him.
Ben.
Flashes of last night flicker in my head, but I push them away. I can’t deal with whatever I may have done to embarrass myself last night. Not now.
Mom.
She’s dead. She’s gone.
I feel the bed dip, and I smell him before I see him or feel him. He smells just like the T-shirt I’m wearing, deodorant, and something spicy and citrusy, like cologne maybe, and those other faint scent-elements that can’t be defined. And then his arms are around me, lifting me, cradling me.
He’s a perfect stranger. I remember only bits and pieces of what happened after the burial, and even less about him. But here he is, holding me as I sob for my mother. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t shush me, just feathers his fingers into my hair and presses my cheek to his chest and holds me.
I hear his heart beating, and it’s hammering as if he’s nervous.
“She’s gone.” My voice is hoarse, and the words are barely intelligible through the gasps and the sobs. “She’s—Mom…Mom is dead.”
“I’m so sorry, Echo. I’m so sorry.”
“I never—I never even got to say goodbye. The last time I talked to her we argued. We fucking argued . And now she’s gone and I can’t ever—I won’t ever be able to tell her—” I can’t even finish.
“She knew, Echo. I promise you, she knew.” His voice is low and smooth and soothing.
“You don’t know that.” My voice breaks, cracks.
God, what am I doing? Clinging to this guy, crying on him? What the fuck. I barely even remember what he looks like. I shift off him and he lets me sit up. I twist to look at him and I’m struck breathless.
He’s gorgeous.
Tanned olive skin hinting at Mediterranean heritage, wide brown eyes so dark they’re almost black, and thick messy black hair cut close on the sides and longer on the top. I felt it when he held me, but now seeing him, I realize he’s powerfully built, broad through the shoulders and chest. He’s wearing a sleeveless black Under Armour shirt which is stretched across his chest, leaving his arms bare, long and thick and bulging with muscle.
My gaze rakes over him, and then goes back to his eyes, and something inside me clenches. His expression is shuttered, but I can see through it. I can see worry and pain and doubt and strength and self-assurance. Such expressive brown eyes, even when he’s trying to keep from showing his feelings.
Or maybe I can just read him.
Fuck. I’m checking this guy out, and I just buried my mom yesterday. What the hell is wrong with me?
He clears his throat and swings his legs off the bed, scoots forward, and stands up, hopping a little as he grabs a cheap black drugstore cane from where it was propped against the bed. I remember flashes of him from last night—that cane, a limp. Something about a football injury?
“Want some coffee?” he asks.
“Maybe some water and aspirin first?”
He nods. “Sure. Stay put.” He turns away, but not before I notice his gaze flicking to my legs and then quickly away.
I realize then that the T-shirt I’m wearing has hiked up, giving him a nice view of my entire lower half from the waist down. At least I wore panties with the dress yesterday. I pull the sheet over my waist and stuff the pillows behind my back, lean against the wall and ignore the pounding in my head as I reluctantly try to summon memories of last night.
Nothing good comes to mind.
Ben returns with a bottle of water, a mug of coffee, two aspirins, and a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel slathered generously with cream cheese. He’s got his cane hooked over his arm so he can carry everything. I feel immediately guilty, letting him hobble around bringing me breakfast in bed.
Jesus. This is nuts. I’ve known the guy for like five seconds and he’s treating me better than anyone I’ve ever dated. Which, honestly, isn’t that hard, but it’s worrisome.
“You didn’t have to bring it to me—” I start.
He waves me off, handing me the
Ben.
Flashes of last night flicker in my head, but I push them away. I can’t deal with whatever I may have done to embarrass myself last night. Not now.
Mom.
She’s dead. She’s gone.
I feel the bed dip, and I smell him before I see him or feel him. He smells just like the T-shirt I’m wearing, deodorant, and something spicy and citrusy, like cologne maybe, and those other faint scent-elements that can’t be defined. And then his arms are around me, lifting me, cradling me.
He’s a perfect stranger. I remember only bits and pieces of what happened after the burial, and even less about him. But here he is, holding me as I sob for my mother. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t shush me, just feathers his fingers into my hair and presses my cheek to his chest and holds me.
I hear his heart beating, and it’s hammering as if he’s nervous.
“She’s gone.” My voice is hoarse, and the words are barely intelligible through the gasps and the sobs. “She’s—Mom…Mom is dead.”
“I’m so sorry, Echo. I’m so sorry.”
“I never—I never even got to say goodbye. The last time I talked to her we argued. We fucking argued . And now she’s gone and I can’t ever—I won’t ever be able to tell her—” I can’t even finish.
“She knew, Echo. I promise you, she knew.” His voice is low and smooth and soothing.
“You don’t know that.” My voice breaks, cracks.
God, what am I doing? Clinging to this guy, crying on him? What the fuck. I barely even remember what he looks like. I shift off him and he lets me sit up. I twist to look at him and I’m struck breathless.
He’s gorgeous.
Tanned olive skin hinting at Mediterranean heritage, wide brown eyes so dark they’re almost black, and thick messy black hair cut close on the sides and longer on the top. I felt it when he held me, but now seeing him, I realize he’s powerfully built, broad through the shoulders and chest. He’s wearing a sleeveless black Under Armour shirt which is stretched across his chest, leaving his arms bare, long and thick and bulging with muscle.
My gaze rakes over him, and then goes back to his eyes, and something inside me clenches. His expression is shuttered, but I can see through it. I can see worry and pain and doubt and strength and self-assurance. Such expressive brown eyes, even when he’s trying to keep from showing his feelings.
Or maybe I can just read him.
Fuck. I’m checking this guy out, and I just buried my mom yesterday. What the hell is wrong with me?
He clears his throat and swings his legs off the bed, scoots forward, and stands up, hopping a little as he grabs a cheap black drugstore cane from where it was propped against the bed. I remember flashes of him from last night—that cane, a limp. Something about a football injury?
“Want some coffee?” he asks.
“Maybe some water and aspirin first?”
He nods. “Sure. Stay put.” He turns away, but not before I notice his gaze flicking to my legs and then quickly away.
I realize then that the T-shirt I’m wearing has hiked up, giving him a nice view of my entire lower half from the waist down. At least I wore panties with the dress yesterday. I pull the sheet over my waist and stuff the pillows behind my back, lean against the wall and ignore the pounding in my head as I reluctantly try to summon memories of last night.
Nothing good comes to mind.
Ben returns with a bottle of water, a mug of coffee, two aspirins, and a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel slathered generously with cream cheese. He’s got his cane hooked over his arm so he can carry everything. I feel immediately guilty, letting him hobble around bringing me breakfast in bed.
Jesus. This is nuts. I’ve known the guy for like five seconds and he’s treating me better than anyone I’ve ever dated. Which, honestly, isn’t that hard, but it’s worrisome.
“You didn’t have to bring it to me—” I start.
He waves me off, handing me the
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