Page 69 of Finding Fate

And just like that, with the voice, the heat I can somehow feel radiating from the other side, my muscles relax and my eyes close.

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THROBBING RADIATESalong my shoulder and hip from sleeping in the same position on the hard floor all night. With a groan, I sit up and rub the aching shoulder with a glance around the room. A wet tongue swipes up my cheek before hot dog breath huffs in my ear.

"Good morning to you too," I say with a smile. "You need to go out, don't you?"

In answer, he nudges the doorknob and turns with an expectant look. The room bends and sways when I stand. Damn, when was the last time I slept that hard all night? Dobby bounds out the door, making his way to the stairs, but I stay staring at the vacant hall. His clipped bark down the stairs finally sets my feet in motion.

Halfway down, a delicious aroma of something cooking causes a loud growl to rumble from my stomach. Real food for the first time in months. Hell yes.

I bound down the last few stairs only to skid to a halt at the bottom.

Warm flush heats my chest and neck at the seriously hot scene playing out in the kitchen.

Oh hell.

Cup of steaming coffee in one hand, spatula in the other, a bare-chested Nash stands over the stove, nodding along to something blaring through earbuds. I wet my dry lips and lean against the railing, giving myself a second to take in what's not mine to visually devour. The way the light gray sweatpants hang low on his hips begs for someone to pull them down the rest of the way. Each move pops ab muscles I've only seen on book covers.

His defined, inked arm muscles flex as he moves something around the pan in front of him. The tattoos I memorized back in Africa extend from both wrists up his arms, over a sculpted chest and down his back. Like yesterday, his hair is tied back in a tight knot, a much better look than the ratted mess it was in Africa.

When he was hours from dying.

Because of me.

With a sigh of regret, I turn back to the stairs. No reason to keep torturing myself staring at the beautiful man I can't have. He's too much. All of this is too much. It makes me sad, really. Before Africa, I wasn't normal, and now even more so with my new emotional baggage. A normal life with him and me and a white picket fence is only a dream.

Before my foot can hit the first step, a cheery voice calls out, stopping my ascent.

"Hey, good morning, Pops." The optimism in his voice makes my stomach turn and tremor. Great, all it takes is his deep, all-male voice to make me quiver. These next three days will be torture for my hormones. "I'm making breakfast, so sit your tiny ass on the couch and relax. It'll be ready in a few."

My teeth sink into my lower lip to bite back my growing smile. Taking his suggestion, I head for the couch but pause once the coffee table comes into view. Dropping to my knees, I extend a trembling hand over the stacks of brand-new hardback books. Reading each spine, tears build and fall at the titles.

"You remembered," I whisper to the looming presence now behind me. "But... why?" Tears continue to roll down my cheeks as I turn to face him.

"I guess I thought that somehow, the more I bought... they would bring you home. Somehow you'd know they were waiting for you."

"I have—"

"Yeah, I know, but another bookworm I know told me the hardbacks were the best, so...." His gaze darts anxiously around the room and runs a hand over his hair. "Now you can catch up on your friends. Your paperback copies are in the closet." He points a spatula down a back hall. "If you don't like them—"

"They’re perfect," I breathe. “Beyond perfect.”

His shoulders rise and fall as he stares down at me with an emotion I can't read. "These are the ones you talked the most about. And I’ll admit, you were right."

I draw my brows together. "About?"

"They are a great escape." With that tidbit, he turns and heads back toward the kitchen.

Examining the spines of the books in front of me, I turn back to the kitchen and stand. "These haven't been read though."

"No, those are for you." A smile pulls at his lips as he rotates the eggs. "I was told the best part of a new book is being the first to read it. And smell it, whatever the hell that means."

I already like this friend of his, unless it's his girlfriend. "She's right." When he doesn't correct my assumption, regretful tears build, but I hold them back. Clearing my throat of the unshed tears, I ask, "Then how did you read them?"

Deft fingers flick the knobs, extinguishing the gas burners. Placing his hands on either side of the stove, he leans forward and stares at the wall. "I read yours. They smelled like you. Well"—he smirks at the wall in front of him—"how I imagined you would normally smell. Africa wasn't the best for either of us."

Why is he this... familiar, this insightful? Doesn’t he know he’s shredding my heart with each kind word and action?

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