Page 37 of The Dark Before Light

Aloud, I say weakly, “A man who needed my help.” He grunts. This time, I look away first. “I have one more question if you’re willing.”

“One more,” he agrees.

“Is your mom okay?”

“Knew you’d catch that,” he murmurs, then sighs. “She has Alzheimer’s.”

My lungs compress. Of course. That’s why he’s devoted himself to finding a cure. “Diagnosed five years ago?” I ask, remembering when he told me he started working on neural nanorobotics.

“Thereabouts, yes. Rapid onset and progression. I’ll give you one final truth for free: she loved classical music. That’s why my brother and I attend the Phil once a month.”

I say the only thing I can.

“I’m sorry, Kieran.”

Eyes shuttering, he stands up and sweeps his hair back. “I’m dehydrated, hungry, and too fucking sober.” He glances at me. “You should get out, too. You’re all red. I’ll get towels.”

Moving to the elevated boundary between the jacuzzi and the pool, he leaps onto it in a feat of agility that looks supernatural, then dives into the cold water. I push myself to the edge and watch his powerful body glide toward the shallow end. He surfaces near the distant steps and extends to his full height, then throws a smile over his shoulder at me.

Time stops.

I still blink. Still breathe. But the fabric of history pauses to absorb the sight of him into my immutable memory. That crooked grin the magazines never see. The body of a living god glowing blue under the pool lights. All the wild, haphazard beauty of him—inside and outside—stuns me so deeply I start to shake.

“Do it!” he calls. “That’s the price. Swim to me and I’ll get you a towel.”

This is a bad idea.

The thought floats away, chasing my inhibitions off the nearby bluff. My tank top seals to my chest and stomach as I lift from the water. Even wet, it barely skims my hips. I don’t look at Kieran as I hoist myself onto the ledge. When I find my balance and stand, I finally glance his way—and immediately regret it.

In the next seconds, I feel every place his eyes touch: my ankles, calves, knees, thighs. They pause on the front panel of my thong, then flicker over my chest and arms before starting back down.

“I don’t know where to look,” he says cheerily. “It’s like a candy shop.”

My heart pounds at its cage. I can’t help a quick glance at his groin, visible above the water. His swim trunks are plastered to the answer of whether or not he’s proportional everywhere. His cock is hard, long, and thick, bound by wet fabric to his thigh.

My mouth waters and I almost lose my balance on the ledge.

He’s horny. It’s a reflex. I could be anyone.

None of the thoughts help because even though I could be any woman, he’s not any man. Not to me.

“Get out of the pool,” I say shrilly, not caring that the demand reveals I don’t trust myself. Him. Either of us.

“Not a chance. We’re at war, remember?”

“From the look of your swim trunks, I’d say I’m the one with all the weapons at the moment.”

It’s a futile counterattack—he grins and shrugs. “Can’t blame the poor fella. He hasn’t gotten the memo that you’d bite him instead of kiss him.”

I laugh; God help me, I laugh. Then I dive from the ledge into the water and swim toward a disaster in the making. The cold registers but in a distant way, barely cooling the heat inside me. At least I have the sense to angle away from him, surfacing on the opposite side of the shallows. Staying submerged from the neck down, I yank out my wet bun and studiously avoid looking at the man standing less than six feet away.

“I win,” I say with forced levity. “Where’s my towel?”

There’s a beat of silence, then he says mutedly, “You’re lucky I’ve spent the last two days drinking and barely sleeping.”

“Because you wouldn’t have opened up to me otherwise?” The second the words are out, I realize I’ve walked into a trap. My eyes screw shut as I wait for his jaws to close, for my defenses to take another blow.

But there’s only silence.

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