Chapter Four
Elijah
Istare at the large wooden door. I can feel my heartbeat. I can feel it in my fingertips, in my throat, my chest, and even in my toes. Forcing myself to breathe, I remind myself: in through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow and steady.
I’m sorry, but—what the fuck just happened?
One thing about my detached personality issue is that I’ve had it since birth, so I’ve never truly felt the difference. I’ve never had an example for comparison or a reference to look back on. A part of me was happy about that—that I didn’t truly know what I was missing.
It’s like the difference between someone who is blind since birth versus someone who loses their sight as a teenager. The latter is going to mourn that loss of sense more than the former.
But now… I’m pretty sure I now have a basis for comparison. Every part of my body is pulsing. My throat feels like it’s closing. Something in my chest is hot and tight, as if my heart is collapsing in on itself slowly.
I want to cry; I want to scream; I want to punch. Until today, I had never understood the meaning of the word devastation. But looking into those cold, vivid green eyes… I feel as if I will never be able to properly breathe under the weight of this pain.
I want him to open the door. I want to study the lines of his broad shoulders and the defined muscles of his chest. The sharp curve of his jaw and the way his full bottom lip pouts just slightly.
Curly black hair, just long enough to poke out from the back of his neck—I don’t think I have ever noticed another human being in such startling detail before.
And I want to notice him again. To bathe myself in this horrifying, nauseating sadness and breathtaking lust. I believe this man—this domineering, intensely beautiful man—I believe he would swallow me whole.
If I stripped him naked and forced him to his knees, I just know he’d devour me in a single bite. How I know, I’m not sure. But I’m certain with everything in me, the same way I am certain that he is the kind of man who’d protect you as well as he’d fuck you.
I’ve never been great at reading people; perhaps I am just great at reading him.
But alas, it doesn’t matter how great I am at reading him when he is slamming doors in my face—blocking me out at just the sound of my name. Did someone tell him I was coming as a representative for the Fort Myers Post? Who else knew, aside from John and me?
Well, he can slam as many doors as he wants. I’m not giving up.
Plus, I’ve had my first taste of genuine emotion—no matter how upsetting it was.
I will feel it again. I just have to see him.
And when it fades, and I return to my normal, detached self, I can wrap up this article and forget he exists.
Hot guy or not, he clearly isn’t fuck-buddy material, being as much of a hermit as he is.
But I’ll chase this onslaught of emotion for as long as it’s given to me. And with that in mind, I bang my fist on the door again.
“Hello!” I call, keeping my tone light and friendly. “I’m here from the Fort Myers Post.”
Nothing. Silence. Not even the sound of his footsteps against the floorboards.
This man, Rowan Alexander, doesn’t seem even the slightest bit interested in talking to me. But I swear—I swear I saw the same resemblance of shock flash through those calculating eyes before he shut me out.
“I’ll come back tomorrow!” I yell once again, turning on my heel and descending the front steps of his large porch.
The house is nice; a cottage-style home with a wraparound porch and plenty of acres to work with. I find it incredible that he can afford such property on a photographer’s salary, but he is winning national competitions. I guess he’s just that good.
On my walk back to the car, I try to calm my racing heart.
I don’t think I’ve been this worked up in my entire life—and that includes the time I lost my virginity.
If this is what attraction feels like for the masses, if this is how an average crush is supposed to feel, I pity the poor souls around me.
Because fuck, it kind of feels like I’m dying.
Like if I don’t get the chance to see him again soon, if I don’t manage to get my hands on him, I’ll simply keel over and perish.
I look at the house again as I open the driver’s side door. It looks as inviting as it looks to be haunting me.
I plan to figure out who this Rowan Alexander is. The not-so-old local outsider, the man whose eyes provoke a sadness even the most emotionally removed of men can feel. And then I plan to defile him.
By the time I’m back home after work, those intense feelings of sorrow and desire have faded into nothing but a distant memory. A part of me wonders if I made it all up—if I’m lonely or horny and just desperately crave connection.
I guess only time will tell—and by time, I mean tomorrow morning when I drag my ass back outside of town to his little slice of Fort Myers to bang aimlessly at his front door.
What an adrenaline rush this day has proven to be.
On the same hand that I hope I’m bombarded with these same overwhelming emotions tomorrow, I also hope they never break through my walls again.
After all, I could very well be reading all of this wrong. This devastating sorrow? This incredible desire? I’ve never felt it before; what if I’m completely off the mark? What if it’s actually my body sending me warning signs, telling me to run?
And yet I am mildly excited to return. To see how this will play out. As if being Elijah Oliver Camry wasn’t already confusing enough.
Tabitha’s Place does take-out coffees and a very voluptuous homemade blueberry muffin. I see this firsthand this morning as John calls me on the way into the office and asks me to stop—we’re out of coffee grounds.
As I walk into the diner, there are only two other patrons seated among the tables: one old man in a booth along the left side wall, and a younger woman at a four-person table in the center of the room.
I approach the host stand and wait, eyeing the “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign that is clearly just a formality—not an actual rule. Not in a small town like this, at least. I doubt they’re ever busy enough to warrant a waitlist.
A minute or two into my wait, Bennett comes walking out from the kitchen, a plate of French toast centered on one hand and a plate of eggs and hashbrowns balanced on the other. He doesn’t notice me at first, taking the food to the elderly man, who gives a huff in thanks.
“Enjoy, Mr. Grames,” I hear him say, the low sound of his voice sliding down my back quite nicely. Bennett really is handsome.
He has an air about him that reminds me of the cute boy next door. His shiny blond hair, tanned skin, and bright eyes. He clearly takes care of his body, either hitting the gym or taking part in some kind of recreational sport. And he has that small-town gentleman personality going on.
It’s kind of impossible for a gay guy like myself—who has an affinity toward strong, kind men—not to be interested in getting him naked.
Bennett turns toward me, eyes widening slightly at the sight of me. As he walks through the maze of tables, his gaze drags over my body in a slow, appreciative crawl. Intentionally. He’s telling me something with his eyes.
“Elijah,” he greets, a grin lifting the left side of his mouth and flashing just a hint of his white canine. “Good morning.”
“It is,” I reply, giving a smile of my own. “My boss has asked me to grab coffee.”
Bennett raises a brow. “Your boss?”
“Yeah, I work across the square.” I thumb behind me, not able to tear my eyes away from his.
“Ah,” he says. “John. Yeah, he is a coffee man through and through. You must be out of coffee grounds.”
It will never cease to amaze me how much these local folk know about each other. I swear, no one here will ever know that much about me.
“We are.”
He waves at me, having me follow him toward the kitchen.
Before the two stainless steel doors that lead you into the employees-only area of the diner, there is a drink station. Bennett loads a fresh pot of coffee, letting it brew as he turns back to face me.
I spy a bucket of dirty dishes set to the side of the counter, a few steak knives pocking out.
“Have you had breakfast?” I tilt my head curiously at his question, effectively diverting my attention away from the cutlery before I have a panic attack.
“I normally don’t, no. Coffee does the trick,” I tell him.
He tsks, shaking his head as he says, “It’s not healthy for a grown man to skip breakfast. Here.” He reaches into a display case no more than a few feet away, pulling out two large muffins. “These are homemade—a diner specialty. John loves them.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, taking the brown bag he’s packed them in.
Bennett just grins even harder, leaning his hip against the counter as he stares me down. “How are you settling in, Elijah?”
“Eli is fine,” I say, rocking back on my heels nervously. His attention is kind of overwhelming. “And fine. Just working and such.”
Bennett nods.
“Good to hear.” He turns then, filling two paper cups with black coffee before capping them and handing them over.
“How much?” I ask, looking for a place to set everything down so I can manage to grab my wallet.
“Consider it a welcome-to-Fort Myers gift,” he says, taking a single step toward me. My eyes narrow.
“Are you sure? Won’t your boss get mad?”
Bennett lets out a soft, deep chuckle. “I don’t think my dad is gonna bitch too hard. Tell John I said good morning. And come have dinner again soon.”
I try not to read too much into the way he’s leaning toward me, or the way his arms seem to look bigger than they did the last time I saw him. I’m trying so hard, in fact, that I almost miss the dad comment. So his dad runs this diner? Interesting. It must be a family business.
“I will,” I promise, nodding once before turning around and heading out of Tabitha’s Place. I can feel Bennett’s eyes on my back the entire way.