Chapter 14
fourteen
. . .
It had been on the tip of Evan’s tongue to argue when Heath said he’d catch a ride to the villa with Isabella.
Why had he wanted to argue? What did he care if the guy wanted to hang out with her more than with him?
He didn’t. That was the correct answer. At least, it was the answer that should have been correct, but instead there was a gnawing in his gut as Heath and Isabella walked arm and arm into the main building, their laughter bouncing off the stone.
It was the feeling of rejection that chewed beneath his ribs. He’d almost forgotten how bitter it tasted, and then Lucy had served it up raw. Only took a second to recognize it again.
Apparently, everyone he tried to tie the knot with would rather be with someone else. Yeah, that didn’t suck at all.
He wouldn’t let it bother him, though. He would still have fun, even if he had to do it alone—and that sounded way more pathetic now that he’d laid it all out.
The cart was beneath the shade of a massive palm, giving him false hope the leather bench seat wouldn’t be hot as the surface of the sun. Nope, it was hotter.
He dropped his fried ass down, then scrambled back to his feet with a shout. He definitely hadn’t used enough sunscreen. The next couple of days were going to suck, but still not be as rough as his already crappy evening, which had just gained seventy percent more misery.
In the depths of his memory, he could hear his mother teasing him about his pasty ginger ass while slathering him in SPF 2000. Somewhere out in the universe, she was shaking her head and laughing at him. The thought made him smile and wish he knew what she’d think of him if she were still around.
She’d probably have knocked him upside the head with a cast iron pan the second he’d made up his stupid list. Money and the fancy shit it bought had never impressed her.
She didn’t care about connections or social climbing.
All she’d wanted was a soft serve on the pier and a clear day to watch the planes at Logan.
“You tell that bastard to go to hell, Ev. You don’t want a damn thing from him. Got all you need right here.”
He shoved the memories away and tossed his damp towel across the seat. It cooled things down enough to sit, but every bump in the road on the way to the villa was still a punishment. He could almost sense the nuns at his prep school rejoicing over their prayers finally being answered.
The villa was dark when he rolled up. The sun had moved to the point where the dense growth cast an even heavier shade, making it feel later than it actually was and driving home the stillness.
He climbed the stairs to the porch at a slow and steady pace. Moving was torturous. Every inch of his clothing scraped his skin like zero-grit sandpaper. He could hear the shower calling, beckoning him with its cool stones and frigid water.
Looked like he’d be the one skipping dinner tonight. No way in hell was he putting clothes back on. His shoulders were smoldering, and you could probably fry an egg on his back. Lennox would just have to manage without him.
The image of Heath and Isabella giggling together at the breakfast table popped into his mind.
Who was he kidding? They wouldn’t even notice, and he couldn’t even blame them.
The guy had a gravitational pull. From the moment he’d thrown himself into his seat on the plane, all huffy and indignant, Evan hadn’t been able to break away.
Everything about Heath rubbed him the wrong way, but instead of being a repellent, it made him irresistible. He was so easy to fluster, but he wasn’t a pushover, and that was catnip.
Life was serious and busy. He needed to blow off steam, or he’d lose his mind. Banter was his love language, but he’d run out of playmates.
Owen could dish it, but not take it. The partners were a little too into it, and Lucy was…
well, Lucy. There’d been a time when they’d take shots at one another.
Scathing retorts often flew between them at the office, at home, in court.
Then she’d started making it personal, and it stopped being fun.
How long had things been sour between them, and he’d just ignored it?
Lennox… Heath was the perfect balance of stodgy schoolmarm and biting wit.
It took effort to break through his decorum, but it was so worth it.
He was dry, but cutting. Evan could picture him dressed up like something from a Sherlock Holmes novel.
Sipping tea, reading one of his ten million books, and castigating anyone who interrupted him.
When had that become attractive?
Not attractive attractive. It wasn’t like he was into the guy or anything. He just appreciated his personality quirks, and he got the sense Heath also appreciated his. Not that he’d ever admit it.
Evan had seen him laugh, though, tiny snickers he tried to hide behind a glass or his hand. He’d also caught Heath watching him when they were mingling with the crowd. Like he was checking in, and didn’t realize Evan had noticed.
Why was he noticing so much?
The shower he’d looked forward to backfired spectacularly.
Instead of a brisk and refreshing respite, it was a double-wide iron maiden.
The water pressure shot icy needles against his scorched skin, and the stupid soap stung like lemon juice.
He didn’t even bother trying to towel off, just sort of patted the safe places and let the ceiling fan handle what remained.
“Evan?”
He stepped gingerly into a pair of shorts, trying not to bend anything unnecessarily, and shambled into the kitchen to find Heath standing by the counter with a container in his hands.
“What’s that?”
“I brought you some dinner, though it appears you’ve settled on lobster.”
“Har har.”
“Aloe?”
“Isn’t helping.”
Heath placed the container on the counter and held up a finger. “Give me a moment. I have just the thing.”
Evan watched him fill the electric kettle with water and switch it on before disappearing into his room.
He returned a few minutes later wearing basketball shorts and a tank top, which was so unexpectedly casual, Evan wondered if he’d raided his suitcase.
Except the tank top was pink and printed with a bust of Shakespeare.
“What are you—”
Heath walked right past him and onto the patio, returning this time with a fistful of mint sprigs from the small herb garden just outside the kitchen door. What sort of witchcraft was he up to?
“This will take a few minutes. You should eat before the food swims away.”
Trepidation and curiosity led him to the container, which was cleverly separated into several pockets.
One contained ceviche so fresh, he agreed it must have been swimming only moments before landing on the plate.
The other was a small salad of microgreens he assumed they’d plucked straight from the island’s garden.
Finally, there was a soft, spongy spice cake topped with banana slices, covered in warm caramel. He dug into that first.
“And that’s why I didn’t take Izzy’s bait.”
“What bait?”
“She was certain you’d be a dessert first guy. I said, of course you were, especially after turning yourself into wiener schnitzel.”
Evan paused with the fork still in his mouth. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me to put sunscreen on if you knew I was burning?”
“I’m not your mother.”
It was impressive, the force that off-the-cuff comment had when it hit him in the sternum. He staggered to the side a few steps and felt his head reel.
Heath closed the distance and reached out, then thought better of it. “Are you okay? Was that… I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t know.”
“You still don’t.”
Heath’s eyes dropped to where his hands rested on the countertop. “You’re right. I don’t. I’m also sorry for assuming.”
Evan scraped the last trace of caramel from the container, possibly also some of the container itself, and stuck the fork back in his mouth, working the tines clean with his tongue. He caught Heath watching and hollowed out his cheeks, dragging it through his lips clean.
What in the fuck was he doing?
Heath’s hands were knuckle-white on the counter’s edge, his eyes gone cobalt and glassy and his lips parted just enough for Evan to hear the rasp of his breathing.
He held that gaze for a second too long, then let the fork drop with a clang.
The spell broke, and Heath cleared his throat in that exaggerated way he had when he was uncomfortable, then turned to check the kettle.
Evan kept his focus on the container, scooping up some of the ceviche and salad and shoveling it into his mouth. It was beyond delicious, but his brain had difficulty processing anything but what the fuck he’d just done.
Heath kept his back turned while pouring the water over several bags of chamomile and the mint he’d muddled with noticeable aggression. He placed the entire concoction into the freezer, but continued facing away until Evan cleared his throat.
“Mom died when I was ten.”
It had been years since he’d said those words out loud.
Longer still since he’d said them to someone new.
The last time he’d talked about her with a stranger, he’d been eleven and still struggling with adjusting to a life so vastly different from where he’d started.
His father had dragged him to a psychiatrist and demanded they put him on medication to fix his obvious shortcomings.
When the doctor refused and suggested he’d benefit from grief therapy, they’d sent him to boarding school instead.
A gift, really, being anywhere but that house, with those people.
“Oh, Evan. I’m so sorry.”
He shoveled more food. “Like you said, you didn’t know.”
Dressing and fresh vegetables garbled his words and made him feel uncouth, a term he was sure had already entered Heath’s brain a time or twenty while talking to him.
“I’m still sorry. For what I said, and for your loss.”