leaned forward on the luxurious cushions, his elbows planting on his knees. His hazel stare was direct, but his expression was relaxed—and she wondered whether the latter was on purpose to put her at ease.
Fat chance of that.
“Actually,” he said, “I have a couple of follow-up questions—”
The sound of pounding footfalls cut the Brother off, and those penetrating eyes shifted over to the door he’d closed.
The heavy wooden panel was thrown open and Boone burst into the room like he was prepared to give someone CPR, deliver a baby, and save a litter of puppies. With his face flushed and his body still in rush mode even though he’d arrived at his destination, he took a deep breath. And another.
“SorryImlate.” All one word. And then he inhaled again. “Traffic was hell.”
Helania didn’t mean to laugh. But the giggle came up her throat and flew out of her mouth before she could throw a leash on it. Dollars to donuts, he’d dematerialized from wherever he’d been and the idea he had been in such a fluster-rush to get over here?
Maybe ending their call so abruptly hadn’t offended him too much—
Okay, wow. He was smiling at her.
Dropping her head, she tried not to look like she was blushing. And then she checked him out in her peripheral vision. Well . . . what do you know. The dark hair, the blacked-out clothes, the height and breadth of him . . . were exactly as she remembered. Maybe even better. Maybe . . . even more attractive.
Oh, who was she trying to fool. Everything was definitely better than her memory had painted.
And it wasn’t like she’d pictured him hunchbacked and dragging a foot.
Speaking of which, was he—
“Are you limping?” the Brother demanded.
“Nope.” Boone shut the door. “Not at all.”
As he hobbled forward, she became obsessed with the fact that he clearly had hurt something—and she went so far as to fish into her parka for her phone. Which made no sense. The only number she could call for help was the Brotherhood’s and they were here with a Brother.
Besides, Boone’s health and well-being were not her problem.
On that note, she tried to remind herself that her preoccupation with the male was a symptom of her loneliness—and a red flag. With the number of times she’d replayed their phone call word for word, she was fairly sure she had worn out the grooves in her recollection and that her brain was obligingly filling in the parts that had eroded, the composite of him morphing more into what she wanted to believe of him instead of what was really there. Which was the nature of initial attraction, wasn’t it. That sizzle and shock of awareness tended to be more about what you were seeking than what you actually found.
Except . . . now that he was in the same room with her? Instead of being let down by what he looked like—some off-center part of his nose ruining what she’d assumed was aquiline perfection, a bad cowlick in a weird place making the shape of his head wonky, his shoulders less wide, his chest flatter than her fantasies had projected—she had to force herself not to stare with fixation.
Fortunately, he was talking to the Brother now, apologizing for being late. And the Brother was forgiving him, albeit with a stern tone.
Girl, you need to get yourself together, she thought. Right now.
Focusing on the low-slung table in front of her, she discovered there was a collection of crystal animals on it, the bears and the bunnies and the deer and the squirrels all fat-bodied and round-faced, the firelight coalescing inside the perfectly smooth globes of their bodies and features, making that which was glass seem to be made of water.
Boone’s reflection was in every one, like a kaleidoscope of the male, but it was all a distortion of the real thing, parts of him expanded and compressed by turns.
Was she just lonely and turning him into a fantasy? Although, if you had to ask that question . . .
Helania didn’t want to look at him again.
But she couldn’t fight the impulse.
And wondered what else she would not be able to deny him.
Amazing how knowing someone meant you could read their vibe so well.
For example, as Boone glanced at Butch, he could tell the Brother was annoyed. It was less the expression and more the aura of the male, a bad smell that emanated from him as he sat on the sofa. Was it because of the