Page 70 of The Meaning Of You

Maybe Davis had something important with him that day and they want it back.

My curiosity spiked; I glanced over at Nick who was still fast asleep. It was a risk, sure. Nick might’ve invited me to take a look through the box earlier in the evening, but that was then and this was now, and Nick Fisher was nothing if not contrary.

Then again,fuck it.Nick had brought this problem to my front door and asked for my help. His brother-in-law was due in the morning, and I was involved up to my eyeballs whether I liked it or not. Not to mention the two of us were... well...something. I rolled eyes at myself. Maybe it was only a smidge above friends, but that smidge counted, right? It did. It really fucking did.

I glanced once more at Nick, then carried the box back over to the armchair and set it at my feet. I’d start at the top and work my way through. If Nick had a problem with what I’d done when he woke, then he could just fucking deal with it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nick

A soft buzzinglike a bee caught in a jam jar pulled me from a deep sleep. Icy air licked over my skin. I shivered and felt around for the duvet as a clock ticked somewhere in the background and bright morning light poked at my scrunched eyelids.

I found the edge of a blanket and pulled it over my head. Damn, it was cold.

I lay under the blanket and pondered those things. Cold. Light. Blanket. Ticking clock. I didn’t use a blanket or own a ticking clock. The realisation beat in my throbbing head like a dull alarm.

And then it came to me. Madigan.

I whipped the blanket off my head, and nope, not at home.

I blinked against the light as my brain scrambled into gear. Memories flooded my brain. The caravan. The laptop. The arsehole who hit me. Lachlan King. And far, far too many memories regarding Madigan Church.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I squinted down at myself and took stock. I was still dressed and asleep on the couch, which suggested one of two things.Either I’d passed out and Madigan hadn’t wanted to wake me. Or I’d said something to piss him off and he’d left me there as a reminder to do better. To be fair, the latter scenario offered the most likely explanation since I was pretty sure I pissed Madigan off most times we met.

I was about to get up when I caught sight of him slouched in an armchair on the other side of the coffee table. He was snoring softly, buzzing to be precise, which explained the earlier noise. With his head tipped back, reading glasses askew on his nose, and a trail of dry saliva running from the corner of his mouth into a dense morning stubble, he was kind of adorable.

A dishevelled librarian. More than one fantasy had been born from that imagery, and a grin split my face before I could stop it, along with an intense desire to run my fingers through that thick silver stubble. He looked about as peaceful as I’d ever seen him, and the idea sent a strange rush of warmth through my freezing body.

Which reminded me.

I grabbed the remote from the coffee table and switched the bloody air con off. If I caught a cold, Mads and I were going to have words. When I returned the remote, I saw the glass of water and two ibuprofens. My heart stuttered in my chest and a host of warm memories walked through the door. No one had done that for me since—nope. I shook my head. Not going there.

But since my brain hurt like a motherfucker and my mouth would’ve given a sewer a run for its money, I washed the pills down with the entire glass of water. Then I swung my feet onto the floor, wrapped the blanket around my shoulders, and took a minute to study my host.

Like he knew I was watching, Madigan snuffled like a rabbit, his nose twitching as he turned awkwardly onto one hip before settling into the cushions again. Sleep wrinkles fanned across hisright cheek and his hair stuck up in total disarray. He looked, to put not too fine a point on it, fucking delicious.

And I was in big smelly trouble with a capitalT.

Complicated and confused—buzzwords from our conversation in the studio the evening before—didn’t even begin to cover the dumpster fire happening in my heart and brain due in large part to this man. A rollercoaster of emotions were still processing out from Davis’s death, but they’d been joined by an equally troubling set making their way in. Lucky me. Caught in the middle of the warring tides like a swimmer trapped in a rip.

I glanced at the ceiling and grumbled softly, “You really need to get your shit together. One thing at a time, yeah?”

I dropped my gaze back to Mads. Oh god,Mads. The whole name conversation suddenly came back to me.Madigan is such a mouthful.“Fuuuck.” I let out a mortified groan, then quickly checked to see I hadn’t woken him.

I hadn’t.

I didn’t think I’d been that drunk. Like I didn’t have enough shit going on without adding that clusterfuck of... something to the mix. The last thing I’d wanted was to mislead or hurt the guy, but if I didn’t put a stop to these confusing feelings, I would. The jumble of emotions was nothing more than grief and stress and fear and a shitload of emptiness. A loneliness soothed by time spent with Mads.

I was using him.

I needed a lifeboat and Mads just happened to be right in front of me. Safe, trustworthy, a good man. Everything I needed to dig me out of that hole. But it would never be more than that. I’d had my time in the sun and I was grateful. If I spent the rest of the game on the bench, it would be enough.

Mads stirred in his seat and his eyes blinked open. They widened when they landed on me and I couldn’t help but smile.“Good morning, sunshine.” I sat back and watched him slowly come awake.

He groaned and stretched, almost losing the book perched precariously on his lap. It looked familiar. Then I noticed the box at his feet and realised why. I wondered if I should’ve felt angry and was surprised I didn’t. I let it go.

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