” I said dryly. “Now answer the question.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough. Then yes, I like hot chocolate. Why? Are you going to run one over to me?”

“You wish.” I set the phone on the bed and pulled a pair of boxers on as I talked. “Do you have fresh milk and chocolate?”

“Do I—hang on. I’ll go check.”

“Take your phone with you.” I made my way to the kitchen, listening to Nick do the same.

Cupboard doors opened and closed in the background and then he said, “Yes, to both.”

“Excellent.” I attached my phone to the magnetic stand sitting on the countertop and rubbed my hands together. “I’m about to talk you through the steps to making the best hot chocolate in the world a la Madigan Church. I found this family recipe stuck between the pages of a fifteenth century Spanish Bible I worked on and they let me take a copy. I’m sure it’s Mayan,” I lied. “Many lives have been lost in an attempt to procure its mysteries.”

Nick snort-laughed. “You’ve been eating dictionaries again. And also, I call bullshit.”

I chuckled. “Do I detect a note of cynical disbelief?”

I could hear him pulling drawers out and things clattering on stainless steel. “An entire symphony is closer to the truth,” he retorted. “But go on, I’ll play your silly game.”

I grinned to myself. “Grab the chocolate and grate a half cup of it into a Pyrex bowl or whatever you have that you can shove in the microwave.”

He chuckled. “Ah, the ancient Mayan hand grater and Pyrex bowl combo. A classic.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Arsehole.”

“At your service. You know, this would be easier if I could see you.” His call switched to video and I accepted without thinking, only realising my mistake when a wide-eyed and shirtless Nick Fisher filled the screen.

Christ on a cracker.

I gaped at all that lean muscle on display, revelling in the fact my troublesome fantasy life had been closer to the mark than I’d imagined. The man was fit but not bulky, his olive skin carrying a light sheen from the night’s heat, his stomach flat but softer withage, and sporting a thick happy trail that led temptingly down to the waistband of his sweats where it disappeared into my imaginings. My many, many imaginings. Dark nipples peeked through a dense mass of blondish-grey grizzled curls, and a single tattoo sat above his heart, an owl on a branch—a question for another time.

“Um . . . Madigan?”

His voice rattled me out of my musings in time to see his gaze shift over my right shoulder. “You, ah, never said this was one ofthosecooking shows.” A slow sexy smile spread over his face.

I frowned. “What?”

Keeping his eyes averted, Nick’s finger stabbed in a downward motion, my direction.

My gaze followed and my stomach plummeted, which at least allowed me to see the chequerboard briefs beneath in all their glory.

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