Page 25 of Tropical Heat

What are the odds that after traveling fifteen hundred miles in search of a fresh start, I would meet not one, but two amazing men who understand me so well? Was the universe telling me I was ready to love again? My limbic system said yes, but my prefrontal cortex still had doubts.

And how could I ever choose between the two? Dante, the adventurous protector, who I could allow myself to be vulnerable with; or Zak, sensitive and incisive, who took so much joy in the world around him. In their own unique ways, each was an incredible lover. Who and how would I choose? Was I risking fate by even considering such things?

“You’ll have to park on the street.” Dante’s words pulled me from a decision I was not yet ready to make. “That’s my place across the street.”

Like the other homes in the neighborhood, it was built on stilts, with a storage area beneath. A pretty common design in Turtle Key for buildings built near the water. I saw him stumble, getting out of the car and rushed around to take his arm.

“You need to take it slow,” I reminded him

“I'm fine, I just got up too quick, is all.” I relaxed when he scanned the street, looking for anything out of order. His unwavering vigilance, which seemed like paranoia at first, I now accepted as part of dating a police officer.

Satisfied there were no bad guys lurking in the shadows, he led me up the crushed shell driveway. Then paused at the foot of the steps. After cautiously peering into the mailbox, he reached in and withdrew what appeared to be several days' worth of ads and letters.

I stayed behind him as we went up the stairs in case he stumbled. He unlocked the door and let me go in first. A hyperactive bundle of fur greeted me by dancing around and begging to be picked up.

“You didn't tell me you had a dog. What's his name?” I asked, scooping him up into my arms.

“Oliver. He's actually my roommate's dog. I need to take him out.”

“I'll do it.” I grabbed the leash from the hook next to the cute console table where Dante had put the mail. “You get comfortable. When I get back, I want to check your vitals and then we can eat.”

When we came back in, Dante was in the kitchen, clad in only a pair of boxers. He looked sexy as hell, and I wanted to drop to my knees in front of him. But he was concussed, and any sexual activity could worsen his condition. “I thought I told you there'd be no fooling around.”

“You’re also told me to get comfortable. The boxers are for your benefit. Usually, I’m completely naked when I am at home.”

“Your roommate must love that.”

“Not as much as you do.” He smirked. “I see the way you’re checking me out.”

“Shut up and go put on a shirt.” When he was gone, I took a few deep breaths and reminded myself he was currently my patient. Not the lover who could curl my toes a hundred different ways.

As we ate dinner on the couch, I noticed a copy ofLeaves of Grasson the end table. Impressed and surprised, I asked, “You read Whitman?”

“My roommate does. All those books on the shelf belong to him.” I got up for a better look. It was an eclectic mix.The Great Gatsby, Animal Farm, Pride and Prejudicesandwiched between Rachel Carson’sSilent Springand Richard Bach’sJonathan Livingston Seagull. A copy ofAudubon’s Birds of North Americawas mixed in with books on eastern philosophy. “Your roommate must be an interesting man.”

“You can judge for yourself. He’ll be home around six-thirty tomorrow morning.”

After I cleaned up the remnants of dinner, I tried to get Dante to lie down. “I’m not tired.” He put his arms around me. “How about a little loving?”

“I told you it’s not going to happen. No physical activity or stimuli of any kind for the next twenty-four hours.” I moved from the couch to a chair, to emphasize my point.

“Whatever,” he sulked. “Can we at least watch a movie? The latestFast and Furiousis on Prime.”

“Definitely not.” I picked up the remote. “If you insist on watching TV, there is one show I will allow.” Unless he had strong feelings about buttercream versus fondant, it was the perfect series for zoning out.

“The Great British Baking Show? I’m not watching this.”

“It’s this or nothing.”

He surprised me by lasting three episodes before finally going to bed. I selected a battered copy ofThe Old Man and The Seafrom the bookshelf to keep me company, and checked in on Dante every hour. When I went in at four o’clock, he was still sound asleep and his breathing was steady. I decided it would be okay if I took a little nap.

I was asleep within ten minutes of stretching out on the couch and slept until Oliver woke me by licking my face. Dante was just waking up when we stepped into his room. I could not help but notice how sexy he looked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Fingers ran through his tousled hair and I caught sight of the bump on his head. It had turned a nasty shade of purple overnight. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I have the world's worst hangover.” He glared at Oliver. “And all that barking isn’t helping.”

“I’ll take him out and then fix you some toast.”

“I’d rather have you for breakfast.” I shook my head emphatically, but was happy to see his hypothalamus was unharmed.

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