Page 33 of Craving Oblivion

The monitor now showed Aya approaching the circular drive out front. “And your opinion doesn’t matter because I’m about to get my balls handed to me.”

16

Aya

Nash Porter, the world’s sexiest man, as well as one of the hundred richest, opened the door to his house himself. His eyes widened, almost as if he couldn’t believe what—or rather who—he was seeing.

His hair was longer, brushing his collar and drifting over his ears, and faintly damp from a recent shower or swim. His T-shirt clung to his chest, making it clear that he still worked out with the gusto he had back in high school.

Always lean, he was now broader in the shoulders and thicker through the arms. His features were still classically handsome, notable in their symmetry, much as his mother’s had been, but they were both more defined and more rugged, as if he’d lived hard.

From what I’d read, he had.

A hint of shadow dusted his jawline, sharpening it. His lashes were long, and his eyes were still wide, the ever-present storms raging through their brown depths. I used to stare at Nash when he wasn’t looking, trying to decide if his eyes were more light brown or tawny. I’d never made a decision, but today they seemed to radiate deep emotion, which tugged at me with just as much potency as the dazzling spirals of color dancing toward his pupils.

His jeans were soft and old, giving me a great view of his thighs. He tugged at his shirt, seeming concerned it wasn’t pulled down fully.

I froze, my stomach hollowing out as I wondered if I’d caught him right after a tryst. My gaze darted over his shoulder, waiting for a lovely young woman to stroll out into the room. Half-naked, probably. Definitely freshly fucked.

I slid my damp palms along my rumpled skirt as surreptitiously as possible, hoping to wipe away the shame.

Of course Nash had a woman here. Why wouldn’t he? He was Nash Porter, most recent winner of the world’s sexiest smile.

Yes, that was a thing. I’d stumbled across it on the Internet because I’d wanted to know what he was up to—and who he was dating. The Internet claimed he’d bedded every beautiful woman, yet none seemed to stick around for more than the one article linking them together.

“Aya.”

My name from his lips sent emotions cascading through me, my gaze darting back up to clash with his. Goose bumps rose over my arms in a ripple of awareness, much like I suspected I’d feel if a lightning bolt struck close by.

He waited, no doubt for me to say hello. But I had a more burning concern. “Did I—am I interrupting something?”

“No, and if you were, I’d get rid of whoever was here.”

I plumbed his eyes, seeking truth in his statement. He reached forward as if to grasp my wrist, but he must have changed his mind because he let his hand fall. It hit his thigh with a soft thud, causing me to jump.

I’d spent all of the thirteen-plus-hour plane ride, layover in Dallas, and the final leg of the journey to Austin’s much smaller airport fluctuating back and forth over what to say to him when I arrived.

I touched the tassel of the malas. Nash’s gaze dipped to them, his expression frozen, as if he were holding himself back.

Did he want…? He seemed to want to touch me.

I wanted that, too. Except I didn’t. I couldn’t. Nash and I were strangers.

Weren’t we?

“I saw Lindsay,” I managed to choke out. I cringed. As if that information was most relevant. Well, it was part of the catalyst for my being here, so I guess it was.

“Will you come inside?” he asked.

I gripped my purse strap and hovered at the threshold. Finally, after an agonizing moment, I crossed into Nash’s home.

It was large—I’d known that from the sprawling facade. But I hadn’t expected it to be so...homey. His parents’ house had been a showstopper, designed to awe guests with their taste and wealth. Everything had been oversized and sleek. I’d always considered their house like a castle—until my father had moved me into his family home. Its original structure, around which the manor had been built, had been a keep. Then I’d realized how much nicer the Porters’ home was, and less drafty.

Nash’s home seemed comfortable and lived in, with lots of hardwood and earth tones. A round, low-slung wooden coffee table sat between two couches. On it rested an empty glass and a notebook with a fountain pen atop it. A gleaming guitar leaned against the couch.

“Were you composing music?” I asked.

“Yes.” He rubbed his palm over the back of his neck, dropping his gaze. “Well, I was trying.”

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