Page 57 of Icy Heart, Empty Chest
“Just getting your honest thoughts, Cor. Honesty and all that.”
I wasn’t going to tell him that he looked overwhelmingly and mouth-wateringly good. He was still a shade or two pale, a little skinnier than usual and had bags under his eyes but man, hospital scrubs agreed with him. His lack of underwear was also evident.
“I think you know how good you look,” I remarked, sliding into a chair at my table. He pushed off from my fridge to follow suit. “I wasn’t kidding when I said half the girls at school had a thing for you.”
“And I told you I wasn’t really interested in any of them.”
“Well, you’ll certainly have your pick now.” I waved a hand at his physique. “You’ve literally been dead for a week and a half and you still look amazing. Which, by the way, not fair to the rest of us.”
He just grinned, staring.
I shook my head, smiling, and headed back into the bedroom for a sweatshirt and leggings. Seeing the animal nest that was my hair, I ducked into the bathroom and started brushing.
I heard a rattling in the kitchen while I was blow-drying.
After taming my long and occasionally beastly hair, I stepped back out. The living room had been completed cleaned of any sign of sickness and the futon was back to a couch. There were plates on the table and a beer next to each plate. The windows were closed and my favorite scented candle was lit.
“Whoa. Are you available for drop-ins?”
He snorted a laugh, seated back in a chair, sipping some water. “I just remember how you like things.”
Worry creased my brow. “You feel OK? No pain or weakness or anything?”
He gave me a bemused look. “Cor, I’m fine. Kelpies heal fast.”
My mood dropped a few degrees. “I babysat your unconscious ass for over a week. I’m allowed to worry,” I said sharply.
He held up his hands.
“Sorry, little nymph. It’s been like night and day from this morning. I feel pretty great, actually.”
A knock on the door signaled our pizza’s arrival. I wordlessly handed him the money and he turned away to get it.
I sat at the table trying to contain the surge of emotion, failing.
He put the box down and knelt in front of me when he saw me failing to contain the distress.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“It hasn’t been an easy few days. You got sick with a fever and I had to heal you. When I wasn’t doing that, I just had every conceivable thought in my mind. That you’d never wake up or that you would and you wouldn’t be you. What I would have to do with the dead body on my couch or what if you got worse?”
“You healed me? Is that why I feel so good?” His eyes widened.
I miserably nodded. “I had to try. I got a crystal from a contact of mine.”
He whistled low. “How much did that cost you?”
“One of my father’s paintings. When I sold the house I took a few of his favorites.”
“You’re all heart, aren’t you, felon?” His tone was gentle, tender.
I focused my troubled eyes on him and his smiley countenance.
“The good news is, I’m here now and we have dinner. Thanks to you, I have years to make it up to you.”
I nodded and started in on my beer. Feelings are hard. Beer is better.
“What should we do after the pizza?”
