Page 57 of The Meaning Of You

But when my gaze slid sideways to his details, my heart began to pump loudly in my chest. The name on the licence wasn’t Davis Minton. It was Miles Morrison. I removed the rubber band and opened the passport. Same photo. Same name.

“Nick.” I knocked my knee against his. “Nick, have you seen this?”

“Seen what?” he grumbled, opening his eyes.

I held out the passport and licence for him to see. “They’re not made out to Davis Minton.”

“What?” He jolted upright and snatched the documents from my hand. “What the fuck?” He looked up in confusion. “Who the hell is Miles Morrison?” He took another look. “And this isn’t Davis’s birthday either.” His gaze snapped up. “What the fuck is going on?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Nick

I stared wide-eyedat the name and date on the passport and licence. When I’d first found them, I hadn’t even thought to check the details.

A glass of water appeared under my nose and my gaze snapped up. I thought about slapping it out of Madigan’s hand but I accepted it instead, figuring I could use the distraction to calm the fuck down.

He spoke while I took a long swallow that tasted like dirt in my mouth. “You said you found these in Davis’s research folder?”

I nodded and slid the glass back on the table. “If you really want to be helpful, you could offer me a beer.”

Madigan’s gaze narrowed. “Only if you agree to bunk down in my spare room tonight.”

I bristled. “I don’t need mothering. I’m a grown man.”

To which he folded his arms and stared at me, impassively. “I think you could do with a bit of mothering.”

I stared back.

He raised a brow.

I groaned. “Jesus Christ. Fine. If it’ll get me a beer, then mother me all you like. Lord knows I didn’t get enough back in the day.”

Madigan flinched, his expression mortified. “Shit. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Your mother… I didn’t mean?—”

“I know you didn’t.” I met his gaze. “Now grab us that beer. I need something to give me courage while I google this damn name.” I waved the licence in front of him. “Just another fucking secret to add to the pile, right?”

Madigan squeezed my shoulder and I had to shut my eyes, the kindness threatening to blow me wide open.

He warned, “Don’t start without me.” Then he headed for the kitchen.

While Madigan was gone, I studied his home in more depth. The house was neat as a pin, something I approved of, but it was the natural light streaming into the open space via skylights and large picture windows that really stole the show. It bounced off the towering ceilings and ivory walls, adding an art gallery feel to the place. It could’ve been cold and uninviting but for the wealth of books crowding shelves and bookcases and sitting in neat stacks on every table. They softened the space, creating warmth and welcome, and my brain itched to peruse their titles to learn more about the man who owned them.

In addition to the books, bright colour leaped from an eclectic selection of art and photography that graced the walls. Much was nature based, but not all. A vintageGone With The Windmovie poster sat alongside what I thought was a samurai sword, which in turn sat next to an impressionistic coastal painting. They shouldn’t have worked together, but they did.

The art was a little dramatic for my tastes, which ran to the more predictable and mundane, if I thought about art at all. But in this space, I had the sense that everything had been considered and chosen with care. Nothing contrived. Nothingdone simply for show or to impress. Madigan had created a comfortable space to live—tasteful, careful, blunt, eclectic, and warm. It was a reflection of the man himself, and it gave me pause.

Madigan’s reappearance interrupted my musings. “Low alcohol,” he declared, handing me a beer.

I groaned because, of course it was bloody low alcohol. “Good god, man. Is there anything in this house that isn’t healthy? Because if there is, I want some of that shit right now before I explode and disappear in a puff of biodynamic BPA-free smoke.”

Madigan sat in the chair opposite instead of back next to me. “I have a collection of excellent red wines and single malt whiskies that would likely fit the bill.”

I blinked, appalled. “Then why are we drinking this godawful toilet water? It’s probably made of quinoa or kale or something equally trendy and disgusting.” I held up the can of beer and squinted at the alcohol percentage. “Three. No, two?—”

“Would you like to borrow my glasses?” he offered blandly.

I waved him off. “I can see perfectly well, thank you.” I peered at the ridiculously tiny writing. “Yes, two percent alcohol.”

---