Page 10 of Love In Translation

Electricity arced, Rheo’s body hummed, and she suspected the paint on the walls was starting to blister. “Um...okay. What?”

Fletcher took his time answering her. “Coffee.”

Coffee? How could he be thinking about coffee?

“A cup of coffee, two sugars, would hit the spot.”

Seriously?

Fletcher raised his eyebrows, and she noticed the naughty twinkle in his eyes. He was messing with her.

She expected irritation, but laughter bubbled up her throat. Carrie was just as confident, butherconfidence made Rheo feel less than, insignificant. His didn’t. But, like her cousin, Fletcher had no issues asking for what he wanted, whether it was coffee or sex.

He definitely wanted coffee, but...

Did that mean sex was off the table? She’d met him just a half hour ago, but it seemed longer, as if he’d been part of her life for years rather than minutes. She felt comfortable with him, like she could grab his hand if she needed someone to steady her.

Madness. Her imagination was running away with her. She saved herself. Always had, always would.

But coffee...

Yeah, she could make him coffee. If her now completely melted brain remembered how.

Three

Fletch watched Rheo’s round, delicious-looking ass until she was out of sight, and then blew air into his cheeks. He needed a moment to regroup. He was in Gilmartin, an area he’d always wanted to visit, in Carrie’s grandmother’s house. A house that wasn’t, as assumed, unoccupied.

Fact: Carrie’s cousin was living here, and Carrie didn’t know.

Fact: Rheo was hot and he wanted her.

Yeah, they had chemistry in spades; it crackled and snapped, but nothinglike thatwould happen with Rheo Whitlock. Fletch scrubbed his face.Jesus Christ.His fierce, immediate attraction to Carrie’s prickly, pretty cousin was a ball ache he didn’t need. If he was smart, he’d turn around, retrace his steps, and head back to Portland, his current base. Chances of him doing that? Roughly the same as him getting pregnant.

By immaculate conception.

Gilmartin, brimming with all the things he loved to do the most, intrigued him, and the Pink House was interesting and spacious. Unfortunately, his new housemate was a tiny meteor strike in human form. Earlier, he’d clocked her triangular, gamine face through the open bay window, and his mouth watered. Then she opened the door, and it took all his willpower not to drop to his knees.

She wasn’t conventionally pretty but, God, she packed a punch. Her long hair was rope-thick, as brown as deep, rich, untreated Nepali coffee beans, and her pale skin reminded him of the champagne-colored bubble coral he’d seen diving a reef in the Philippines. He’d had to remind himself not to stare at her shapely legs in those denim cutoffs.

Her eyes, a startling, crystal-clear blue, made his brains leak from his ears. He hadn’t felt this instinctive I-want-to-take-her-to-bed-immediately reaction to any woman since...well, forever. Before and after his expeditions—because he was a guy and not a monk—he’d taken what he could get: one-night stands, casual encounters, hookups with old friends. He was excellent at walking away. His reaction to Rheo was unusual; he was a little out of breath, a lot horny.

Fletch pulled in a breath, held it, released it in a long stream and rolled his shoulders. He was hot for his new housemate, and he’d agreed to keep her presence in the house, in this town, a secret.

You’ve been in town an hour, Wright. Excellent work.

His phone rang and Fletch scowled at the ceiling. He hated being constantly connected and available. He explored Earth’s wild places because they werewild. There was so much to learn about the natural world, and himself, and he suffered extreme deprivations to gain that knowledge. Not always having a phone tucked into his back pocket was the biggest perk of his job.

He squinted at the screen and frowned. He’d made the mistake of telling Seb Michaels, the doctor on his expeditions and his closest friend, that he felt tired and unenergetic. Seb had insisted on giving him a thorough checkup. The ghoul drew blood and ordered a barrage of blood tests. Since Seb was calling from his office—Fletch recognized the old anatomical sketches on the wall behind him—he figured his results were back.

Feeling anxious—blood tests always made his neuroses kick in—Fletch sat on the edge of the big bed and swiped his screen to answer the video call. He frowned at Seb’s muted greeting and far too serious expression.

“Your iron, folic acid, and magnesium levels are low. We can increase them by putting you on a good multivitamin.”

Well, that sounded easy enough.

“Great. I’m thinking about a quickish solo trip to the Danakil Depression after I leave Gilmartin.”

The area in the northeast corner of Ethiopia, often called the gateway to hell, was one of only four living lava lakes in the world. One of the hottest places on the planet and somewhere he longed to visit. When he returned, he’d start planning his next expedition—he was considering hiking, rafting, and skiing Alaska’s most rugged wilderness, a five-thousand-mile route of mostly unexplored territory. Or climbing ten of the world’s highest peaks. There was so much to do and see, and so little time.

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