Page 14 of The Fate Factor

I loosen my grip on the shoe and attempt to speak without shaking. “Why are you here?”

“Needed to pass out.” He makes a face like he’s trying not to puke. “This was the closest place.”

“My porch was the closest place?” I look up and down the empty, dark road. “To what?”

“There shouldn’t be guests here this late in September,” he grumbles.

“I’m not a guest. What the hell are you doing on my porch?”

“Bob’s porch.”

“Who is Bob? This is my Nana’s house.” I have no idea what he’s talking about, it’s pain induced nonsense. My hackles settle a little since this is clearly a huge misunderstanding and hereallydoesn’t look good. I reach out and pat his shoulder like I’m greeting an unfamiliar dog. He’s hot to the touch and his T-shirt is damp with sweat.

He turns his head and squints through one eye at the number beside the door. “Shit.” Then he laughs and it’s borderline hysterical. It makes me think he really needs to get this head wound checked. “Wrong house.”

“No kidding. Look, are you lost? Can I call someone for you?”

“I’m not lost—” He winces but manages to point a finger behind him. “I’m just supposed to be next door.”

Well, that’s just great. If he can’t walk by himself, he’ll be sleeping where he is. There’s no way I can drag him across the driveway.

He stares at the porch ceiling for a few slow breaths before blinking his gaze toward me. When our eyes meet, his mouth falls open likehe’sthe one startled. “Holy fuck.”

“What?” I shriek. I’m on a hair trigger.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

I shake my head and consider yelling: “You’re going to be if you try anything” but that would be an idle threat. I’m quite sure that unfurled to his full height, he’s over six feet, and definitely looks strong enough to disable my shoe-weapon if he wants to. “You’re not dead,” I tell him. “Why would you even say that?”

He blows out a shaky breath. “Because you’re the angel.”

Angel? Is he hitting on me or just really out of it?

“I’m not an angel, and you’re not dead.” Still clutching my shoe, I kneel down beside him, trying to figure out an angle I might be able to lift him from. But before I can decide whether I’m actually willing to touch him to get him off my porch, he whispers something that sounds strangely like, “Noel.”

Blood rushes, pounding in my ears.Did he just…?

I scramble backward, inadvertently trapping myself against the porch railing, and my pulse goes haywire. “How do you know my name?”

The man’s bruised cheek lifts, deep dimples cutting through his stubble. “I can’t believe I found you again.”

That smile.

It hits me like, well like whatever hit him, and my stomach flips. Iknowthis man. The dark blanket of scruff on his face is new, and his eye is swollen and purple, but it’s him—the comma dimples, the cream soda eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners.

Oh God. He’s even wearing the same hat. How did I not notice that? I mean, besides the fact that half of the guys in this city are wearing that hat right now—the blue one with the red B. But I recognize the frayed brim on his, a rogue splash of something that looks like paint on the side. It had looked old even then.

Thenbeing the night I’ve been trying to forget about for two years.

“It’s Jamie,” he says. “Jamie Bishop.” He tries to lift a hand to his chest but he can’t make it. It flops down by his side.

“What ishappening?”

“Hockey,” he says, clearly misunderstanding the information I need from him. “I think my ribs are broken. Don’t you remember me?”

“No. Nope. No.” I want no part of this reunion. For God’s sake, when I said I wanted to feel something, I didn’t mean abject terror.

He keeps going, though, oblivious to my internal spiral. “From the party that night. On the roof—”

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