Page 142 of The Storm

He lets out a self-conscious laugh, a faint flush spreading across his face. It’s unexpectedly adorable from a guy who looks like he could bench-press a pickup truck. He yanks the phone out of my hand and slaps it down on the counter.

“Don’t I pay you to work?”

“Thisiswork.” I tap my index finger on the list still open on his phone. “Shame is a powerful motivator not to do stupid shit.”

He doesn’t get offended or annoyed. He doesn’t pout or look at me like I’m crossing a line either.

Instead, he laughs.

“I think you and I might get along just fine, Indy,” he says.

Yeah.

That’s what I’m beginning to fear, too.

FORTY-SIX

NICK

“Um, maybe seven?”Blue glances down at his watch. “I’m not sure. I’m still at work.”

He throws a quick look over his shoulder in my direction. I’m sitting at the kitchen counter twirling my phone in my hands. Waiting. Instead of hearing about Callum’s schedule from Dia or the man himself, I’m now forced to cooperate with Blue. Somehow, I hadn’t considered that before.

We’d just sat down when his phone started ringing. It had been lying right by his hand on the table, so I caught the name that flashed across the screen before he picked it up.

Dylan.

I don’t know who that is. Against my will and in direct opposition to all logic and common sense, it bothers me that I don’t know. When he speaks to this Dylan, Blue sounds like himself. He sounds like Blue from six years ago. He sounds happy. He sounds comfortable. No tight shoulders. No tension.

Every part of me burns with questions, even while I try to convince myself that I don’t give a single shit.

“Yeah, we can do that on the weekend.” Blue laughs. “I have to check out the view you promised me.”

I hear the faint hint of a voice on the other end, but I can’t make out the words. My fingers tighten around my own phone.

“I’ll finish up here, then I’ll come find you.” Blue ends the call. He comes back to the counter and sits down.

Don’t ask.

Don’t ask.

Don’t ask.

“Who was that?”

Blue blinks at me, clearly caught off guard. His eyes flick down to the phone he placed on the counter a second ago, then back to me.

“Dylan,” he says, like it should explain everything, and there’s a moment of clarity where it clicks into place that this Dylan person is someone established and permanent. Someone woven deeply enough into Blue’s life that his name requires no explanation at all. The people in Blue’s life likely know exactly who Dylan is. He doesn’t need to elaborate. It’s Dylan. Obviously. Everybody knows who Dylan is.

Everybody except me.

He’s still looking at me, his green eyes so impossibly bright. It was the first thing I noticed about him when I saw him that first time. The eyes. Nobody has eyes like Blue. They’re so green they look almost unnatural. Contact lenses, I bet some people think. They’re wrong. I’ve seen those eyes in the early morning, blinking open sleepily. I’ve seen them shining with laughter. Dark with anger. I’ve seen them aimed at me from across crowded rooms like I was the only thing worth looking at.

I’ve watched those eyes go soft right before he kissed me.

I’ve seen them burn with need, looking up at me in the middle of the night when I’m inside him.

Maybe that’s the problem. I know those eyes too well.