Page 51 of Tapped

“It’s an odd thing for you to throw out there in conversation, that’s all.”

“No more odd than your passion for going to them?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t odd. I know it is. What I’m saying is that funerals aren’t your thing but you went with me anyway when you didn’t have to. You could’ve easily asked me the questions about the accident over the phone.”

His beer bottle touches his lips, but he never takes his eyes off me. He shakes his head once on an exhale. It’s like he’s giving up a battle and isn’t happy about it.

“The last funeral I went to was during my sophomore year in college. It was my sister’s.”

“Oh, Micah.” My expression falls. “I’m sorry.”

“She was a senior in high school. Went to a party like any other kid would. Hell, I threw the parties when I was in high school. Someone slipped a drug into her drink. Like that wasn’t bad enough, it wasn’t what they thought it was. That shit was laced with fentanyl. That was it. She didn’t even make it to the hospital.”

Tears fill my eyes again, but these are different. These are not for me.

These are for him.

I set my wine down and reach for his hand to take it in mine. There’s nothing I want to do more than comfort him.

He did it for me.

But as soon as I touch him, he takes over, engulfing mine in his. The move is so swift, it’s like he was itching for the chance to touch me.

I let him hold onto me and run my other hand over his.

All of a sudden, I can’t get enough of his touch.

“You did something today that brought you pain. And you did it for me.” The lump in my throat threatens to choke me, making my words rough and hoarse. I look from our entwined hands to his blue eyes. “I don’t know what to say, Micah. I keep throwing I’m sorrys and thank yous around like confetti, but they’re not enough. Nothing will ever be enough after that.”

His stare on me is heavy and intense. I wish I could bottle it and come back for a hit when I’m alone and scared.

Because right now I’m anything but.

“I don’t know. You’re a pro when it comes to dealing with death. Saying nothing is an art people should use more often.” He gives my hand a squeeze and forces his thick fingers through my thin ones and holds even tighter. “This from you is better than words.”

I look down where we’re tied together. His masculine skin against mine does something to me.

Seeing it.

Feeling it.

It’s everything I need right now.

I’m selfish, especially after what he just told me.

Sitting here with this strange man, I feel safe in so many ways. I take advantage.

The tips of my fingers dance up his arm, touching the artwork I’ve been intrigued by since he pounded on my door looking for Jeff. I’m sure there is meaning in every single detail. Knowing what little I do about him—he doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would mark his body for life because it’s trendy.

Micah Emmett is deliberate.

I use our hold to lift his arm to get a better look.

It’s hard to see, but within the swirling sand, the name Hannah is scripted so beautifully, it looks like a storm rather than letters. If someone didn’t know to look for it, they might not ever see it.

When I look up, he proves his intensity has many levels. His is off the charts.

“Hannah is your sister?”

---