Page 35 of The Heart of Smoke

I take the book, my hand brushing over his, and relish in the zinging jolts that rush through my body. He doesn’t appear to be as affected as I am because he turns and walks away. My muscles are frozen stiff. Hell, they’re not the only thing that’s stiff…

Tate settles on the sofa by a lamp, dragging a blanket over his lap. He then starts reading his book while I continue to stare it him, wishing for my dick to calm the fuck down.

After a few minutes, I snap out of it and take a seat in an armchair near the windows where I can observe him without being so obvious. Not long after, Grandpa arrives, his telltale whining wheelchair announcing his arrival. Violet comes in behind him with a tray filled with dessert and coffee mugs.

Grandpa maneuvers his wheelchair to his spot near the end table lamp on the other side of where Tate sits. This pleases me because I can look over the top of my book and watch them both.

“I made Wyatt’s favorite,” Violet says as she sets down the tray to begin passing out the dessert. “Blackberry cobbler a la mode.”

Tate’s eyes widen and he shoots me a small, private smile. Ice cream. I told him this house was the best. Pride, over something as stupid as ice cream, surges through me. Who needs heated floors?

I also want to know why it’s so damn important to me for him to like my house better. This isn’t supposed to be a vacation or a reward. It’s so I can watch over him.

Well, I’ve got the watching over him part covered.

A little too well if I’m being honest.

Violet sets everyone up with their dessert and coffee before leaving. I don’t miss the lightness in her step and the perpetual smile. It’s evident she loves having another person to dote on. This too pleases me.

Fuck.

I’m not supposed to be getting this much pleasure out of having the enemy in my camp.

He’s not the enemy, idiot, and deep down you know that.

The library is quiet, devoid of conversation, and only the clanging of spoons on glass bowls can be heard. After we finish, the quiet becomes comfortable as everyone settles into their books.

Though this book does sound intriguing, and I will read it later in my room, I’m not wasting a second to observe Tate and Grandpa. Grandpa is content to read and sip his coffee, a peacefulness emanating from him that I’ve always been envious of.

Tate isn’t peaceful. He’s tense and engrossed in his novel already. With each flip of the pages, he frowns harder, worry lines forming between his eyebrows. I’m sort of impressed with the speed at which he reads. It’s as if he’s devouring the book like he did his cobbler. Bite after delicious bite, he’s a glutton for the story. I feel like him, excepthe’smy book. I’m turning each of his pages faster and faster, hoping to learn every single bit about him sooner rather than later.

Time passes, but I’m not sure I even blink. Soon, I notice Tate yawning quite a bit and Grandpa’s head is lulled to the side as he’s already nodded off. I’m disappointed as I realize our night has come to an end.

I tuck the book into the pocket of my hoodie and then rise, stretching my arms above my head. Tate glances my way and his eyes drag down my front, settling on my exposed stomach. He bites on his bottom lip and quickly looks down at his book.

Like what you see, little boy?

The thought dissipates as quickly as it forms. I can’t go there. Ever.

“Grandpa,” I grunt. “Time for bed.”

Grandpa sits up, droopy eyes hazed over as he looks around. “I suppose it is. Night, kids.”

We follow after him. Tate introduces himself to Mary, the home health nurse, when we make it to Grandpa’s room, and then we both head upstairs. His cat has already made it back to his room, not at all having gotten lost, and lazily watches us from the bed.

“Tonight was…” Tate trails off, shrugging. “I enjoyed spending time with you and your family.”

I fist my hands, wishing I could reach out and touch him, or even return the sentiment of enjoying his company too. All I can manage is a feral, caveman grunt.

“Night, Jude.”

He softly shuts the door in my face.

Why, after all these years, do I suddenly feel selfish and want something for myself?

It’s dangerous and can’t happen.

With a sad sigh, I turn and leave the man who is quickly turning my already fragmented, blackened mind into a kaleidoscope of shattered, colorful thoughts—all of which involve him.

---